‘No, I haven’t. I’ll keep my eyes open.’ She stopped the recording with the flick of a switch.
‘Thank you for all this, Miss Rennie. I really appreciate it.’
Gemma stood, and unable to resist, she popped the last section of the rock cake into her mouth before slipping into her coat. ‘You know, if I was any good at baking, I would ask you for the recipe. The rock cakes are delicious.’
‘Miss Findlay, something strange is happening. It’s not like the last flu outbreak. If you remember, those who had it were confined to home and given medicines until they were free of it. If the DSD are taking people into isolation, then it is for something far more serious. It worries me nothing is reported in the media. Something is going on. Something far from normal.’
The goodbye was brief. As Gemma walked down the pathway, she tried to scout out which home could have been the sight of that night’s bizarre events. They all looked similar. Any could be unoccupied right now. She headed off in the direction of Berryden. The cold wind refreshed her for a few moments before the bitterness took hold.
***
Gemma made her way to Joe’s Bar to meet Stacey. Belmont Street was unusually quiet. The rain poured down. Marching beneath her yellow umbrella, she passed only one couple, walking hand in hand, sharing a larger umbrella of a dark hue.
Joe’s Bar was warm. The place was pretty quiet. Gemma took a seat nearest the large windows where she could see out into Belmont Street and placed the wet umbrella by her feet.
A waiter ambled over. Gemma ordered a glass of red wine.
Joe’s Bar was a relatively new establishment. The last time Gemma had been on a night out it hadn’t existed. She couldn’t remember what was here before, probably another club she felt too old to drink in.
The waiter returned with the wine. ‘Can I get you something to eat?’
‘I’m waiting for someone.’
‘That’s cool.’ He chewed gum as he spoke. ‘If you want anything, just shout. I’m Simon.’
Simon returned to the bar, and started up a conversation with a red-haired barmaid. They looked over to Gemma, their covert glances not so covert. No guessing the subject of their conversation. She did her best to settle her hair, took a mouthful of wine, and then turned her attention on the drinks menu. The cocktails were accompanied by typically overgenerous pictures, full of colour, full of adornments, full of hefty prices. Maybe later.
Her thoughts went back to the meeting with Caroline Rennie, her eventual return to the office, and Lewis’ obvious worry. He knew she was up to something, but she wouldn’t confess.
‘Gemma?’
Stacey had changed very little. Still as stylish as ever. Her grey top hung just past the curve of her bum, a pair of tight black jeans emphasised the shape of her legs, and long leather boots boosted her height by an inch or more. A belt brought in the top, and worked wonders in showing off her slender figure.
‘Stacey!’ Gemma stood and they embraced over the table. A slightly rigid action. It seemed Stacey wasn’t sure how to react either.
‘Can you believe this weather?’ Stacey pulled a few stray hairs from her face. Her hair was slightly different. It had been almost platinum-blonde. Now, it was a more mature golden-blonde. ‘I should never leave the house without an umbrella. Trying to run in these heels, I was lucky not to break my neck. Anyway, how are you?’
‘I’m fine. A little wet from the rain, too. And according to the judges behind the bar, my hair’s a mess.’
The two girls shared a laugh when they looked to the bar staff who were again conspiring in chatter, presumably summing up the new arrival.
‘They’re wrong. You look fine.’
‘You’re still a good liar, but listen, I’m sorry for calling you out of the blue like that. I just didn’t know who else to chase up.’
‘Well, I’m glad you did, and I’d like to think you called not just because you needed a favour for work. I mean, it’s been, what? A year?’
‘I know.’
Simon returned to the table, still chewing his gum. He looked between the two women and seemed to be about to say something. If Gemma guessed right, he was gauging whether they were related. People had confused them as sisters when they studied journalism at college, and it didn’t help that they’d spent so much time together. Now, when Gemma looked at Stacey, it was like looking at what could have been. Stacey had remained slim. Gemma had let herself go and was recovering from a train wreck of a relationship. Hard not to be haunted by what ifs when confronted by Stacey. What if I had never met Jeff? What if I had kept at the gym?
Simon dropped the scrutiny and devoted his full attention to the glamorous Stacey. ‘Hello and welcome to Joe’s. I’m Simon.’ The gum was missing. He touched his name badge. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘I’ll have a glass of your house white.’
‘Excellent choice,’ replied Simon, like a seasoned vintner commenting on a fine year.
What happened to the ‘that’s cool’ language?
‘And will you be dining with us tonight?’ His eyes never left Stacey.
‘We will,’ Gemma answered, ‘and I’ll have another red.’
‘Of course,’ and he was gone.
‘I’m sorry, Stacey. Have you eaten tonight?’
‘No. I went home straight from work to change, then here. I was going to suggest food. I’m famished.’
‘Good.’
The girls shared a smile.
Simon returned with the drinks and two menus tucked under his arm. ‘Allow me to recommend the pea and lentil soup. I’ll give you a few minutes, shall I?’ he addressed Stacey.
‘Yes please,’ Gemma replied.
‘So, was the woman any help? She seemed keen when she phoned our office.’
‘Yes and no. I think she wanted me to say more than I did. What she told me was useful but raised more questions. She knows there’s more going on.’
‘She said that.’
Gemma nodded then sipped at her drink. ‘She did.’
‘You’re crazy if you try to report it. You know the government has slapped a reporting ban on this, whatever it is.’
‘Yeah, well …’
‘My paper won’t touch anything related to the outbreak, and anyone asking questions is told to drop it, that it’s not newsworthy. I only know about the government ban because I happened across an email on our editor’s computer.’
‘Doesn’t it worry you? What if there is more to this than the usual?’
Stacey placed a hand on top of Gemma’s. ‘I know you too well. You won’t let this go.’
Gemma looked down at the touch. Stacey pulled away. She seemed to shake off the moment.
‘Flying scares me. Snakes and spiders scare me, but not the flu.’
Gemma relayed what she saw on the video file. ‘I know it’s not a hoax.’
‘Could be the DSD. I heard they operate from up near the hospital, just rumours though. Either way, we’ll never really know. Stop worrying and let it go. Enough about work. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, I want a proper catch up.’ Stacey opened up her menu. ‘My stomach’s screaming for food.’
***
The Aberdeen Royal Infirmary carpark was full. Gemma circled three times before she found a space, and she fluked one close to the hospital’s entrance. She decided the new structure to the left was DSD headquarters. A tennis court and some scrubland sat in the same spot not so long ago. The few trees she remembered were gone. The building was a lesson in modern architecture, built in stages. It had the look of a contemporary pyramid. Blending in with the city’s namesake, the majority of the construction was granite. With the aid of mini-binoculars, Gemma focused on the front opening; large glass doors with a small reception beyond, manned by two figures. A barrier guarded the road into the complex.
Twice in the last half hour, DSD vans arrived and disappeared to what she assumed may have been their rear loading area.
Gemma’s phone chir
ped the arrival of a text message from Stacey. Since reconnecting the night before, things seemed to pick up from where they had left off. The texts were friendly, the type of nonsense friends share, not of great importance, more just to hear from the other. She was pleased.
A third van appeared, green lights flashing. The horn blasted to clear a path through the steady flow of traffic. The van swept around a stationary bus, before turning into the DSD complex and disappearing from sight.
Gemma could either sit in her car watching the vans appear and disappear—what she dubbed to be the sensible option—or she could take a walk to the manned barrier. What do I have to lose? Gemma grabbed her mobile and jumped out of the car.
The temperature felt at freezing point. She buttoned her coat and walked briskly, regretting she had not dug her gloves from her handbag. At the road’s edge, she waited for a gap in the traffic before dashing across.
A small pedestrian-walkway bypassed the red and black barrier, and brought Gemma to an attendant in a small booth. He wore a yellow reflective vest, intent on his newspaper. He looked up briefly, set aside the tabloid, and opened the window. Heat burst from the booth, but quickly vanished.
‘Yes?’ His eyebrows sloped with his frown.
‘Hi.’ Gemma flashed a smile. ‘I hope you can help me. Is that the DSD building?’
‘Not sure, lady.’
Gemma winged it. ‘It’s just that my sister has been taken into isolation.’
The attendant held up a hand. ‘I really don’t know, lady.’
‘Then, could I maybe just go to the reception and ask about her?’
‘It’s a restricted area. Staff only.’ He pointed to a large sign.
Gemma mustered a sad look. ‘It’s my sister. I really need to find out what’s happened to her.’
‘Listen, I don’t care if it was your dear old mum in there. Staff! Only!’
The attendant slammed his window shut and returned to his paper.
‘And if it was your dear old mum in there?’ she grumbled quietly.
Chapter 6
Homecoming
Eric drifted somewhere between sleep and the verge of waking, a place where past miseries were forced upon him and dreams denied. Rain joined the many sounds. A half-voiced scream died in his throat as he woke fully, eyes focused on his surroundings. This was not Iraq. His life was not at the mercy of jihadists.
The rumble of traffic melded with the rain. Heathrow never slept. The bedside light was set to low in a childlike attempt to ward off nightmares. A lot of use that was. He twisted the dimmer on the lamp. The room burst to life, revealing the full austerity of his surroundings. A weathered writing table sat over a wicker chair that didn’t match, and on the table, a vinyl-bound bible and complimentary mini-chocolates. A frameless print of a nameless city was stapled to the wall, and the smell of sewage escaped the drain in the shower and clung to the walls. If hotels were about comfort, then this one was as pleasant as a pin in the eye. Eric doubted he would ever feel comfort again.
He stumbled over to the table, his legs mimicking a drunk’s dance. His reflection in the mirror dared him to stare back, but he refused. He snatched the bottle of Famous Grouse whiskey before slumping down in the chair. The lid was lost the day before. Maybe he was on a set of drunk’s legs. The bottle was the first thing he purchased when he landed back in the UK. That, and a sandwich; a God-awful excuse for ham, cheese and mustard.
Eric took a long pull from the bottle. The liquid burned its way down his throat. The doctors warned he should avoid alcohol while on the medication. He couldn’t have that. The tablets were dissolving slowly at the bottom of the toilet, somewhere near that putrid drain. His cracked lips stung with the next mouthful of whiskey. Eric had developed a habit of biting at the rough skin as it tried to heal. Too often, they split and seeped, as they did now. He let the blood drip down his chin, not bothering to wipe himself clean.
The physical wounds will heal relatively quickly, but the mental trauma could last for years. He heard the doctor’s words again in his head. What did doctors know anyway?
His reflection won out. The change was staggering. His face was gaunt. Dark crescents beneath the eyes, coupled with his unshaven appearance, gave him a sinister edge. So much weight was missing from his frame. His chest was sunken, his ribs unbearably prominent.
More than a healthy look was missing. His dog tags. It was the first time in year she was without them, but Eric could not bear to put them back on. They sat on the table, castoff, unwanted. They seemed to call. Those unsteady legs took him across the room. He scooped the tags up, the engraved information revealing his full name, date of birth, blood type and finally, the company name, Black Aquila.
Martin had a pair of tags like these, as did every other fighter that never made it home. He sat back down. More whiskey.
There were so many unanswered questions. A dormant fury haunted him, deep down like a malevolent tumour.
You need time to grieve and come to terms with what happened. The Pakistani doctor’s words came flooding again.
Grieve. Eric closed his eyes to halt the tears. There, in the darkness of his mind, was the image of Martin’s burned body strung up like a scarecrow. He hurled the tags at the mirror, hissing a string of profanities. This was the only way Eric could grieve. He sucked down more whiskey, inviting the welcome oblivion that would inevitably follow.
***
Morning brought with it more rain and a bitter wind. Nursing a pounding headache, Eric was glad to leave the hotel and jump into the warmth of the company’s Jaguar XF Saloon. The driver gave him a nod of welcome. Eric searched through the meagre contents of his rucksack, and found a half-empty bottle of cola. Days old, it had lost its fizz, but it was liquid and his mouth felt as though it was filled with sand.
He was thankful the morning was overcast. The light stung his eyes. Too afraid to close them in case the nightmares returned, Eric spent the journey looking out the window, thinking about what was to come.
The debrief with the Black Aquila representative had been short. His capture in Iraq and subsequent rescue had caused quite a stir back home. After given a week to recover with his family, Eric was to meet with the CEO of Black Aquila, then be paraded before the media. Until then, he was told to keep a low profile and say nothing to reporters. That was fine by him. When he questioned the need for media involvement, the stern woman from Black Aquila informed him the company was responsible for his rescue, and furthermore, he was contract-bound and obliged to cooperate. The public face of the company needed a positive to counterweigh the losses they suffered. The responsibility to be the positive fell to Eric and Eric alone. It was something he didn’t relish. She didn’t care. Nobody cared.
The physical evidence of the beatings was slowly disappearing, but his body still ached. The car was comfortable, but his legs suffered from a bout of restlessness that made him twitch. The car finally came to scenery he recognised, roads he had driven.
‘Here we are,’ announced the driver.
If he had the authority, he would have ordered the driver to take him elsewhere, anywhere but here.
‘Mr. Mann? You’re home.’
Eric cursed under his breath before removing himself from the car. Home is where the heart is. Eric was not sure where his heart was, but he suspected it was lost in the sandy hell of Iraq.
***
The room was still, heavy with an expectant silence. Jacqui Mann slumped in the armchair, looking into the blank screen of the TV. Reflected there was a woman who wore a mantle of worry, and a cold cup of coffee sat untouched on the floor next to her.
A car door closed. Jacqui stood, turning to the window. It felt like her chest was about to explode. Her breathing laboured as she set eyes on her husband. Thin. He was very thin. He struggled out of the car in obvious pain. Jacqui headed to the front door to welcome him home. The blurred figure appeared beyond the glass of the door. She wiped away her tears. She wasn’t ready, and perhaps, ne
ver would be.
***
‘Will there be anything else, Mr. Mann? Shall I take your bag into the house for you?’
‘No, I can manage.’ Only when the car had left the cul-de-sac, did Eric turn to the house and make his way to the front door. Lining one side of the pavement were rows of fir shrubs, new additions since he was last home. Eric had a fairly good idea whose landscaping skills had been utilised.
A blurred figure appeared on the other side of the glass panel. The click of the door lock followed. Eric stood face to face with Jacqui. Three-feet separated them, but emotionally, they were worlds apart. They gazed at each other as strangers might.
Jacqui embraced him. ‘You’re back then?’
He escaped the hold. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Can I take your bag?’
‘Everyone wants to carry my bag. I can manage.’ Eric hobbled into the kitchen, inspecting the house as he went. There were subtle differences, and he expected to find more. He had been gone for a time. He grabbed a can of diet cola from the fridge. The burst of the can and the steady ticking of the wall clock were the only sounds. It was as if he was alone, but he wasn’t. He took a drink. The tick-tock remained steady, like a march. The pounding in his head joined time, an ache resulting from a combination of last night’s whiskey and the stress of being home. He massaged his forehead.
‘Are the kids here?’
‘They’re upstairs. I thought you might want some time with me … to talk.’
‘I’d like to see my kids,’ he growled, and then wiped his mouth before easing himself into his old seat, into something familiar, something welcoming.
‘Don’t get angry. I’m just trying to help, to do what’s right for all of us.’
‘Just go get the kids. After all I’ve been through, I just want to see the kids.’ He drained the can and crushed it in his hand.
‘They’ve not seen you for so long, except on the news. They were confused. They are confused. Just don’t expect too much.’
Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City Page 7
