by Paul Kane
She lost it a couple of times, when it took a left turn into some foliage, but she soon found it again. Its colour was a dead giveaway against all the surrounding greens. After more chasing, Suzie eventually found the insect, which had settled on the outskirts of a meadow, near to some flowers. And, as Suzie drew nearer, her focus shifted from that butterfly to the even more colourful blooms. In fact, the butterfly flapped off and she barely even noticed its departure.
Step by step, mesmerized, she approached – cocking her head, taking in the sight of those flowers: which were at once yellow and red and blue and… They were all kinds of colours simultaneously it seemed, like they’d fallen with a shower and sprouted up at the base of a rainbow recently.
Suzie beamed; she’d never seen anything quite like them. Probably never would again. She just had to smell one, to see if the scent matched the spectacle in front of her. Suzie reached down, just as she’d reached out for that butterfly not so long ago – that creature so far from her mind now. The only thing she could see, the only thing she wanted to, was the tallest of the flowers. It was so pretty, so bright! The way the petals opened, perhaps even more as she bent down to smell it.
The scent was strong, not quite overpowering but getting there. It was also as sweet as she imagined it would be. Suzie couldn’t resist; her hand was out before she could stop herself. And, suddenly, she’d plucked the largest flower from its home and was bringing it up to her nose, to draw it even closer – to take in more of the smell and the colours (the ever-shifting colours?).
That was when it happened. As she rose, taking the flower with her, she felt a sharp pain in her fingers. Suzie let out a loud “Ouch!” then looked down to see what had happened. There were thorns on the stalk. She could have sworn they weren’t present before: she wouldn’t have grabbed hold of it if they had been. Thorns that ran the length of the stem, jutting out now like lethal spikes. There was no way at least one or two of them wouldn’t have pierced her skin – and she saw now, as she examined the wound more intently, that they had indeed drawn blood.
Frowning, Suzie lowered the flower from her face. Then the frown deepened as her brow knitted with anger. She threw the thing down, sticking her finger in her mouth and sucking at the same time. Suzie gazed at the monster that had had the audacity to look so welcoming, so attractive – that had lured her into its trap, like a fly in a spider’s web. Well, this was one fly who could fight back, because it was bigger, so much bigger than the spider.
Suzie stamped on the flower, crushing it, grinding it into the earth until it was in pieces. But she didn’t stop there: she trampled on the rest of the bunch, its companions – co-conspirators – finally jumping up and down on their remains until she was satisfied there was nothing left.
However, the plant now strewn at her feet would have the last laugh after all, it seemed. Suzie began to feel strange, odd… dizzy. She shook her head. Suzie had to get back to her mum and dad. They were important, clever people; they’d know what to do. This plant had obviously poisoned her and now she was going to die. Yes, she felt sure of it.
I’m going to die, said a voice in her head.
No, you’re not, said another, altogether more comforting voice.
Run… I’ve got to try and run, retrace my steps and–
Suzie made to set off, but the sensation of moving made her feel sick. She had to do this, though, had to get back to her parents.
The girl took another step and it felt like she was walking on the moon – like those astronauts she’d seen on the TV. She’d always thought that looked kinda fun, yet this was anything but. It was like trying to walk through tar.
The sound of those birds overhead had been replaced by something much louder, and she looked up, though it made her dizzy to do so. The birds had changed into planes – not the Red Arrows, but similar – flying overhead. And somehow Suzie knew they were watching her, watching everyone on the ground. No, they hadn’t transformed at all, because the real birds were lying scattered all around, as if they’d fallen from the sky in mid-flight.
She stumbled a couple more steps, feeling like her stomach was rising up into her throat. If she could just actually be sick, it might help, but something was preventing this, keeping all that poison locked up inside her body where it could do the most damage.
No, not poison. It was like a darkness, but a dark you could feel. Suzie realised that now, as it spread throughout her, from her fingertips, up her arm, into her core. She was blinking furiously, still attempting to make some headway with the running – and fully aware of the fact that she wasn’t even walking yet.
Come on, got to get to Mum and… and Dad…
But you’re so tired. Why don’t you just have a little nap first? You’ll feel much better afterwards. Promise.
Suzie pitched forward, aware of the pain in her bare knees as they hit the ground. Her vision was blurring even more, the meadow in front of her becoming like a magic carpet ride she would take to dreamland – except she was already there, wasn’t she? Oh, this was so confusing, and she didn’t have the energy to try and work it out.
Suzie yawned. The longest, loudest yawn she’d ever done.
Her eyelids were so heavy now, but how could that be? How could you fall asleep when you were already dreaming? She remembered something they’d covered in school the previous Halloween. About a writer and one of his poems, about dreams within dreams, but she hadn’t really been paying attention and couldn’t for the life of her recall his name.
It wasn’t important anyway: the darkness was reaching upwards, into her head; filling up her cheeks, and stuffing her brain full of cotton wool. She could see nothing now, except a murky gloom. But she could still hear the jets of those planes, which had replaced the – dead? – birds and their song. She could hear something just above that, too, the sound of familiar voices calling.
Her parents, shouting out her name, closer, closer… searching when they hadn’t been able to find her. Their cries becoming frantic the louder and nearer they came. They were calling her name, demanding that she answer them. But she couldn’t; she was just too tired, and she knew already she was on the grass, laying there fast asleep.
Knew also, sadly, that she would not be able to answer those calls for a long, long time.
One
The disorder presented itself as a mild form of fatigue at first.
A Mr Norman Eley had been badgered into going to his local GP by his wife, Corrine, who’d noticed his continual lack of energy over the past couple of days. She also insisted on coming along with him, to make sure the doctor got the whole picture. Corrine knew how Norman was for hiding things, especially from figures of authority.
“So, let me see if I’m understanding this correctly,” said Dr Marsha Wray of the East Middletown Community Health Centre, sitting behind her desk and glancing up at the anxious couple in-between jotting things down on the pad in front of her. “You say your husband has been feeling particularly tired of late, more so than usual?”
“Definitely,” stated Mrs Eley. “He’s been nodding off as soon as he gets home from work at night… well, from one of his jobs.”
Dr Wray paused. “Did you say one of his jobs?”
“Er… yes,” admitted Mrs Eley.
“So he… I mean you,” she said, shifting her attention to Norman, as he was the patient after all, “are working more than one job, Mr Eley?”
“He is,” added his wife before he could answer. “Two; but both part-time. One at the college as a general odd-job man, the other as a porter at the hospital.”
Dr Wray sighed at the woman’s determination to speak for her husband. Why doesn’t she just sit him on her lap, stick her hand up his back and be done with it? she thought. Mr Eley, for his trouble, looked like the classic middle-aged, henpecked spouse who always just let his wife do exactly what she wanted and lived an easier life because of it. Probably feigning sleep so he doesn’t have to listen to all her nonsense. “And is this a
recent thing?” the doctor asked, brushing a strand of her strawberry blonde hair back over her ear.
“What do you mean, the sleeping? Yes, as I–”
“No, no, no.” Dr Wray shook her head sharply. “The jobs.”
Norman Eley opened his mouth, but again was cut off by his “better” half. “Oh, well he got the second one about a month or so ago, didn’t you?” she continued before he could answer, like it was a game of Snap. “And we were lucky to get it, as well. Times are hard, Doctor… for some.”
Dr Wray arched an eyebrow. “And it never occurred to you that this might be the root of the problem, the sudden stepping up of working hours?”
“It’s never been a problem before. Norman’s always been a hard worker, can’t stand lying about like those bloody dole spongers.” Mrs Eley folded her arms over her ample chest, which matched the rest of her. “But it’s never worn him out like this before.”
“We all have to slow down as we get a little older, though,” said Dr Wray, rising to take a look at Norman. She could feel Mrs Eley’s eyes on her, could almost hear what she was thinking: And what would you know about getting older, you wet-behind-the-ears quack? You don’t even look like you’ve graduated school let alone got your medical diploma!
“I just know my husband,” were Mrs Eley’s actual words, as she folded her arms even tighter now – so tight Dr Wray thought her boobs might pop. “There’s something wrong.”
“Right,” said the doctor, “let’s take a look at you, then.” And, to be fair, the man did not look well. Whether that was a consequence of living with Mrs Eley for so long, or the recent increased workload was another matter. Dr Wray went through the motions, however, checking blood pressure, flashing her pen-light in his eyes – which actually showed traces of a slight anaemia – checking his ears… “Have you noticed yourself that you’ve been growing more tired, Mr Eley?”
“As I said, he’s been–”
Dr Wray held up a finger. “I was asking your husband, Mrs Eley.” Enough was enough and she wasn’t going to take any more crap from this witch.
Norman Eley scratched the back of his neck and shrugged, a half-hearted action for a man used to never getting a word in edgewise. “I’ll be all right,” he said eventually, after some coaxing, and after letting out an enormous yawn, “when I’ve had a little sleep.”
It was as she was feeling his pulse that Dr Wray noticed the clamminess of his skin. There was a sort of sheen to it now she looked more closely. She shook her head; it was only her imagination. Look, there was nothing there now. “It could be one of a couple of things,” said Wray as she took her seat back round her side of the desk.
“Ah, so you do agree there’s something?” cackled Mrs Eley, but the doctor ignored her.
“I’m prescribing some iron tablets, just to help with the slight anaemia your husband seems to have. But I’m also going to get the nurse to take a sample of his blood for analysis.”
Mrs Eley’s expression changed from victorious to deeply concerned. “Analysis? You don’t think it’s serious, do you? I mean, I just thought…”
For God’s sake, make up your mind. “Let’s just wait and see, shall we? As I say, chances are it’s nothing more than mild anaemia.”
Dr Wray sent them to a waiting nurse with instructions to take a blood sample, then buzzed for the next patient to be let through: a Mr Burkett, who was suffering from a case of halitosis.
***
Dr Wray couldn’t help thinking about Mr Eley though, as she drove home that night; as she gave her partner Jackie a peck on the cheek and asked her how her day had been at the solicitors’; and as she sat down to eat the ready meals that had been lovingly prepared by Jackie (by placing them in the microwave).
Marsha listened to Jackie talk about various clients, something her partner shouldn’t really do, but always did – because if anyone was aware of the seriousness of confidentiality it was a doctor – and she rubbed her thumb with her fingers.
“What are you doing?” asked Jackie, through a mouthful of ocean pie.
“Hmm?”
“That.” Jackie pointed with her fork at Marsha, still absently rubbing her thumb.
The doctor looked down, as if seeing her hand for the first time. She stopped and shrugged. Then she yawned.
Jackie laughed. “Busy day for you too, eh?”
“You could say that. There was this one patient who…” Marsha let the sentence tail off.
“What?”
She shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter.” Marsha stifled another yawn with the back of the hand she’d just been rubbing.
“Looks like you could do with an early night, sweetheart,” said Jackie, and Dr Wray nodded.
They did just that, hitting the sack at about ten – a good hour or more earlier than they usually did. In spite of the fact Marsha knew Jackie wanted to make love (she could tell by the way she kept snuggling into her, spooning, left hand creeping higher to cup one breast through the satin of her teddy, the right snaking much lower), Marsha was asleep not long after they climbed into bed. She never heard the sigh of frustration from her partner, nor the quiet moans as Jackie pleasured herself, lying next to her.
All Marsha knew – and wanted – was the embrace of a different kind of lover: the blackness of sleep; the comforting security of dreams.
***
By the time the anomaly in Mr Eley’s blood had been found, it was too late.
It had already struck the teenagers at Middletown College of Technology and Arts, with waves of absences reported in classes. And those who did show up couldn’t keep their eyes open, some slumping across desks and having to be shaken before they’d wake up and pay attention. Senior lecturers suspected there might have been yet another all-night rave over the weekend, but for so many of the students to be affected was unheard of. They could get no sense out of those they questioned either, simple shakes of the heads, or “dunnos”, or shrugs was the most they could wheedle out of them. That and the complaints about itching.
It was the same thing at Jackie’s office. She’d let Marsha have a lay-in that morning, calling in sick for her (“Yeah, that’s right,” she’d joked with the single receptionist still on duty, “physician heal thyself…”) but wasn’t feeling too clever herself if the truth be known. And now, with the clock-hand approaching lunch hour, she was knackered; could barely keep her eyes open. The liberal doses of caffeine she’d been chucking back – the strongest Nescafe could supply – seemed to have done little either, and it was as she made her way down the flight of stairs from the third to the second floor, reasoning the exercise might help, that she blacked out.
Jackie was found at the bottom of the stairs half an hour later, her neck broken; her body like a forgotten toy at the back of a wardrobe.
Even more tragic was the fate of those at Mr Burkett’s place of work. He’d shown up that morning, unusually exhausted – what the hell was wrong with him? He took vitamins supplements, he ate fresh fruit and veg, looked after himself; the only problem he had was a touch of bad breath, and he’d been told by the nice lady doctor that might actually be caused by the combination of certain vitamin supplements and such great proportions of vegetables and fruit. Was there such a thing as being too healthy? Was this tiredness his body’s way of saying enough was enough?
He should have really taken the day off, because in spite of getting his regular eight hours – he was rubbish if he didn’t get that amount – he still felt like he’d gone ten rounds with a professional boxer... then ten more with a professional wrestler. As for that damned itch, he could have scratched his arms until they bled. He’d almost dropped off at the wheel, only narrowly avoiding a collision with a BMW (an insurance nightmare), though it had to be said the driver of that seemed to be behaving just as erratically; perhaps even more so.
He didn’t want to let anyone down, though – and his job was a very important one, ferrying people from A to B via the brand spanking new underground system
that Middletown had invested so much money in. Sadly, by five that afternoon, and regardless of the fact he’d had a two-hour break, Mr Burkett could fight the tiredness no more and fell asleep at the controls of the train… doing about 50 miles an hour (he should only have been doing 20). Mr Burkett was still holding the dead man’s handle; in fact, he was slumped across it.
The lead cabin smashed through the barriers, derailing, before plunging headlong into a concrete wall. Most of the people travelling on the rush-hour train were killed instantly, the others suffered horrendous injuries which only came to light when they were dug out – by the skeleton crews of the emergency services still on duty. None of the fatalities or injured had realised what was happening, though, because one by one they too had fallen asleep along the length of the entire tube train.
The patients were ferried to Central Hospital, where they already had their hands full with cases of what was being reported as severe narcolepsy. It was too early to call what they were seeing an epidemic, and everyone knew narcolepsy didn’t work that way, but Accident and Emergency physician Dr Ravi Kapur was ready to do so. “Forty cases in the space of the last hour,” he said to his staff. “I’d say that’s more than a coincidence. There must be a common source, something they all drank, or touched perhaps? Something to cause this… this sleeping sickness.”
Dr Kapur’s superior, Sir John Jenkinson, standing over the sleeping bodies of Central Hospital porter Norman Eley and his wife, Corrine – the quietest anyone had ever known the woman – speculated that the sickness in question had traits in common with Kleine-Levin Syndrome: “More commonly known as Rip van Winkle disease, or even Sleeping Beauty Syndrome…” But, again, this was a neurological disorder and not prone to being passed on in such a devastating way. By the time it had been noted that the disease was airborne, after many of the hospital staff who hadn’t come into contact physically with patients began suffering from the same symptoms, the writing was on the wall.
