What Will Survive

by Joan Smith

  In the bedroom she used as her office, the fax machine whirred into action again, reminding Amanda that she did not have much time. She hurried back to her desk, noticing the time on the bottom right-hand corner of her computer screen. Reaching over to the radio, she turned on the news and the room filled with jeering voices, which she immediately recognised as coming from the House of Commons.

  ‘The Prime Minister angrily denied claims of a conflict of interest,’ the newsreader said as the recording ended, ‘pointing out that ministers’ partners were not covered by the code of conduct. But Opposition MPs were not satisfied and the row, which has caught the Government off balance, according to our political editor, looks set to continue.’ She paused and said in a tone of studied neutrality: ‘Reports from Lebanon suggest that a British tourist is among the injured after a landmine exploded underneath a vehicle in Lebanon yesterday. One man is believed to have died at the scene, and two survivors have been flown to hospital in the capital, Beirut. More details are expected later.’ The newsreader moved on to the latest developments in the trial of three footballers who had been involved in a fracas at a nightclub in Bradford, and Amanda snapped off the radio. She keyed a number into the phone, and Simon answered immediately:

  ‘Newsdesk.’

  ‘It’s Amanda. Is there any more from Lebanon? This man who’s died — it’s not her husband, is it?’

  ‘I was about to call you. No, she was travelling with a photographer, a guy who took some picture during the civil war? Fabrizio Terzano. Mean anything to you?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘Anyway, he’s dead. Killed outright, poor sod. He took her photo for Vogue last year — Fi’s trying to get a back issue.’ He paused. ‘Maybe they were having an affair. You met what’s-his-name, the husband, didn’t you?’

  ‘For about five minutes.’ Amanda was relieved Simon couldn’t see her face. ‘They seemed like a perfectly normal couple to me, but then they would, wouldn’t they? To a journalist, I mean.’ It wasn’t entirely true, she thought, admitting to herself that she hadn’t warmed to Tim Lincoln. But she wasn’t going to mention that when the poor guy’s wife was in hospital.

  ‘Hmm. Just a thought. What? Can’t it wait?’

  There was a noise at the other end of the line, as though the phone had momentarily been put down. When Simon returned, he sounded irritable. ‘Sorry, Ingrid was on the other line. No more news, but I think you’d better make it fifteen hundred words. How are you fixed to get out there, if she’s well enough to do an interview?’

  ‘To Beirut?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re the obvious one to do it, seeing as you know her.’

  ‘Well, I—’ She sat up straight. ‘Sure, if you want me to. Do I need a visa?’

  ‘I’ll get Fiona to check all that. Tell her the minute you’ve filed. He what?’ He paused. ‘Gotta go, the editor’s called an emergency conference.’

  Amanda put down the phone and pulled open the top drawer of her desk, rummaging inside for her passport.

  Ricky had arrived at work with a hangover and discovered, when he took off his jacket, that his mobile battery was flat. He peered at himself in the small mirror in the staff toilet, groaned and ran his hands through his hair: usually it was wavy, like his mother’s, but today it was lank and there were red blotches on his cheeks. He splashed his face with cold water, gulped down a black coffee and a Mars bar in the small kitchen and presented himself just in time for morning surgery.

  ‘Rough night?’ Olivia asked, looking up from her preparations for the usual parade of domestic animals with infections, parasites and minor injuries. Ricky got through it like an automaton, coming to life only when two teenage boys opened a cardboard box to reveal a brightly-coloured marine iguana, which they said — shifting their feet and avoiding Olivia’s gaze — they’d bought from someone called Baz. Olivia’s eyes widened and she launched into a matter-of-fact explanation about the life cycle and habits of iguanas, alarming them to the point where they promised to take it to London Zoo. ‘The things people keep as pets,’ she said, when they left in a minicab, and Ricky had to admire the skilful way she had manipulated the boys. He liked Olivia a great deal more than her partner, Tony, who seemed to regard having a veterinary student around the place as little more than a source of cheap labour.

  When surgery had finished, just after eleven, Ricky asked Olivia if he could nip home and pick up the charger for his mobile, explaining it took hours to charge up. His girlfriend, Lerissa, was on holiday in Italy and the payphone at home in Shepherd’s Bush ate up coins faster than he could feed them in. Olivia nodded, unclipping her shoulder-length dark hair and tying it up again with a flick of her wrist. With a grin, she added that she was glad to see he’d rejoined the human race in the last hour or so.

  On his return, feeling quite a lot better and expecting to help Olivia during a couple of routine procedures, Ricky found the surgery in the middle of a full-scale emergency. Olivia and Alice, the older and more experienced of the practice’s two veterinary nurses, were already bending over a very large Alsatian-cross which had escaped from its owner and been hit by a car. Alice leaned forward, frowning with concentration as she anticipated Olivia’s actions, and Ricky hurried to join them on the other side of the stainless-steel table. The dog’s hind leg was badly gashed and not for the first time, Ricky had to concentrate very hard not to throw up, a terrifying reaction he had not yet dared mention to anyone: how could he finish his training, if watching anything but the most minor operation made him feel sick and faint? At one point, Olivia stopped to wipe sweat from her brow and caught sight of his ashen face; to his horror, Ricky saw a question forming in her eyes, but then Alice drew her attention to the dog’s breathing and the danger moment, as he saw it, had passed.

  The only person Ricky could face telling was his mother, when she got back from the Middle East — certainly not his father, who couldn’t understand why he wanted to be a vet in the first place. He knew that Aisha would listen without going nuts or saying something sarcastic, and even if she didn’t have an immediate solution he knew he would feel better just for talking to her. In the meantime, he made sure he’d thought up a couple of questions for Olivia as soon as the dog — stitched, bandaged and still deeply sedated — had been moved to the recovery room where Alice could keep an eye on him.

  It worked. As Olivia stripped off her latex gloves and binned them, Ricky spoke first, so quickly she had put up a hand to fend him off.

  ‘Hold it,’ she said. ‘I need a break.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Christ, is that the time? How about a quick curry at the Anapurna, if they’re still serving?’ Ricky hesitated.

  ‘What’s up?’ Olivia’s eyes narrowed. ‘Actually, you did look a bit queasy back there—’

  ‘I’m fine, really. Too much Stella last night.’

  ‘Well, a curry will either kill or cure you. You up for it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘OK, meet you out front in five.’

  Ricky was heading for the toilet to retrieve his jacket when Lisa, the very young receptionist with blonde hair and a strong New Zealand accent, appeared from the High Road end of the building.

  ‘Is Spencer gonna be all right?’ she asked, and Ricky had to think for a moment, not having heard the dog’s name.

  Olivia said cheerily: ‘Hope so. I think we’ve saved the leg.’

  Lisa put her head on one side. ‘Poor Spencer. Oh, Ricky, your Dad called a couple of times.’

  He stared at her. ‘Dad called here?’

  ‘Yeah. He said he’s been trying your mobile but it’s down.’

  ‘It’s on charge.’ He turned to Olivia. ‘Something’s up. He never calls.’ Another thought occurred to him. ‘How did he know this number?’

  Olivia raised her eyebrows. ‘Didn’t you give it to him?’

  Ricky looked scornful. ‘I gave it to Mum. She’s in Syria — no, Lebanon, I got a text from her.’

  ‘Lisa?’ The receptionist, who was a
lmost at the end of the corridor, stopped and looked back. ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

  ‘Sorry, Liv.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Best call him,’ Olivia said, unbuttoning her white coat, which was stained with blood. ‘Use the line in my office.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks, Olivia.’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘Cheer up, it’s probably nothing.’

  Ricky went into the office, stopped in front of Olivia’s desk and twisted the phone towards him so he could key in his parents’ number. When he heard the engaged tone, he swore quietly, broke the connection and tried again. A couple of minutes later, when Olivia appeared with her hair down and looking boyish in a denim jacket, his face was a study in frustration.

  ‘No luck?’

  ‘Engaged. All the time.’

  ‘Try again after lunch?’

  Ricky looked uncertain. ‘What if it’s serious?’

  ‘Serious as in?’

  ‘Maybe — maybe something’s happened to my brother.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Max. He’s in Chile.’

  Olivia nodded. ‘Oh yes, your mother said. It’s his gap year, isn’t it?’ She looked thoughtful. She had never met Ricky’s mother but they had had a long conversation when Aisha called to thank Olivia for giving Picky a summer job. He had previously done work experience with a vet near their home in Somerset, she explained, and he needed experience with pets rather than farm animals. Ricky had already told her this, but Olivia was slightly awed to find herself talking to someone whose photograph she had seen in newspapers, and allowed Aisha to continue talking. She didn’t sound anything like Olivia’s idea of a model, not that she had expected Ricky’s mother to be Naomi Campbell, naturally, but all the same... Aisha was even in the latest issue of Hello!, which was delivered to the practice each week along with half a dozen other magazines. Olivia barely glanced at them, apart from the New Yorker, whose cartoons she liked, but Lisa read Hello! from cover to cover and had kept it open on the reception desk for a whole morning.

  ‘Look,’ Olivia said, starting to feel a little uneasy herself — she hadn’t had a gap year but one of her friends had been arrested in Thailand and accused of trying to smuggle a tiny quantity of marijuana. ‘There’s no point in worrying unnecessarily. Let’s go to the Anapurna and you can keep trying from my mobile. Ricky? What’re you doing?’

  She stared as he knelt on the floor with his back to her, straightening a moment later with his own phone in his hand.

  ‘I’ll take this — it should be half-charged.’ He switched it on and was about to slide the phone into a pocket when it beeped. He stared at the screen. ‘Shit, I’ve got four messages.’

  Probably the girlfriend, Olivia reassured herself. She waited as Ricky accessed his message service; noticing a lab report on her desk, she drew it towards her and frowned as she skimmed it, making a mental note to call the lab back when she returned from lunch. Putting it aside, she glanced at Ricky, whose face had lit up. He mouthed ‘Lerissa’ and Olivia relaxed, pleased she had been right.

  Puzzlement flared in his eyes as the next message played: ‘Shit,’ he said on a rising note of alarm. ‘Oh shit.’

  His face was pale and Olivia moved towards him. Wordlessly, he handed her the mobile. She frowned. It was the same model as her own and she pressed a key for messages, fumbling and almost dropping the phone. She skipped over a girl’s voice, Ricky’s girlfriend, and heard a man say curtly: ‘Dad here. Bad news. Ring me when you get this.’ There was a beep and the same voice spoke again, even more clipped this time: ‘Ricky, where the hell are you? It’s urgent.’ The third message sent shock waves through her: ‘For Christ’s sake, Ricky. What’s the point of having this bloody thing if you don’t — look, your mother’s had an accident. Ring me, OK?’ A woman’s voice started to intone: ‘To hear your messages again, press one. To save your messages—’ Olivia cut the connection.

  ‘Your mother?’ she repeated. ‘He didn’t say what—’

  Ricky’s face was ashen and he was already punching a number into the office phone.

  ‘It could mean anything,’ she warned. ‘Don’t assume the worst.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Ricky slammed down the receiver.

  ‘Still engaged? Here, put it on ring-back.’ Olivia stepped behind her desk and pulled the phone towards her. A moment later, she looked up and said, ‘That’s done. Ricky, sit down, we need to think about this. Is there another number we can try? His office — maybe they’ll know something.’

  Ricky sat on the chair that was usually occupied by drug company reps, gripping the edge with his hands. Suddenly he looked very young and vulnerable. ‘He works at home.’

  ‘Has he got a secretary?’

  ‘No — yes, but she only comes in on Mondays.’

  ‘What about a mobile?’

  ‘He hates them.’

  Olivia snorted. ‘What about your — your grandparents? Would he have spoken to them?’

  ‘Mum’s mother died last year — the year before, I mean. Dad’s is in a home. She doesn’t know what day it is. He doesn’t talk to his father.’ His voice cracked. ‘God, Olivia—’

  ‘Don’t panic.’ Olivia was thinking that anything could have happened to Aisha, from a sprained ankle to a broken neck, and she wanted to stop Ricky speculating until they found out how bad it was. ‘He knows the number here, and your mobile’s working. Where did you say your mother was?’

  ‘Lebanon. She left the same day as Max, on different flights of course. I drove them to Heathrow — Dad was pissed off about having to stay behind in this crappy country.’ He pulled a face. ‘He talks like that. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Does she have a mobile — of course she does, you sent her a text.’

  ‘She sent me one.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Yesterday, um — yeah.’

  ‘And she didn’t — she was fine then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, try her mobile.’

  He seized his phone, pressed a couple of keys and put it to his right ear, gripping it tightly. He listened and his face fell. ‘It’s on voicemail. Ma, it’s me, Ricky? Are you all right? Dad says — call me, OK?’

  ‘Good, good, let me think.’ Olivia put a hand up to her forehead. ‘Is anyone with her? Travelling with her, you know?’

  ‘Yes, but — God, Olivia, this is going to sound really stupid.’ Ricky’s face twisted. ‘She’s with this photographer, but I can’t think of his name. They’re — they’re doing a book together.’

  Olivia’s eyes widened, and she wondered what Ricky’s father thought about that. Ricky continued, his voice steadier: ‘They’re travelling round, looking at Roman temples and stuff. I’m not into archaeology. Shouldn’t I—’ He started to get up. Olivia put out a hand. ‘What? Look, it may be nothing serious.’ She put as much reassurance into her tone as she could muster, although she had the bad feeling she sometimes got when she took samples from a sick animal. ‘I’m going to ask Lisa to get us some sandwiches; at least we can eat something while we’re waiting.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Olivia said, ‘No point in starving yourself. Lisa? Oh for God’s sake — Lisa.’ The receptionist stepped into the office and listened wide-eyed as Olivia gave her a shopping list. ‘I’ll have a BLT and Ricky—’ She glanced at him. ‘Just bring him a chicken sandwich, whatever they’ve got left.’

  ‘And get some more coffee,’ she called after her, ‘we’re almost out. I’ll make some,’ she added, standing up. A new thought occurred to her and she sat down again. ‘What about the Foreign Office? They’d know, wouldn’t they, if a British citizen’s had an accident abroad? Hand me that directory.’

  Ricky did not move for a moment, a dazed look on his face. Then he reached up to Olivia’s bookshelves and heaved it down. She began leafing through the flimsy pages, missing F and having to start again.

  ‘Max,’ Ricky started to say. ‘He’ll go nuts if somethin
g’s happened to Mum.’

  The office phone rang. Olivia’s hand collided with Ricky’s as they both made to answer it. ‘Hallo?’ she said, then signalled to Ricky that his father’s number was finally ringing. ‘Mr — is that Mr Lincoln? This is Olivia Ferrer — yes, he’s here.’

  She handed the phone to Ricky, tensing as she watched his face. ‘Dad? I have been trying you. You’ve been engaged all the time! Ask Oliv — what? She what? No,’ she heard him say after a moment, ‘I don’t believe you. She can’t be, you said an accident — Dad, please—’ His eyes had gone blank, his face a mask of shock, and Olivia leaned forward, taking the phone from him.

  ‘Mr Lincoln?’ Her own voice sounded gravelly. ‘I understand there’s been—’ He interrupted her, speaking rapidly, sounding — sounding furious, she thought later. ‘Oh God. Oh my God. How did it happen? Where? You mean a terrorist—’ She glanced at Ricky. ‘Hold on, Ricky’s — I’ll call you back.’

  Pushing her chair back so hard it collided with the wall, she hurried round the desk and knelt in front of Ricky, putting her arms round him. A series of choking noises escaped from him but he remained still, not trying to move away. ‘I’ve got you,’ she said, ‘I’m here.’ Peering over his shoulder, she raised her voice: ‘Lisa, Alice! In here, quick.’

  Alice stepped into the office, saying something about Lisa nipping out to the shops. ‘Didn’t you ask her to get sandwiches?’ Taking in the scene, the nurse stopped mid-sentence. ‘Olivia? What on earth’s happened?’

  ‘It’s his mother, there’s been a terrible accident.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Put the answering machine on for a minute, and can you make some tea? Strong and sweet, he’s in shock.’

  ‘What sort of accident?’

  Olivia shook her head in warning, and said in a low voice: ‘A landmine. Jesus.’

  Ricky cried out and started to get up. Olivia struggled to her feet, one of her legs, numb from kneeling, giving way beneath her. She steadied herself and put out a hand, almost frightened to touch him: ‘Ricky. Oh Ricky.’