by Louise Welsh
‘No.’ The question startled her.
‘A friend?’
‘We haven’t met before.’
‘That’s good.’ He took off his glasses and dragged a hand across his face. Stevie’s calves felt tight, the way they did after a long run, and some instinct told her to turn around and walk away, but she stayed where she was. The doctor replaced his glasses. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Reah is dead.’
‘Dead?’ Stevie repeated the word, as if saying it would make death more real. ‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
The edges of the ward seemed to sharpen. She saw the grey floor, the doors to the private patients’ rooms, the nurses’ station midway down the corridor, everything sure and distinct.
‘Was it an accident?’
‘No, it wasn’t an accident. But it was sudden.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll appreciate we’re working at full capacity. The ward is two doctors down and the hospital as a whole is facing a massive challenge. Perhaps I can point you towards someone else who can help you?’
Stevie took a step backwards. The smell of the hospital was in her nostrils; the scent of her illness filtered through a chemical wash, harsh and sweet.
‘No, it’s fine, thanks.’
She turned to go but there must have been something furtive about the way she moved, because the doctor gripped her by the wrist, keeping her there.
‘Are you a journalist?’
Stevie wondered why the presence of a journalist would spook him. She forced another smile. ‘No.’ There was a move she had learnt in self-defence classes when she was a student – a chop to the attacker’s forearm, designed to hit a nerve and release his grasp – but force was always the last resort. She lowered her voice and whispered, ‘Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.’
‘It’s not acceptable for people like you to go wandering around in search of an angle or a scoop, or whatever it is you call it.’ The doctor kept his voice low, but his words were like bullets. ‘This is a hospital. The children on this ward are extremely sick. Some of them are dying. Is that a big enough story for you?’
A piece of spittle had landed on Stevie’s cheek. She resisted the urge to wipe it away.
‘You’ve a good instinct for professions. I used to be a journalist but I haven’t worked as one for quite a while. My name is Stephanie Flint. I was Simon Sharkey’s girlfriend. He asked me to deliver something to Mr Reah.’
The doctor let go of her arm, as if her skin had suddenly scalded him, but a note of suspicion still coloured his voice.
‘Simon never mentioned you.’
‘We hadn’t been going out for very long.’
‘So why the subterfuge?’
‘Simon probably thought it wasn’t your business who he went out with.’
The doctor touched her arm.
‘That’s not what I meant. Why didn’t you tell me who you are?’ His anger had vanished and his voice was gentle.
Stevie couldn’t tell him about the letter from beyond the dead, the trouble Simon had gone to, hiding the laptop in her loft, the resolution she had made to follow his instructions.
‘Simon was insistent that I deliver the package to Mr Reah personally. I didn’t realise I had to introduce myself.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘I don’t know.’
Ahumibe was still staring at Stevie as if she was a ghost. His face was gaunt, but there was a hint of flesh around his jowls that suggested he might recently have lost weight. He sighed and she saw him making an effort to return to himself.
‘I would have got in touch to pass on my condolences to you, if I’d known.’ He shook his head. ‘Simon always joked that he was married to medicine. Are you organising the funeral?’
‘No, a cousin is taking care of his estate.’
His estate. Stevie didn’t think she had ever used the phrase before. It sounded like an expression lifted from a Victorian novel, not anything that could be relevant to her.
‘I see.’ The doctor gave her a weary smile and she saw that he was handsome. ‘I’m John Ahumibe. I was a friend of Simon’s. Whatever this package is, if it’s hospital property then it must be returned. I can make sure that it finds the right home.’
Stevie drew the bag closer to her.
‘That’s kind of you, but Simon was insistent that it went to Mr Reah personally.’
Dr Ahumibe’s voice was patient. ‘Sadly that is no longer possible.’
‘Then I’ll pass it to his executor. She can decide what to do next.’
Dr Ahumibe gave a swift look down the ward.
‘Come with me.’ He touched Stevie’s elbow and led her into a small office off the main ward, shutting the door. The room was clean and white, but it appeared that whoever occupied it had been suddenly called away; papers were splayed across the desk, a half-drunk cup of coffee abandoned beside them.
Stevie asked, ‘Was this Mr Reah’s office?’
‘Mr Reah generally wrote up his notes in here, but the room wasn’t for his exclusive use. We’re pushed for space, like everywhere else in the hospital.’ He gave a rueful, upside-down smile. ‘Everywhere else in the city.’
‘What did he die of?’
Dr Ahumibe put his hands in the pockets of his white coat and leant against the desk, staring down at his shoes.
‘I don’t know.’ He raised his head and looked at Stevie. ‘Nobody knows, but people are dying from it. Hospitals might not be the healthiest places to be right now.’
‘Are they ever?’ She meant it as a joke, but her voice broke on the final word. ‘Sorry.’ Stevie massaged her temples with her fingertips, wishing she could stop apologising. ‘It’s been a long day.’ She thought of Joanie in intensive care, remembered the man falling from the Underground escalator and the old lady saying, ‘He’s got the sickness.’ She asked, ‘How serious is it?’
‘No one’s sure yet.’ Dr Ahumibe pulled out a chair from beneath the desk. ‘Sit down.’ She sat and he squatted level with her, scrutinising her face. ‘You’re pale. Do you feel feverish?’
‘I’m fine.’ No one had stood so close to her for days. Not since Joanie had greeted her with a kiss before they last went on air. ‘I saw an accident on the way here and I’m a bit hospital-phobic, that’s all.’ The doctor smelt like Simon, Stevie realised, the same scent of soap and long hospital hours. ‘Plus I’ve been indoors for the last few days. I came down with something after I found Simon. It laid me out. I think I’m still recovering.’
She pulled away from him and Dr Ahumibe sank into another chair, his feet planted wide apart, body hunched forwards, his brown eyes still fixed on hers. His hair was black and neatly shorn, showing the shape of his skull, the swell of the back of his head.
‘You found him?’
‘Yes.’
She thought he was going to ask her about it, but he said, ‘It’s hard to believe.’ His skin looked muddy with tiredness.
‘I know.’ She had seen Simon’s body with her own eyes, but it seemed impossible that the flesh which had held her flesh was easing into decay. No, she reminded herself, the decay had been stalled. His body was in a freezer somewhere, awaiting a post mortem. Dr Ahumibe’s brow puckered with deliberate concentration or concern, she wasn’t sure which.
‘Tell me your symptoms.’
Stevie listed the horrors that had pursued her. The doctor nodded from time to time, as if to show she was confirming what he already knew. When she had finished he said, ‘And you feel okay now?’
‘A little weak, prone to queasiness, but basically fine.’
He nodded, his face closed and careful.
‘It’s good to meet a survivor.’
‘Surely only people who are already weak are in real danger.’ The words made her sound like a eugenicist and she added, ‘I mean old and very young people, or people who are already ill.’
‘Mr Reah was a hale-and-hearty fifty-five.’ The doctor clasped his han
ds together.
‘And Simon? Is that what killed him?’
Dr Ahumibe looked away from her, towards a small window high on the exterior wall and a glimpse of blue sky. Stevie followed his gaze and thought how like a prison cell the room was.
‘No. From what I heard, Simon died of something else.’ He ran a hand across his skull. ‘Simon and I had known each other a long time. We worked together here, and as part of the same small team in private practice. That’s why I was surprised he hadn’t mentioned you. Whatever it was he wanted you deliver to Mr Reah, he would have trusted me with it, now that Malcolm’s gone.’
Stevie hesitated. Simon’s letter was insistent that she trust no one except Reah. But Reah was dead and Dr John Ahumibe had a tired, anxious air that made her want to confide in him. Behind her a door opened.
‘You’re needed on the ward.’ The nurse who had entered was dark and pretty, with black hair that looked as if it would break into a riot of curls, were it not besieged by a barricade of pins.
Ahumibe gave her a small nod and got to his feet.
‘Two seconds.’ He looked at Stevie, his eyes mild and unreadable. ‘Why not open the package here and make up your mind once you’ve seen what’s in it?’
Dr Ahumibe had the sort of voice designed to soothe frightened patients, or to gently break bad news, but the reasonableness of it recalled Simon’s letter. He had told her not to entrust the laptop to anyone else, no matter how polite, kind or authoritative. Stevie slung her satchel over her shoulder.
‘I’ll phone if it’s anything belonging to the hospital.’
The nurse was still standing in the doorway, watching them as if they were part of some play. Her good looks and neat figure were marred by her sour expression.
‘Excuse me,’ Stevie said. ‘I need to go.’
For a second Stevie thought the other woman was going to block her way, but she held the door open.
‘Miss Flint.’ Dr Ahumibe followed them out of the room. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stay a little longer.’ He glanced at the nurse. ‘Miss Flint may have survived the virus.’
The nurse looked at her. Stevie saw that her irises were almost pure black, her eyes shadowed with lack of sleep.
‘You had it?’
Stevie shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’
The nurse started to say something, but the ward doors opened and a thin man wearing a creased white coat over an equally crumpled blue shirt and chinos strode towards them. The new arrival was almost as tall as Dr Ahumibe and as pale and blond as the other man was dark. Dr Ahumibe said, ‘Miss Flint’s had the virus and lived to tell the tale.’
The man turned his Weimaraner eyes on her, his face keen and intelligent.
‘In that case you could be a rather useful young woman.’ He smiled. ‘I wonder if you would oblige us with a few samples. Don’t worry, they’ll be painless.’
Stevie could see a couple of nurses at the nurses’ station looking at them, wondering what the huddle was about. She wanted to leave, but the thought of Joanie stalled her. The idea that the solution might lie in her blood was strangely nauseating, but if she could help, then she would.
‘I have to go to work later. I’m happy to give you whatever samples you need but I’m afraid I can’t hang around.’
‘In that case, Nurse Webb will take you down to the lab.’ The pale man looked at Dr Ahumibe. ‘Makes more sense for them to take whatever samples they need there.’ He nodded to the nurse and put an arm around his colleague’s shoulder, steering him away from the two women without waiting for an answer. ‘Do you have a moment? I’ve got to dash off and collect William in a minute.’
Dr Ahumibe murmured, ‘Miss Flint was Simon’s girlfriend.’ The newcomer’s eyes glanced back at her, sharp and quick as a scalpel. Dr Ahumibe added, ‘She dropped in to deliver something from Simon to Malcolm but …’ He let the sentence trail away.
‘O-h.’ The newcomer dragged out the vowel, like a politician trying to buy time before answering a tricky question. He let go of Ahumibe’s shoulder and took Stevie’s hand in his. ‘I’m Alexander Buchanan, the chemist in the team. Please accept my condolences. In our profession you have to press on, regardless of personal feelings, but please believe me, everyone is devastated by Simon’s death.’ The chemist’s hands were warm and dry and there was genuine regret in his expression. ‘I’m happy to take responsibility for whatever it was Simon wanted to pass on to Mr Reah.’
Stevie looked at the doors lining the ward. Behind each one were beds bearing small, sick bodies. She returned her gaze to the doctors. Their white coats were clean, but they spoke to her of blood and infection.
‘I’ll pass the package to Simon’s cousin. She’s his executor and a doctor, so she’ll know what to do with it.’
‘Whatever you think best.’ Buchanan took a notebook and a ballpoint pen from the pocket of his white coat and handed them to her. ‘Do you mind leaving me a note of where we can contact you?’ His smile was apologetic. ‘As Simon’s friends and colleagues, we’re keen to pin down the exact cause of his death. At present it all seems a bit vague. I assume you’d like to be alerted to whatever we come up with.’
‘Of course.’
Stevie scribbled down Shop TV’s address and her mobile number, and handed it back to Buchanan.
Nurse Webb said, ‘Follow me,’ and walked towards the exit. Stevie trailed her through the double doors and out into the corridor. The nurse went on, but Stevie paused and looked through the glass doors, back into the ward.
Ahumibe and Buchanan were still standing there, deep in conversation. Beyond them stood the closed doors of the sick children’s rooms. She wondered why the doctors didn’t go to them.
‘It’s this way.’
Nurse Webb’s voice echoed, tired and impatient, along the hallway. Stevie turned and hurried after her.
Twelve
Nurse Webb resembled a small gymnast in her white scrubs and plimsolls, lithe and strong, able to pull more than her own weight. Stevie matched her pace, keeping an arm’s length between them. A glow of resentment surrounded the other woman, like a radiation field it would be unwise to enter.
Two stretcher-laden trolleys, each with a porter at their head, exited a lift at the end of the corridor and trundled towards them. Nurse Webb hurried on, neatly negotiating the procession, but Stevie felt the same panic that sometimes overtook her at the sound of a siren when she was driving through crowded traffic. She stepped to one side, flattening herself against the wall, and let them pass.
A woman of about her age lay motionless beneath a white sheet on the first trolley. The woman’s blonde hair was cut in a neat asymmetrical bob. Her lips were cracked and pale, her eyelids tinged with blue. The woman’s eyebrows were dark. Stevie caught herself noting the detail and thinking that the contrast in colours was too much. She censored the thought almost as it occurred, but she saw a blur of lipstick smeared on the woman’s mouth, mascara crusting her eyelashes, and realised that, earlier that morning, the woman had been well enough to examine her own features in the mirror and apply her make-up. Stevie’s eyes met the porter’s and he looked away.
The second trolley was ferrying a young girl. A sequined clasp pinned her long black hair on the top of the girl’s head; her skin was sallow and sheened with sweat. Her mother and father followed behind, the mother’s pink shalwar kamiz looking festive and out of place in a hospital corridor, her father’s beard and military bearing lending him the air of a Russian tsar. Stevie saw the husband take his wife by the hand, and dropped her gaze, wondering if it was anxiety that had drained the couple’s faces, or if they were wilting beneath the same sickness that had felled their daughter.
She caught up with Nurse Webb at the lift. The other woman looked at her for the first time since they had left the ward and Stevie saw again the tiredness blighting her eyes.
‘Were you really going out with Dr Sharkey?’
‘Yes.’
The l
ift rumbled down the shaft towards them.
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ The nurse’s voice was flat and free of emotion, as if she had learnt the condoling phrase by rote. ‘It must have been a shock.’
Stevie saw again Simon’s face in the mirror, the awkward angle of his head, the line of spittle trailing from his mouth.
‘Yes, it was a shock.’
The lift doors opened, and they were met with the stares of the people cramped inside, whey-faced and packed together as if in an upright tomb. Nurse Webb put an arm on Stevie’s elbow and stepped smartly forward, taking Stevie with her. The lift’s inhabitants squeezed impossibly closer to make room for them. They travelled downwards in a fug of sweat and recycled breath. The lift shed occupants at each floor, like a metaphor for the randomness of death, until Stevie was left alone with Nurse Webb, but it wasn’t until they stepped out into the cool of a deserted basement corridor that the nurse spoke again.
‘Dr Sharkey was a good surgeon. He saved a lot of children’s lives.’
It sounded like an accusation and Stevie wondered if the nurse thought Simon might still be alive if he had found a girlfriend who had known how to take proper care of him. She said, ‘Simon spoke about the hospital a lot, but it was generally funny stories, the human things that happened.’ She smiled at the irony of it. ‘It’s only now that I realise I was never really clear what Simon did. I knew he was a surgeon, I knew he worked with sick kids, but he never talked about the details.’
‘You didn’t know about his cerebral palsy work?’ The hint of accusation was back in the nurse’s voice.
‘No.’
Nurse Webb’s small chin jutted out. She reminded Stevie of the war memorial in her home town: a female Victory, her triumph tempered by the death of so many gallant youths.
‘Dr Sharkey was modest about it, but he was part of a major breakthrough in treating the condition.’
Simon had liked chic restaurants and loud nightclubs that made her ears ring the next morning. He had liked her to bite his shoulders when they made love, and to leave marks so that he could remember it later. He was a member of a carpool with access to a series of sports cars that drew pedestrians’ stares. Simon’s being a surgeon had seemed part of his glamour. He had encouraged her to see him that way, Stevie realised, and she wondered if that was the reason he had kept her separate from his family and friends.
