‘Fuck,’ Thomas mouths with an expression of abject shock. ‘Mary?’
‘Know you?’ the woman snaps, her face hardening.
‘Shit…Mary…’ Thomas says again, pulling back.
‘Aye, I’m Mary. What’s it to you? The family is sick, so they are. The fever is here, ye best be going now…’
‘We’re from the city health department,’ Bear says when Thomas stays quiet. ‘We’re here to check on the patients. How many have the fever?’
‘They all do so they have. What’s it to you? We got the sign on the door, so we have.’
Bear falters for a second, unprepared for the passive aggression in her voice and the harsh glare.
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Thomas says smoothly, jolting forward from a prod in the back from Zara. ‘We’re checking compliance ordinance in line with policy 108 subsection 2. You’re aware of that policy, Ma’am. Are you the cook, Miss Mallon?’
‘You know my name?’ she demands as Bear and Zara look to Thomas.
‘Of course,’ Thomas says. ‘You’re the cook here. Our records are precise. We’ll just need to see each patient please and we’ll be on our way. Stand aside.’
‘I’ll do no such thing,’ Mary fires back, standing her ground.
‘You’ll move, Miss Mallon or my associate will move you,’ Thomas says, locking eyes. ‘Mr Bear…Miss Mallon is obstructing our passage.’
She finally moves back. Standing beside the open door. ‘I’m a cook no a housemaid,’ she says through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll have no responsibility for this.’
‘Yeah, I heard you don’t like responsibility,’ Thomas says. ‘Where is the housemaid?’
‘Dead,’ Mary says flatly, eyeing Thomas for a long second while Bear and Zara exchange confused glances. ‘What ye here for? To do what? They’ve got the fever, so they’ll either die, or they won’t.’
‘Miss Zara here is a nurse. She will be checking the patients to assess suitability for a trial medication.’
‘Her?’ Mary asks, looking contemptuously at Zara. ‘She’s a nigger…’
‘Now, Miss Mallon. We are on a schedule.’
‘Right, ye are,’ she says heavily, draping her rag over one shoulder. ‘Up the stairs then…’
They move about the house without challenge. Hearing the groans and whimpers coming from rooms with Mary giving the name of each family member in turn. That the Jefferson’s are wealthy is obvious but that they’re all near death’s door is also obvious. Most don’t rouse and those that do barely open their eyes.
The experience becomes truly awful because each person they see is suffering near death from a disease for which they hold the treatment. They could ease pain right now. The vial of solution is big enough to give a dose to each and every member of the family, and that single dose might be enough to mean the difference between life and death. Except they can’t. They can only do one. Only Bernard Jefferson.
‘Bernard?’ Zara asks, standing next to the bed.
‘I just said he is, so I did,’ Mary snaps from the door, folding her meaty arms across her chest.
‘Wait outside,’ Thomas orders.
‘I’ll do no such thing…’
‘You’ll wait outside, or my associate will throw you from the fucking window,’ Thomas growls. She goes out quickly, easing the door closed.
‘Thomas?’ Zara whispers. ‘What’s going on?’
‘That?’ Thomas whispers back while pointing at the closed door, ‘Is Mary Mallon.’
‘Who the hell is Mary Mallon?’ Zara demands, looking at Bear who just shrugs.
‘Mary Mallon?’ Thomas says, looking at the blank expressions on their faces. ‘Typhoid Mary?’
Zara blanches, pulling her head back and turning to look at the door the woman went through. ‘Oh, my god…that’s her?’
‘Who?’ Bear asks.
‘Typhoid Mary,’ Thomas whispers. ‘She’s a famous carrier of the disease…moves from house to house being a cook and infecting every family she works for. She kills dozens of people before they lock her up in quarantine. Context, yeah?’ he adds, looking at Zara.
‘Jesus,’ Zara says.
‘Listen,’ Thomas says, looking at them both in turn. ‘We’ve got enough juice in that bottle to treat them all. And we can take her out…’
‘No,’ Zara says quickly. ‘We’re here for this.’
‘But she kills loads,’ Thomas says, motioning towards the door. ‘Maybe, this is part of the test…maybe all of this is like a moral thing?’
‘No, no way. We do him then we go,’ Zara replies, her tone and manner firm.
‘Bear?’ Thomas asks.
‘I’m with Zara, mate. The instructions are clear.’
‘That’s Typhoid Mary…she’s a goddam serial killer.’
‘This,’ Zara hisses, waving a hand at Bernard Jefferson. ‘We do this and nothing else.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Thomas says, backing down at her ferocity. ‘Sorry, dude…’
‘It’s fine. Just get it done…do you know how to do it?’
‘Yeah, I think so,’ Thomas says. He starts setting up. Pushing the needle through the rubber cap into the clear liquid within the vial, drawing back 4mg, a big dose and more than needed.
‘He’s young,’ Bear says, gently pushing the pyjama sleeve up the sleeping teenagers’ arm. ‘Frail too…’
‘Well, he gets to live,’ Thomas mutters, pushing the needle into a vein to inject the solution. He covers the spot with a pinch of the pyjama top when he slides the needle out, holding it for a minute while Bear counts seven pills out from the bottle, leaving them on the bedside table under a slip a paper written with one a day.
Mary is gone by the time they leave, and they walk back through a near silent house to a near silent street without seeing her again.
‘Okay,’ Martha says, nodding to herself in the near silent planning offices. ‘Okay. I see what you mean. They’re good.’
‘They are very good,’ Pete says, motioning the screen.
‘What’s the backlog now?’ Jacob asks.
‘Sally?’ Martha asks, looking over at a woman worker holding a clipboard.
‘Er…nearly three hundred,’ Sally says, checking her notes. ‘The Old Lady is tasking more every day and we just can’t keep up. The operatives we lost to true death…the complexities of the missions…and er, the other side of course,’ she drops her eyes for a second, remaining tight-lipped with a split-second of tension pulsing in the room. ‘They all add up,’ she adds quietly.
‘We’re sinking, Martha,’ one of the workers calls out.
‘Three new operatives,’ Pete says. ‘Is a big thing no?’
Martha turns back to stare at screen, watching Bear, Thomas and Zara walk through Manhattan against a backdrop of horse drawn carriages. Seconds go by and she thinks, biting her bottom lip, her arms folded, her feet planted until eventually she sighs with a heavy exhalation of air while shaking her head.
Jacob looks at the ground, Pete shrugs with disappointment.
‘Get an RLI…keep it simple,’ Martha calls out, stilling all conversation. She lifts her head, eyeing the room and clapping her hands. ‘Come on…get to it and you two,’ she points at Pete and Jacob. ‘I want you armed and ready in case. We’ll see how good they are in the real world.’
18
It is different. Immediately and instantly different. The intangible nature of something that can’t be touched or identified because whereas every scenario they have done so far felt real, this is real.
Zara stands flanked by Bear on one side and Thomas on the other. A classic understated black dress clings to her frame with the two men in smart black trousers and dark shirts but they feel anything but elegant. Grimy skin and greasy hands. Weary to the bone and drained from a long day in a constantly shifting landscape that makes them feel like they’re barely clinging to sanity.
‘We could just go,’ she says quietly as the real people of the real world pass them on the stre
et.
‘Go where?’ Thomas asks, watching the same thing.
‘I don’t know,’ she admits after a silence. ‘Bear? Would you go?’
Bear thinks for a second, weighing up the chance to go against seeing Roshi again. ‘No, but you can if you want…I’ll keep them back if anyone comes,’ he speaks honestly with an intense rawness of truth that makes Zara blink.
‘Thomas?’ she asks.
‘Whatever you say,’ he says.
‘Me? I’m not in charge. What? Why are you both looking at me? Sod it…I’m too knackered to run away and I’m actually looking forward to putting my feet up with a cup of tea in that freaky hobbit house…let’s just get it done and get back.’
A green folder with the letters RLI stencilled across the front was waiting for them on the table when they returned from New York 1905.
‘You are hereby authorised to undertake a Real-Life-Incursion for the purposes of training. Your RLI has been evaluated to have a low prospect of true death and you will be monitored at all times. In the event of an intervention from Discovery personnel, you will follow their instructions immediately and without discussion…Er…okay so,’ Zara said, reading the folder. ‘There’s like a ton of information here, want me to read it all out?’
‘Not really,’ Thomas said heavily.
‘Just the important bits,’ Bear said.
‘Er…August 7th. Carpe Diem restaurant on Seventh Avenue…Martin Alldis is celebrating his 50th birthday…basically he eats a bad lobster and dies from food poisoning. We’ve got to stop him eating it…the lobster that is. They’ve put in his description, the names of his party, his wife…even down to shoe sizes. It says the lobster he eats is the last one in the place. And they’re giving us two hundred dollars for expenses…but they want receipts. That looks about it,’ she said.
‘So, what?’ Thomas asked. ‘We get there first, buy the last lobster and let birthday boy have the steak?’
‘Er yes, yes I think so,’ she said. ‘Sounds like a plan. Let’s get you two dressed then shall we…’
They cross the road and go into the modern warehouse-styled Carpe Diem restaurant resplendently vulgar with exposed brick walls and misshaped tables each with mix-matching chairs. Industrial style lights hang from rafters and a light funky beat plays softly from hidden speakers. Big potted plants add splashes of green with works of ugly art on the walls. Repellent and fashionable at the same time.
‘Table for three, please?’ Thomas asks when a dark suited scowling waiter approaches them.
‘This way,’ the waiter says as though just the act of talking to them causes him physical discomfort. ‘I’ll get you menus,’ he mumbles, waving a desultory hand at a table.
‘No need,’ Zara says. ‘Three Lobsters, three colas.’
‘Gee, I am so sorry, we’ve only got one lobster left,’ the waiter says with acid dripping from his tongue.
‘That’s fine,’ Thomas says quickly before Zara explodes. ‘One lobster, two steaks and three colas please.’
‘Whatever,’ the waiter grumbles, walking off.
‘He is so rude,’ Zara says, shocked at the attitude.
Noise from the door. Jovial loud New York voices booming out as a thick set man with short grey hair walks in laughing with several other people.
‘Alldis?’ the waiter asks with a sneer.
‘What the fuck’s up with this guy?’ a big man in the group says, stepping clear to motion a fat thumb at the waiter.
‘I told you, Ronnie,’ a woman says, nasal and loud. ‘Being rude’s a thing here. They do it here.’
‘We’re paying for rude?’ the big guy asks.
‘Er, hello?’ the waiter asks, waving sarcastically.
‘This guy,’ the big man says, shaking his head at the waiter. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Food’s great, Ronnie. You’ll love it,’ Martin Alldis says, motioning at the waiter.
‘Fucking better be, Marty.’
‘See,’ Thomas says to Zara. ‘It’s a thing here.’
The place starts filling up with more customers coming in to laugh in wonder at the acidic tones of the waiting staff who roll eyes, tut and show utter disdain in everything they do. Menus are given out, drinks ordered and finally the waiters seek to establish what the Alldis group want to eat.
‘Are you kidding me?’ Martin Alldis exclaims on hearing the lobster is gone.
‘Too late,’ the waiter shrugs, pointing over. ‘Greedy guts over there ordered it.’
‘Hey, buddy, it’s my birthday,’ Martin shouts over with a grin, spreading his hands with an appeal to their good natures.
‘Mine too, buddy,’ Thomas laughs back.
Bear watches more customers arriving. A man and woman in dark clothes that glance over to his table with gazes that linger for a second. Behind them a party of four, also in dark clothes that do the same and look over for a second while being shown to a table.
‘Lobster?’ A waiter asks, plonking the plate down.
‘Mine, thanks,’ Thomas says, blinking at the whole lobster gleaming on the plate surrounded by salad and fries. The steaks come next, taking Bear’s attention from the customers to the food.
‘I wouldn’t risk eating the fries,’ Zara says as Thomas takes one from the edge of the lobster plate.
He pauses, sighs wearily and drops it back. ‘Share?’ he asks, nodding at her plate.
‘Wow, this is thrilling,’ Jennifer says, her voice breaking the studied silence of the planning office. ‘And er…it’s like way past six…I don’t get overtime.’
‘You can go,’ Martha points out. ‘You’re not needed here.’
‘Oh, it’s fine. I’m still watching Bear’s attitude.’
‘Move the view left, Terry,’ Martha orders. Terry taps away at his keyboard, studying the green code flowing down his screen. ‘Good…pull back a little…great. All looks okay…’ Martha frowns as the three newbies look up at something as the screen goes blank. ‘What just happened? The feed’s gone…’
‘We’ve lost them,’ Terry calls out, his fingers tapping frantically at the keyboard.
A dark suit and shirt. Blond hair cut short with cold blue eyes set in a rugged, handsome face. He stops at their table, making them all look up in surprise.
‘Mind if I join you?’ he asks politely, pulling a chair out to sit down.
‘It’s a private party, buddy,’ Thomas says.
‘I’m sure it is,’ the man says, looking from Bear to Thomas to Zara, his manner easy and relaxed, humour in his eyes. ‘My name is Robert, it’s very nice to meet you…’ an English accent, clear and deep. ‘Damned pity about that bad lobster. Poor Martin really wanted that tonight.’
‘You’re from Discovery,’ Zara says with a sigh of relief as Thomas relaxes, ‘have we passed? Can we go back now? My bloody feet are killing me.’
Robert listens, nodding earnestly while leaning over the table towards her plate of steak and fries. ‘May I? Haven’t eaten a thing today. Now, let me see...you must be Thomas. You’re obviously Zara? So, that means you must be Bear. Tell me, Bear…how is little Roshi?’ he asks in a voice that makes Bear focus that bit more.
‘We haven’t seen her,’ Zara says. ‘Pete and Jacob are training us…’
‘Pete and Jacob,’ Robert muses. ‘The last great bastions of Discovery. Good operatives too, very good.’
‘Listen, we’ve been doing this all day. Can we at least get an explanation now?’ Zara asks, clearly exhausted.
Robert smiles as though understanding entirely the day they are having. ‘What do you think is happening?’
‘I think we did stage two and because Roshi gave Bear extra tuition or whatever, they chucked us into some scenarios…I don’t know. We only got here yesterday…’
‘I would say that makes a great deal of sense,’ Robert says thoughtfully, eating more fries. ‘But I’m not from Discovery…I’m from the other side…’
‘Other side?’ Zara asks. ‘What other side
?’
‘The other side,’ Robert says, covering his mouth as he speaks. ‘I’m from Freedom.’
‘Get a lock on that location,’ Martha shouts into the chaos of the planning office as she strides into her office, using a key to unlock a metal cabinet that she yanks open to reveal an armoury of black pistols.
‘Martha…it’s them…they’re blocking us,’ Terry calls out.
‘Easy now chaps,’ Jacob booms. ‘Stay calm…find the nearest workable location and we’ll go from there…Jennifer, get ready for a recall.’
‘How many?’ Jennifer asks, rushing across the room to a free terminal.
‘Freedom?’ Zara asks, looking at Thomas and Bear as though to check if they know what it means but seeing only blank looks.
‘These are nice chips. Oh, we’re in America aren’t we so, I should say fries. You’re an American, aren’t you?’ Robert asks, looking at Thomas.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Always good manners the Americans,’ Robert says. ‘Warmongering greedy fanatically religious nutjobs, but they do it with nice manners…let me continue and forgive me rushing but we don’t have long. We’ve blocked the signal you see. That means Discovery can’t see us and they don’t have a lock on this location to deploy anyone…’
Chaos reigns in the planning offices with keyboards clattering and voices calling out in panicked tones. ‘We’ve got nothing for over a hundred miles,’ Terry shouts.
‘Keep looking,’ Pete says calmly. ‘Sally…look for a back door, yes?’
‘I’m trying, Pete,’ Sally mutters, her fingers blurring over the keyboard.
‘Jesus,’ Zara says, rubbing her forehead. ‘We’ve been going all day and it feels like every twat and his dog is speaking in riddles and weird little clipped sentences that all mean something to you lot but not to anyone else...’
A Town Called Discovery Page 18
