The Virus Man

by Claire Rayner

‘Accident and Emergency,’ he said briefly. ‘No, don’t argue, Jess. You need to be checked, looked after. That’s it, love. Lean on me … you’re doing fine, absolutely fine.’

  The Accident and Emergency Department was blessedly quiet when they got there, and he took her straight into one of the curtained cubicles and still moving very gently, helped her up on to the couch and pulled the red blanket up over her. She took the edge of it in both hands and hung on, clearly glad of it, for she was shivering a little now, even in the heat of the big room.

  ‘I’ll get someone to see you right away,’ he said, and looked down on her face, pinched and tired against the pillow. He whispered softly, ‘Oh, Jess … I am so sorry …’ and bent and kissed her mouth gently. Her own mouth moved against his and then she turned her head to one side and wouldn’t look at him and he stood for a moment, knowing what she was thinking and hating the man who had made her think that way.

  Once the registrar on duty had gone in to see her he went over to the laboratory, carrying the plastic bag of bottles, to lock them in the small fridge in his own office. It was one he used rarely, because of its small capacity, and it had dwindled into being more domestic than anything else; the department’s tonic water and occasional cans of beer were kept in it, and he knew that apart from Harry Gentle no one else in the laboratory really knew of its existence. And he felt that despite his off-hand air there was something dependable about Harry. He could be trusted – and anyway he wouldn’t be told the stuff was there. He, Ben, would carry it in unobtrusively, put it away quietly, and then he would go back to Accident and Emergency and see what needed to be done for Jessie. All the way back through the car park, past his car and along the corridor he concentrated his thoughts on that small timetable, on what he had to do, telling himself that the most important thing was just to tuck away his Contravert safely so that no meddling physician such as Lyall Davies could get his hands on it, and then to make sure that Jess was all right – anything rather than think about what had happened to her. Because if he did he knew his rage would slide out of his control, and if that happened – and again he refused to think about anything except the here and now, and what he had to do.

  Harry didn’t look up from his microscope as he came in and said casually, ‘Find her?’

  ‘Mm?’ Ben managed to sound relaxed and off-hand. ‘Oh, yes. She’d just got back.’ He was holding the bag in his right hand, shielding it with his body, and he walked over to his office door in the same deliberate off-hand manner, praying that Harry wouldn’t look up, and he didn’t, but went on working.

  ‘Errol’s gone to lunch, and Annie too. She should be back soon. I told her to get salad sandwiches for Jessie. That’s her usual, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mm? Oh, yes … I’m sure that’ll be fine.’

  ‘I gave her the money.’ Now Harry did look up but Ben was in his office by now. ‘You owe me ….’

  ‘Fine,’ Ben called as he tucked his precious burden into the fridge and locked it and then sat back on his heels. ‘I’ll give it to you now.’

  Why was it so important that he hide the Contravert? he found himself thinking, as he remained there staring at the blank white door and the big padlock that fastened it. What the hell does it matter anyway? Why not just give it to the bastards, let them get on with it, leave me in peace? If I’d never started on this bloody work, none of this would have happened. Jess wouldn’t have ….

  But that was stupid thinking. The war between Jessie and her husband had nothing to do with his work on Contravert, had it? How could he blame it for that? And yet he did, feeling that somewhere, if only he could perceive it, there was a pattern that consisted of his research and his job here and June and Timmy as well as Jessie and Peter. The whole was interlocked in some way, with the Contravert itself the pivot on which they all turned: it was because he needed help with it that he’d advertised for an extra staff member, and so pulled Jessie into the pattern, and it was because of his research that Jessie’s husband had become so … he scrambled to his feet, refusing to think further along that path. There were things to do – things to do, and the next was to go back to Accident and Emergency, see how Jess was, assess the damage to her, take care of her ….

  He went outside to find that Annie had come back and was unpacking sandwiches under Harry’s critical eye. ‘All the ham was gone and so was the salad, so it’s corned beef all round,’ she announced. ‘There’s the change from the fiver ….’ And she dropped a handful of silver and copper on the bench.

  ‘Corned bloody beef and soggy white bread,’ Harry said disgustedly. ‘Call this a health palace, and I don’t think, the garbage they feed you … where are you going, Ben?’

  ‘Over to the hospital. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘You owe me!’ Harry bawled but it was too late; Ben had gone and Harry lifted his brows in resignation and started on his sandwich.

  In the Accident and Emergency Department the Registrar was waiting for him, and as soon as he appeared told him that Jessie had been admitted to the side ward on the main gynaecological ward to recover.

  ‘No more than a lot of bruises,’ he said. ‘Her thighs and the vulva – the bastard must have been an ox. It doesn’t bear thinking of. But she says she won’t talk to the police, though I tried to persuade her. Won’t say a word about what happened, so we can’t do a thing. I do all I can to get these cases properly reported and dealt with, but if the women won’t talk – can you persuade her?’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Ben said, and his voice was flat, with no expression in it at all. ‘I know who did it. And I’ll deal with him.’

  ‘Hey, now, look, that’s not on!’ the Registrar said anxiously. ‘You can’t go coming the vigilante, Pitman, really you can’t!’

  ‘Can’t I?’ Ben said. ‘Well, if you say so. When will she be fit to leave the ward, do you think?’

  ‘Tomorrow, really, if there’s someone to take care of her. The bruises’ll take a few days to subside, even a week or two, but there’s no structural damage otherwise. But she’s shocked and she shouldn’t be left alone.’

  ‘Can you arrange to keep her here longer? You’re senior on the gynae firm, aren’t you? Control the beds?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. Why?’

  ‘Keep her here for a week, then. As long as you can. She’s been overworking lately anyway, and … she needs a rest. Can you fix that? She hasn’t a home to go to, really, you see. She … she left her husband and ….’

  ‘Is that who did this to her, then?’ The Registrar was looking at him with bright birdlike eyes, and Ben looked away from the glitter of interest in them. In spite of the man’s clearly real concern for his patient, in spite of his anger at what had been done to her, still there was a salaciousness in that gaze that was inescapable; he was excited by what he had found out and Ben felt his carefully controlled anger shift inside him, move towards this man at his side.

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ he snapped and the Registrar reared back slightly and his face hardened.

  ‘Anything that affects a patient in my care is my business,’ he snapped back. ‘If I believe a crime has been committed it’s up to me to decide whether I notify the police or not. I think this woman was abused and I want to do something about it. She’s hospital staff. She’s entitled to better from us than shrugged shoulders.’

  ‘I know that – and that’s why I’m asking for a week’s care and protection here for her. But that’s all. I’ll deal with the rest of it. She’s one of my staff, remember. I can take care of things very well on my own.’

  ‘Like I said – vigilante stuff isn’t on. If I thought that you were going to ….’

  ‘Well?’

  There was a sharp little silence between them and then the other’s gaze shifted, and he turned away. ‘All right then. I’ll arrange for her to stay in the ward for a while longer. It won’t do her any harm and our waiting lists aren’t too bad, considering. Mind you, if we get any urgent stuff pushing
in – cone biopsies or difficult abortions – we may need the bed. You understand that.’

  ‘I understand and … thanks, old man. Sorry if I sounded … well, I was upset. It’s a nasty thing to happen to … to one of your staff.’

  ‘Very nasty. No need to apologize. I’ll tell her you’ll be in to see her then?’

  ‘Yes. Later today. I’ve a few things to sort out first.’ And he turned and went and the Registrar watched him disappear in the direction of the car park and after a moment went back to his cubbyhole of an office and picked up the phone. He was as angry as any doctor would be at the sight of a beaten raped woman – it was sickening to see the sort of injuries that had been inflicted – but all the same, as a responsible citizen he couldn’t let Ben go and take the law into his own hands; apart from any risk to the man he was seeking, what about the risk to himself? Pitman could be letting himself in for more than he bargained for; after all, this woman’s husband was clearly a very violent person. And he sat and waited for the police to answer their telephone, rehearsing in his mind all that he would tell them, and feeling rather excited at the posture in which he found himself, as one who dealt not only in sickness and in health but in law and order. It was an interesting way to feel.

  32

  There was no one at the house in Purbeck Avenue. It wasn’t just that no one answered his repeated rings on the doorbell; it was the silent emptiness of the place that proved it, an emptiness the house seemed to exude, and after a while he turned and went back down the path to his car. It would have to be where the man worked, then, and he took from his pocket the sheet of details he had collected from his office file on the path. lab staff, and peered at it in the already darkened afternoon. She’d entered her husband as her next of kin, and had given his working address and phone number, and he nodded with a sort of satisfaction at that, and turned the ignition key. Soon … I’ll be there soon, and then he’ll know how I feel, what Jessie feels, what it feels like to be the attacked rather than the attacker.

  He felt better than he had for a very long time; it was quite extraordinary, he thought as he drove the car smoothly through the dwindling afternoon towards the town centre. There was none of the weariness that lack of sleep had induced in him all morning, none of the sense of heavy depression that he seemed to have been carrying around with him for so long; just a sense of resilient muscular power, of strength and general wellbeing. He was on his way to a confrontation that would be, at the very least, a very disagreeable one, yet he felt like a kid on his way to a tennis tournament he knew he was going to win. Extraordinary!

  He parked without any problems – another ingredient to add to the mix of good feelings which were getting stronger by the moment – and ran up the steps into the Civic Centre with all the energy of a teenager, and would willingly have walked up the seven flights of stairs the man on the reception desk told him lay between him and his quarry if there hadn’t been a lift ready and waiting for him; and he stood in it staring at the floor number panel above his head winking and changing as it purred upwards thinking – quarry, yes, that’s what he is. He’s my quarry and I’m hunting him. My God, but I feel good about this!

  Big double doors, an expanse of carpeted floor, a wide desk heavily cluttered with pot plants, and behind it a narrow-faced woman who stared at him woodenly as he came towards her.

  ‘Peter Hurst,’ he said firmly, ‘I have to see him urgently.’

  ‘Have you an appointment?’

  ‘I told you, it’s urgent. I … I’ve come from the hospital. It’s about his wife.’

  The woman’s face lost its wooden expression, took on a look of deep concern mixed with excitement, showing a relish for bad news that set his teeth on edge.

  ‘Oh, she’s not ill, is she? There, I knew there was something up. He came in late, and he never does that, and he looks dreadful. I’ll tell him you’re here, then …’ And she reached for the telephone.

  ‘No,’ Ben said swiftly. ‘No, better not. You know how it is … he’ll need … better I just go and talk to him quietly. You know? Which is his room?’

  The woman pointed down the corridor. ‘Third door on the right. Oh, dear, I am sorry. Will … er … will she be all right? Was it an accident or something?’

  Ben nodded at her affably and said nothing, just unbuttoning his raincoat as he went purposefully along the corridor. It was warm in here, and anyway he didn’t want to be trammelled by his clothes. He took the coat off as he reached the door the woman had indicated and dropped it on the floor beside it, and then moving with sure direct actions, opened the door and walked in.

  Peter Hurst was standing at the window with his back to the room staring out into the street. Because of the bright lighting in the room the sky looked darker than it should at this hour; almost indigo, with gleams of light from the street lamps far below reflecting and winking on the tilted fanlight which was open at the top. He didn’t turn as the door opened, but he lifted his head and said in a voice that was clearly meant to be loud and authoritative but which sounded only husky, ‘I won’t be needing anything more tonight, Miss Price. You can go now if you like – I’ll sign your time sheet for the full day.’

  Ben said nothing, just stood there waiting, and after a moment Hurst turned round and looked at him. He was a stocky man, square-faced but with a layer of softness blurring his jawline and making him look like a wax doll that had been left out in the sun too long. It wasn’t only his jawline that had that melted look – so did his pouched eyes and his drooping mouth and his ponderous cheeks – but down one of those cheeks there were three red swollen welts, and Ben thought with satisfaction – good girl. She managed to do some harm of her own then.

  ‘Who are you?’ Hurst said, and moved towards his desk to reach for his telephone. ‘I see no one without appointments, and ….’

  Ben moved faster than he did and jerked the phone away from Hurst’s reaching hand, and he whitened at that action, looking down at the phone and then at Ben’s face; and what he saw there seemed to frighten him, for he began to bluster and shout.

  ‘Who the hell are you coming in here unasked, interfering with … who the bloody hell do you ….?’

  ‘I’m Jessie’s boss. Yes, that’s what I am. Jessie’s boss,’ Ben said and came round the desk towards Hurst, who began to back away from him. ‘It’s high time we met.’

  ‘I see no reason why … I really have nothing to say to you, or you to me,’ Hurst said in a high voice, and tried to straighten his shoulders, to put on an air of being in control of the situation, and for one brief moment Ben was able to pity him. The man was obviously terrified and yet he was trying to show courage – it was almost admirable.

  ‘I’ve nothing to say to you either,’ Ben said, and reached forwards and took his shirt and jacket in a tight grip. ‘Nothing to say, lots to do ….’

  The absurd thing was that Ben had never been a physical sort of man, had never expressed his anger in any way other than verbally. As a schoolboy, at university, at medical school, he had never been one of those who joined in a fist fight with whoops of delight like some of the other men around him. He’d always dismissed people who did that with contempt – in the same way that he dismissed people who took pleasure in violent body-contact sports – regarding them as mindless lumps of muscle and little more, but now he knew for the first time what it was that fired such people. The way his knuckles stung and then burned as they made contact with Hurst’s face, squeezing that pudgy flesh against the cheekbones beneath; the pleasure he got from the way the man’s neck snapped backwards, the satisfaction of hearing the grunting, weeping, gasping noises he was producing as Ben thumped him and then thumped him again, using both fists in sequence; the way he crumpled at his feet, now weeping in good earnest and trying to hold off Ben’s flailing fists with both arms held protectively over his head – it was, Ben found, exciting and exhilarating, almost sexually arousing, and he wanted to shout and jump and scream that excitement the way he ha
d seen spectators do at boxing matches and rugger games. But he had no breath to do that, needed ail the energy he had to go on hitting the pulpy creature who was now crouching at his feet and keening rhythmically.

  He heard the door open behind him but paid no attention at all. He had now pulled Hurst to his feet again and had him pinned against the desk with one knee held in his crotch while he pummelled his belly, though the blows were slowing down now as the muscles across his shoulders began to protest and his own breathlessness made him gasp. The scurry of footsteps across the room meant nothing to him until he felt hands grabbing at his shoulders and pulling on them; and though he tried to go on hitting Hurst, the grip of the interloper was too much for his exhausted muscles to resist, and he stopped hitting and straightened his back and his leg and let go of Hurst, who slid down the desk to sit on the floor, still wailing loudly.

  ‘What’s going on here, for Christ’s sake?’ The voice came from the door and Ben turned his head, trying to see who was holding him behind, but couldn’t, and looked back to the door instead, blinking through the sweat that was now running into his eyes, trying to see how many people there were to deal with.

  ‘He said he came from the hospital … said Mr Hurst’s wife was ill or something …’ the voice behind him cried shrilly. ‘So I let him in … the police are on their way … called them as soon as I heard what was happening ….’

  ‘Good for you, Miss Price!’ The man at the door came in, carefully, watching Ben at every step he took, but Ben was now standing still, concentrating on his breathing, his shoulders as lax as Miss Price’s grip would allow them to be, and his head drooping forwards. ‘I always said you had more guts than any man in the place … well, really, poor old Hurst … beaten up in his own office! Whatever next?’

  He crouched beside Hurst, who was still sitting on the floor and moaning, and shook his head. ‘You poor old fella, Peter! Nasty, very nasty you look. Can you get up? Come on, old chap … on your pins … that’s the way ….’ Ben turned his head and looked blearily at the man whose head now appeared over the edge of the desk as the other lifted him to his feet.