Purple People Read online

  About the Author

  Kate grew up in a small seaside town, where she spent her formative years being most strongly influenced by the unlikely combo of George Orwell, Victoria Wood and Smash Hits. She studied Writing and Publishing at university before spending over a decade working in film, mostly in New York, where she also dabbled in stand-up comedy. In 2011 she was part of the second Curtis Brown Creative novel-writing course; a short story anthology written by that group, The Book of Unwritten Rules, was published in 2016.

  Kate currently lives in Brighton, a seaside lass once again. Purple People is her first novel.

  With grateful thanks to Jane Bedwell-Mortishire, who helped make this book happen.

  Purple People

  Kate Bulpitt

  This edition first published in 2020

  Unbound

  6th Floor Mutual House, 70 Conduit Street, London W1S 2GF

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  All rights reserved

  © Kate Bulpitt, 2020

  The right of Kate Bulpitt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-912618-72-9

  ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-912618-73-6

  Cover design by Mecob

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

  For Mum

  Grandma and Grandad

  And Lucy

  Contents

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Super Patrons

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  Patrons

  Super Patrons

  Nick Anderson

  Julia Armfield

  Selma Attride

  Corinne Bailey

  Alison Barlow

  James Bates

  Candice Baugh

  Daisy Beaumont

  Bridget Bell

  Roger Bell

  The Bells

  Lisa Berry

  Elle Bianco

  Stewart Birch

  Cecilia Blanche

  Anna Boden-Jones

  Georgina Bottomley

  The Box Family

  Harry Brignull

  Gareth Buchaillard-Davies

  Andy Budd

  Chris Bulpitt

  Daphne Bulpitt

  Graham Bulpitt

  James Burt

  Shannon Butler

  Tom Castle

  Melissa Chusid

  Rosie Clarke

  Gina Corrigan

  Alis Cox

  Laura and Bill Cox

  Mel Crawford

  Melissa Cunningham

  Michael Daniels

  Matt Davies

  Melissa Davies

  Andy Dennis

  Becky Deo

  Renny Deremer Tallman

  Beth Dodson

  Eric Drass

  Sarah Drinkwater

  Alan Driver

  James Ellis

  Arusha Elworthy

  Josh Emerson

  Nicky Evans

  Rebecca Ewbank

  Lorna Farbowski

  Paul Ferguson

  Chloe Finlayson

  Michele Foulger

  Fox

  Genevieve French

  Franny Gant

  Sara Gates

  Katherine Gleason

  Katie Gordon

  Richard Gordon

  Clemancy Gordon-Martin

  Veronica Gretton

  Jamie Groves

  Philippa Hall

  Aegir Hallmundur

  Kate hamer

  Jenifer Hanen

  James Hannah

  Joanne Hardy

  Kaija Hawkes

  Val Head

  Sarah Henderson

  Gillian Hill

  Abigail Hitchcock

  Michael Hocken

  Beck Holland

  Roger Horlock

  Chris How

  Theresa Howes

  Andy Hume

  Danielle Huntrods

  Curtis James

  Paul Jaunzems

  Cath Jones

  Gareth Jones

  Stephen Jones

  H.C. Joseph

  Himesh Kar

  Jeremy Keith

  Marja Kivisaari

  Julia Koenig

  Sharon Laine

  Nathalie Laurent-Marke

  Christian Lawrence

  Mary Ann le Lean

  Pete Leysinger

  Paul Robert Lloyd

  Dan Lockton

  Judith Long

  Emily Macaulay

  Julie Malamute

  Dan Marsh

  Mish Maudsley

  Alice Meadows

  Erinna Mettler

  Seren Morland

  Nicky Muir

  Alex Mullen

  Chris Neale

  Christopher Noessel

  Michelle O’Loughlin

  Chatrina O’Mara

  Marion O’Sullivan

  Benjamin Parry

  Simone Pereira Hind

  Dan Peters

  Ruth Powell

  Christina Prado

  Carri Price

  Rowena Price

  Kate Rambridge

  Leila Razavi

  Annie Reid

  Colin Carlos Robinson

  Bruce Ross

  Richard Rutter

  Ivan Salcedo

  Ben Sauer

  Gillian Scanlan

  Marrije Schaake

  Anastasia Semenova

  Ste Sharp

  Mary & Michael Shaw-Yates

  Rachel Shorer

  Ryan Shrime

  Emily Simpson

  Laurie Sitzia

  Mark Skinner

  Jessica Spengler

  Susannah Stewart

  Annabelle Thorpe

  C J Thorpe-Tracey

  Christopher Tremayne

  S Troeth

  Sonja van Amelsfort

  Michael van Digglen

  Ellen Vries

  Brigette Wellbelove

  Lucy White

  James Whittaker

  Keeley Wilson

  Joshua Winning

  Lorna Woolfson

  Frank Yeomans

  Galabina Yordanova

  Robb Young

  BΣVΛП ƧƬΣPΉΣПƧ

  Chapter One

  Eve considered herself unshockable, but even she was surprised when people began turning purple. She was also green with envy, though would never have said so. What a scoop! It was the story of a lifetime.

  The night before it started Eve had been drinking. Not excessively, just th
ree (four?) whiskies with Adio at the optimistically monikered bar, Happy Ending (their topics of discussion, on a sliding scale of frivolity: the recently resurrected homeland debate about capital punishment; just where in this city recently single Adio and almost perpetually single Eve might locate eligible men; and their favourite news story of the day, which involved a cat, a burglar and an egg whisk). So having clocked up only a few hours’ sleep when she heard the news, Eve was a little slow to react. Her response was also dulled by the years she’d spent working in the world of news reporting, which had equipped her with the perhaps obvious but certain knowledge that few things you read or saw were quite as they seemed.

  ‘Eve, it’s me,’ came a rattled-sounding voice on the other side of the Atlantic: her friend Womble, calling from the homeland.

  ‘Blimey, Womble,’ Eve mumbled. ‘It’s five am. Where’s the fire? Are you okay?’ She was upright now, hunched towards the phone, but considered lying down again.

  Womble sounded unusually unnerved. ‘Ah, yes, sorry to call so early, I did wait as long as I could. There’s something I think you should see.’

  ‘The mind boggles,’ said Eve, who couldn’t begin to imagine what the cause of such an early alert might be. ‘It better be good.’

  ‘It’s odd, really quite odd. No one knows what to make of it.’

  Eve winced, and wondered if moving very slowly might outwit an imminent hangover from waking. Climbing cautiously out of bed, she noticed the glass of water and pair of painkilling tablets she’d put out for herself the night before; even while somewhat drunk, her sensible side could still get the better of her.

  Eve stepped carefully through her dim, dawn-lit apartment towards the computer and logged into the Portal, entering her CIV code.

  ‘Right,’ said Womble. ‘Type in purple and news.’

  ‘Purple news?’ Eve yawned. ‘You’ve not been mushroom picking again, have you?’

  Womble muttered a weary no, and directed her to photos that were seemingly causing the Portal to pootle very slowly indeed. Eve yawned, appreciating the delay. As the screen came into focus, she peered towards it, squinting at the pictures of a trio of shaken-looking men with a purplish pallor. Eve tilted her head, blinking, her brain trying to refocus this unlikely tint.

  These were certainly arresting images. The most striking snap caught a man grinning demonically towards the camera, the front of his sweatshirt held high in clenched fists baring a chest the cloudy mauve of stormy seascapes. The strange, battered-looking tinge of his skin was as desolate as the grey street and the flat, industrial buildings around him. Nearby, two other men ran out of shot, skittering away from this mouldering ogre. Yet while only their heads and hands were showing, this pair were also peculiarly plum, if less bold in revealing it (in subsequent pictures they’d put up their hoods and stuffed mottled hands in pockets). They appeared to be stepping off a kerb, at speed, and that they were caught hovering mid-step, mid-air, added to the surrealness of the snap, as though they were superheroes – or supervillains? – who had not only changed colour but acquired the ability to fly. Their eyes flashed with terror, which seemed particularly incongruous; these looked like the now-so-prevalent type of lads whom you’d cross the street to avoid – the bullies, the hunters – and yet here, at the side of a road, they looked like wide-eyed, petrified prey.

  Eve considered the men: the contrast of shamed and unashamed, and tried to zoom out, to calculate the truth, the bigger picture. She scrolled to the accompanying story.

  Photos of three mysterious, ghostly men – who appear to have turned PURPLE – were released to newspapers across the country last night. The lavender lads apparently turned up at their local A&E, where SHOCKED staff called in the coppers, fearing a terrifying chemical accident. Nurse Holly Finlay, who treated one of the mauve men, said: “We were really scared there had been a biological leak or attack, or that they have a terrifying new virus which we could all catch. We don’t know how many more people are affected, but our doctors are running tests and keeping the men QUARANTINED just in case. We’re really hoping that whatever it is, it’s not contagious.” She added, “The men say they don’t feel unwell, but of course it’s not normal to look like that. There must be something wrong with them.” A government spokesman said that the prime minister will make a statement later today, but revealed, “We can GUARANTEE that the good citizens of Britain have honestly no cause for alarm.”

  Eve figured her groggy whisky head indicated that she was (for the most part) awake, and not in the fog of a bizarre dream.

  ‘Well,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s different. April fool?’

  ‘It’s June.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ She gave a small impressed nod towards the screen. ‘It’s certainly clever. They do look real. But they can’t be. The photos are bound to be fake – a pot plant could tell you that you can’t believe anything you see.’

  ‘Do you see the government statement?’ asked Womble, the tone in his voice approaching squeaky, adolescent octaves as he erred towards hysteria.

  ‘Allegedly. The papers might have made it up.’

  ‘But it’s in all of them. And on the telly.’

  Eve felt a mild spike of unease, but aiming for optimism said, ‘Maybe it’s a joke, then. Hallowe’en make-up or something. Too much blackcurrant cordial. The police’ll be charging them with time-wasting in a minute, those’ll be the further details.’

  ‘Oh, I think it’s real,’ Womble retorted. ‘The loonies have finally taken over the asylum.’

  ‘Come on, don’t be so daft!’ Eve rubbed her eyes and moved into the kitchen to make some coffee. ‘Where’s the sensible guy we know and love? For a start, it must be biologically impossible. Can’t you just ask one of the boys in the school science department to dispel the myth for you?’

  ‘That’s just it. I asked Bob and he said yes, it could be possible.’

  Eve considered this, sceptically. ‘Bunsen Burner Bob?’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘The one who was in a Def Leppard tribute band and is a conspiracy theorist?‘ The smell of the coffee was making her feel more awake. ‘Look, I’m sure it’ll just turn out to be some stuff and nonsense. People will be talking about something else by the end of the week.’

  ‘It’s not a hoax. It’s on the cover of all the papers. People are really freaked out.’

  ‘Yeah well, people love a reason to get hysterical. And you know how much the papers love to put the wind up everyone. The Daily Dispatch probably got the photos first. You should worry about Poles, priests – and now purple people!’

  ‘What is wrong with you today?’

  ‘What’s wrong with you today, Mr Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? This is what I do all day, every day. Read news. Shocking news, wacky news, and a lot of blatantly untrue news. This will be some kids mucking about trying to cause a stir and impress their mates.’

  ‘If that’s true then why has the prime minister called a press conference?’

  Eve sighed. ‘Probably to tell everyone not to get so worked up and do something less boring instead. Maybe the ice caps have stopped melting and the polar bears are having a disco to celebrate. It could be anything.’

  ‘Evie, I think dreadful things are happening. I get a very weird feeling about it.’

  Eve paused, then said, ‘Of course you do. You’re Danish.’

  *

  Eve sat with her coffee, feeling very confused. In the newsroom she’d seen some dramatic things, and had known the energy that came from a situation where there were unknown elements keeping everyone on edge, anxious as to what might happen next. For some that was what drew them to the job, and these days Eve wondered, with increasing frequency, if she’d have lasted in the unpredictable, often heart-stopping world of hard news (though was this you’d-never-have-hacked-it tack simply another way of convincing herself it was fine that she hadn’t continued to try?). She liked life in her present job, spending her days immersed in reasons to be chee
rful. Still, she figured she’d been in the game long enough to gauge what a story was about. A political cover-up, PR spin, tall tales fabricated for fame and fortune, insignificant incidents talked up to fill sleepy day pages… But this was something else. It was unbelievably, implausibly ridiculous – and yet, unsettlingly sincere. If it were really nothing, why would all the papers run the story? Why even start to scare people before the facts were known – did they just want to make use of such a startling, striking picture? The photo could have come from anywhere, been an easily doctored shot. The only thing that gave the story any credibility was the government statement. They clearly seemed adamant that there was no cause for concern, which begged the questions, one, how could they be so sure, and two, if they were, why not properly elaborate and put people at ease?

  Was this international news, Eve wondered; should she head into work? She switched on CNN. There was more on the furore about healthcare, and an emerging scandal involving a senator – no word of Blighty. So far, so good, she thought. But just as she was about to turn away, her eye caught the ticker running along the bottom of the screen. Some pertinent words slid out of the electronic wings and into view: ‘More cases of ‘Purple People’ reported in the UK. Perplexed Brits await prime minister’s statement.’ Eve felt as though she’d slipped down a rabbit hole into an improbable Hollywood blockbuster, and half expected to see the news cameras shift to a sweatily concerned action hero on his way to save the day. She reached into the cupboard for a packet of Alka-Seltzer, and then sent Adio a message: ‘Going into the office early. Curious things afoot. Think today is going to be an interesting one.’

  *

  Despite past stints working closer to the front lines, Eve’s present role was rather more sedate. For her there was no Watergate-esque investigation, no intrepid reporting from conflicts or disasters (despite this unlikely fascination with the news since she was a young lass, she’d never fancied herself as a courageous correspondent – and just as well: as her dad had often joked, if she were sent to a war zone, she’d report from inside a broom cupboard). Her particular bureau had peculiar leanings – not for them tales of politics or pandemics, ecology or the economy, war or the celebrated soldiers of celebrity. Say Fantastique! specialised in stories of the extraordinary within the ordinary. Their tales were the tail end of the news, the incredible and incredulous, the warm and fuzzy ‘And finally…’ The Say Fantastique! archive could rival the feel-good factor of ABBA’s back catalogue, with a hefty helping of tears, tenderness, heroics and hilarity, and an abundance of animal stories which would make Noah proud. While the headlines could leave you dismayed and despondent in a glass half empty kind of way, Say Fantastique! was a glass half full – with something fizzy, and perhaps an umbrella or one of those little flamingos – kind of place.