by Holly Watt
‘So,’ Casey calculated, ‘She needs a different drug? A better one?’
‘Yes. You could … ’ He stalled.
‘You must see very ill patients all the time,’ said Casey slowly. ‘What’s different about Flora?’
‘There is a different antibiotic. A much better one. But they’ve stopped it … ’
‘They’ve stopped what? Who’s they? I don’t understand, Noah. Why don’t you just—’
‘It could save people, and they’ve buried it instead. They’re suppressing it.’
‘How—’
There were sounds from the corridor. Noah turned, the fear juddering up.
‘I have to go.’ His eyes were wide. ‘I’m sorry, Casey … I can’t … ’ He dived for the door, jerking it open. He stopped in the doorway just for a second, tugging his scrubs straight. ‘I’m really sorry, Casey’ – and he was gone.
‘No,’ said Miranda. ‘You can’t.’
‘But … ’ Casey’s arms flailed with frustration. ‘I have to.’
‘You don’t have to,’ said Miranda. ‘In fact, you have to go to Wales. You’re meant to be halfway to Cardiff by now. All the other papers will be there, already. Ross will go absolutely ballistic if you’re not there first thing tomorrow.’
Casey gestured away the conjoined twins. ‘You didn’t hear this doctor, Miranda. Noah was desperate … ’
‘What,’ Miranda tried for patience, ‘did he say exactly?’
Casey read aloud from her notepad. There was no recording, she thought with exasperation. She, who recorded everything. As soon as Noah had gone, she had sat down on an empty bed in the quiet ward, and scribbled down everything she could remember into her notepad. But even as she read Noah’s words aloud, Casey could tell: there was not enough here to convince. It had been the fear in the voice, not the words.
‘Stop,’ Miranda interrupted. ‘What does any of that mean?’
‘I don’t know.’ Casey let out a sigh that was almost a groan. ‘Not exactly.’
They were in the Post’s investigations room. Miranda sat at her desk, while Casey stood before her like a disgraced private. The room was small, shabby, three desks crowded together. There was a scruffy sofa, a faded print on the wall and a shelf of cheap gold trophies for various journalism awards. Secluded though, for plotting.
Casey stared at her old desk, now holding Tillie’s notepad, a couple of files, a framed photograph of a small brown dog. Casey forced herself to look away. Hessa and Tillie were out somewhere, and Casey felt a burn of envy as she wondered where they were.
‘It’s important, Miranda.’
But Miranda met her eye. ‘What’s important is that you’re on the next train to Cardiff, Casey. I can’t protect if you don’t even try to do your bloody job. You know what Ross is like.’
‘Miranda … ’
‘I said no.’
Casey threw herself on the old sofa, defeated.
‘Bloody Cardiff.’
‘Besides,’ Miranda looked at her watch and stood up, ‘I’m meeting a friend for dinner.’
‘Who?’ Casey was still sulking.
‘Delphine’s back from South Africa.’ Miranda’s smile gleamed briefly. ‘My old boss at the Argus before she packed in journalism. Taught me everything I know.’
‘I’m quite sure Delphine Black,’ Casey glowered, ‘wouldn’t pack me off to Cardiff.’
Casey brooded all the way to Cardiff, tapping at her laptop. She booked into an uninspiring hotel, and the next morning, she sat outside the grim concrete of the University Hospital with the rest of the press pack as they were fed dollops of news, bland as baby food, by pink-cheeked press officers.
Isn’t it exciting?
Oh, fascinating.
All the reporters filed the same thing, at the same time, in different styles. From Conjoined twins born in Cardiff to Welsh Mum in Siamese Shocker! Casey stared into space.
The next day, Casey called Flora to check a few facts, casually also establishing that Noah was on duty. Jumping on the train back to London, she headed straight for the Royal Brompton. She loitered in a corridor until Noah’s shift ended – long hours later – and then followed him cautiously down the street. In the sunlight, Noah looked even more exhausted, a sharp contrast to the manicured Chelsea women jogging along the wide pavements.
Casey waited until he was on a quiet street – tall white houses with scarlet geraniums spilling out of window boxes – and then sprinted forward.
‘Noah.’
The doctor looked horrified, eyes roaming up and down the empty road. ‘Casey, I can’t speak to you.’
‘I want to understand what you were trying to tell me about, Noah. I think it’s important.’
‘Go away.’
‘Noah, you know about something serious. Something important.’
‘It’s nothing. I was just having a bloody tough day.’ The swear word was awkward on Noah’s tongue. ‘There’s nothing to talk about, Casey.’
‘Please.’
‘No.’
For a second, they stared at each other. She couldn’t read his face. It was always harder reading unhappy people, people used to hiding their feelings.
‘Please, Noah.’
‘No. Just talk to the press office about a quote for your article, and leave me alone.’
Casey put a hand on his arm, but he twisted away and was gone, leaving her alone on the beautiful tall white street.
Her phone bleeped. One of the twins is dying, and the other is looking dicey. Get back to Wales.
In the middle of the grey Cardiff rain, Casey typed messages to the Royal Brompton.
Would it be OK if … Obsequious.
After a dozen tedious exchanges, they agreed, unwillingly. You can have half an hour. And you have to anonymise any patient.
Sure. So obedient.
Later, the press office agreed quotes from a Dr Noah Hart. Sentences clipped into words in an order no human would ever speak aloud.
Sitting in her hire car, Casey transferred the quotes to the article and sighed. She stared out through a rain-spattered windscreen and her mobile phone rang. A split second of hope, maybe this would be a story.
‘Hello?’ Casey’s shoulders sank. It was the honeyed tones of a PR. ‘I just wondered if you had a moment to talk about our new drug—’
‘Has it killed anyone yet?’ Casey snapped.
‘Of course not.’ The sugary tones stumbled, then whipped back to the script, ‘It’s a brilliant—’
‘Well, let me know when someone dies. Then I’ll be interested.’
Casey hung up and immediately felt bad. The woman was only doing her job. Dozens of calls a day to extol a contraceptive, a vaccine, the next miracle cream.
Industrial distortion, maybe.
But.
Casey sighed and climbed out of her car, heading off to get a sandwich. Chicken salad, raspberry smoothie, crisps, bored.
As the twins clung precariously to life, Casey stared out over the heave of the Bristol Channel, and tapped out messages to Ed.
What shall we do on Saturday night?
Because she worked Monday to Friday now, mostly, and could make plans for the weekend for the first time in years. Book tables, buy theatre tickets, wander down the South Bank hand in hand, maybe.
We could drive over to Wiltshire for Sunday lunch?
His parents – it startled her still – lived in a beautiful old rectory, long lost to the church. His mother smiled and bustled, made strawberry jam and chocolate cakes. He was a kind son. Always took flowers, tied with a pretty ribbon. Whereas her parents … No.
Or Pinks and Squash are in London for the weekend … We could –
Ed’s old Royal Marine friends, the loyalties irrevocable. Ed had been chasing pirates across the Indian Ocean when he and Casey had first met: an odd sort of first date. The Post had dispatched Casey to Oman at the height of the piracy crisis, and she had skipped on board the huge Navy ship at Salalah with a f
leeting hello to the quiet young Marine captain. During the slow days off the coast of Somalia, they had started to talk. One afternoon, they had raced across the waves in a fast boat with eight of his men. ‘The boys needed some extra training,’ he had laughed, as the boat skimmed from crest to crest and the sun sparkled over the ocean. He’d glanced back over his shoulder at her, just once. Kind eyes, turning down at the corners. By the time the ship turned towards the nearest port – the Seychelles, all silver gold beaches and wind-blown orange flowers – she had known.
Or we could sort out the spare bedroom.
They had moved in together. Tufnell Park, more prosaically. In a row of grey houses with that headmistress austerity. Ed had picked out paint colours, slapping uneven squares on the wall. Cat’s Cradle or Kissing Gate? Feather Pillow or Wood Smoke? Come on, Casey. You do have to choose.
I land back early Saturday morning, but free after that.
Ed worked in security now, a bodyguard for a secretive billionaire who commuted from Belgrade to London, from Shanghai to Cape Town. Never the US, Casey noted cynically. And his plane would land at Northolt a minute after midnight, a minute into Saturday morning, so the taxman couldn’t count a day.
See you soon. Can’t wait.
The sun broke through the clouds over the Bristol Channel, and a seagull shrieked overhead, tempted by a dropped chip and some fried chicken. Maybe this job was enough.
Routine. Sensible. Day after day.
Mundane, Casey’s mind filled in. Boring. Impossible.
A siren howled far in the distance, and she saw the fear in Noah’s eyes again. What? The question flared up. Who? An almost physical urge. Why?
Later she messaged Miranda, a peace offering. How was dinner with Delphine?
Casey had only met Delphine a few times. Half French, she had a ballerina’s poise, and was always immaculately turned out. Her crisp white shirts made Casey feel scruffy. Delphine wore her hair in a dark pixie crop and her dancer’s slight figure made her look fragile, although Miranda laughed and said that Delphine was one of the toughest people she had ever met. It was Delphine who had introduced Miranda to undercover work, years ago.
Delphine’s well, Miranda messaged back. It was so nice seeing her. She sends her love. Told me some very funny stories about working at the Western Evening News back in the day. With Ross, can you imagine? Before they both moved on to the nationals, of course. She said he was a nightmare, but could be really good fun.
Sounds unlikely.
Delphine had quit journalism around three years earlier, after her husband died unexpectedly.
‘I have two young sons.’ Delphine’s eyes had been steady on Casey, over a glass of white wine in the bar next door to the Post. ‘It was those hours, such a killer. So I had to choose, and it was the only thing I could do.’
Delphine had lived in South Africa since resigning from the Argus. ‘My brother lives down there,’ she said. ‘And it is very beautiful. And it’s a long way away.’
It was where her husband had died, too. Finlay – an architect, a rising star – had been dispatched to Cape Town for six months by his company. The Argus had agreed to send Delphine down to South Africa too, covering stories all over the continent.
I’m glad Delphine’s well, messaged Casey now. Cardiff, in notable contrast, is very dull.
You won’t be down there for long, surely?
God, I hope not.
Casey’s cystic fibrosis article was published on Friday. It was listed for Thursday, but ‘it’ll hold, right?’ Ross had asked. ‘It’s not exactly time sensitive.’
‘Sure,’ said Casey, thinking of all the times she had sprinted across Departures at Heathrow to be first on the plane, the first to the story. First. ‘There’s no rush on that one.’
When the article came out, she flipped through the paper idly. Poor Flora. Poor Flora Ashcroft.
5
On Monday morning, Casey marched into the office.
‘Ross,’ she said. ‘I want to do a big read on antibiotic resistance.’
Ross was dealing with a ministerial resignation by shouting down his landline and his mobile simultaneously. He looked up at Casey vaguely.
‘Did you know there’s a form of gonorrhoea going around that makes you infertile within two years?’ Casey asked cheerfully. ‘It was first discovered in Leeds, oddly. Antibiotics bounce off it, basically. That’s just one of the things that happens with antibiotic resistance, you know? Weapons-grade STDs.’
Ross lowered one phone for a second. ‘I think I was happier not knowing that, to be honest, Case.’
‘Don’t worry, Ross,’ the home affairs editor shouted across. ‘It’s hardly likely to affect you, is it?’
‘The article will be riveting.’ Casey looked pious.
‘What’s happened to the Cardiff twins?’
The political editor appeared in the newsroom, out of breath, his arms waving.
‘Stable,’ Casey said quickly. ‘All right?’
‘Sure.’ Ross’s attention had vaporised. ‘Whatever, Casey.’
From the outside, the public laboratories looked like a sprawling office block, set back from rows of dingy Edwardian semis. Old brick walls covered in ivy sagged gently.
Behind the walls, however, the security was impressive.
‘They kept cows up here, years ago,’ a burly guard explained, as he walked Casey to the main entrance. ‘For smallpox vaccination research, back when it was countryside all around.’
Casey imagined London spreading north, engulfing Colindale like a pandemic.
‘Quite a difference,’ she said.
Inside, Professor Brennan welcomed her with an absent-minded benevolence. He was tall and avuncular, with a grey beard and horn-rimmed glasses. His shirt – broad cream and vermilion stripes – clashed horribly with a green and yellow tie. The jacket of his well-worn brown suit had been abandoned somewhere, his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
‘Good afternoon, Miss – ah – Benedict.’ Brennan peered at her over his glasses. ‘Welcome to the Colindale National Institute for Health Protection, as I think we’re called at the moment. How can I help you?’
The professor showed her around one of the laboratories, generous with his time.
‘As you know,’ he said as they walked down a long corridor, ‘We analyse both viruses and bacteria here at Colindale. Viruses are – well – tiny. The simplest form of life, they have been called. They’re just a strand of genetic material surrounded by a protein coat and they need a host to survive more than a few hours. That’s your – ah – flu virus, your herpes, your Ebola. And your coronavirus, of course.’
‘Yes.’
‘Bacteria, however, are infinitely more – well – sophisticated, you might say. They’re much bigger, and they can live independently of a host. And whereas almost all viruses cause disease, not all bacteria are a bad thing. You need them in your gut, for example. But, of course, they can be – err – a disaster.’
Brennan had an odd way of speaking, his words damming up, and then gushing out in a flood.
‘I see,’ said Casey.
‘In here,’ Brennan opened a door with a flourish and pointed to a long row of Petri dishes, ‘we do the tests for what you journalists call – um – superbugs.’ Through his thick glasses, his eyes twinkled. ‘Hospitals all over the country send us a sample of a bacteria by courier, and then we grow it on agar. Agar is a solid – ah – growth medium, if you will. We give the bacteria twenty-four hours to colonise, and then we start testing a range of different antibiotics on them. If – ah – one of the antibiotics works, we tell the hospital, and they give it to the patient.’
‘Twenty-four hours, just to grow the bacteria?’ Casey thought of a world where information ricocheted like a pinball. ‘But what if the patient is really ill?’
‘Well. Yes. Sometimes, we – ah – tell the hospital what should cure the patient, but it turns out it’s a bit late for the patient.’
‘But isn’t there a better way?’
‘Not really.’ He blinked at her over a row of test tubes. ‘Not yet. The system’s not changed for years. Fleming,’ he gestured at the agar plates, ‘would recognise this lot. Instant diagnostics would be – um – our holy grail. I think Great Ormond Street are working on something, but it’s still rather theoretical.’
Casey thought about Alexander Fleming accidentally discovering penicillin in 1928. The world’s first antibiotic: a billion miracles in one.
‘Are the new antibiotics any better?’
‘New antibiotics?’ A hairy eyebrow rose an inch. ‘It depends what you mean by new antibiotics, of course.’
‘Why?’
‘There are only about fourteen different antibiotics,’ Brennan explained mildly. ‘Or groups of them, I should say. And about ten of those were found in the two decades after penicillin was discovered. There have been very few substantial discoveries of new antibiotics for the last forty years. Most of our so-called new antibiotics are what you could call slight tweaks on old ones.’
‘I didn’t realise,’ said Casey.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And yet still people walk into their GP’s surgery and demand antibiotics on tap. When they are the … ’ he pushed his glasses back up his nose to emphasise the point, ‘most precious thing.’
‘But I was talking to someone recently about a possible new antibiotic, produced by Adsero?’ said Casey. ‘They said that it might be effective on Mycobacterium abscessus for CF patients?’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Brennan. ‘I’ve heard good things about Adsero’s new antibiotic. But of course it would only be an enhancement of their current one.’
‘Their current one is zentetra?’ Casey checked her notes. ‘And the new one is due to be called saepio. So saepio would only really be a tweak of zentetra?’
‘Precisely.’ An approving nod. ‘But, you never know, the new one may be much more effective. It can work like that. We live in hope.’
