‘Oh, Jess, I’m sorry!’ He came back to the bed to sit on it and took hold of her hands. ‘I’ve been as selfish a bastard as a man can be, thinking only of my own affairs and ….’
‘Oh, rubbish,’ she said, making her voice as matter of fact as she could. ‘There’s nothing much to talk about. I’ve decided, and that’s a comfort. It’s all a mess, of course it is, but knowing what you want, being certain of it, that helps a lot. I’ve talked to a solicitor, got him to come here to see me, to get it all in hand as fast as I can. I heard from him this morning – he says Peter’s being very amenable. Not arguing at all, not defending. We’re going to court and asking for divorce on the grounds of cruelty, and he’s not defending.’
She lifted her head and looked at Ben almost appealingly. ‘So you see, he isn’t all bad. He could have put me through hell, if he’d decided to defend. I think he’s sorry for what he did, and that’s why he’s behaving this way.’
‘You’ll never convince me.’
‘And on the financial side, too – he’s agreed to everything my solicitor’s asked for, and wasted no time about it. He’s willing to sell the house in Purbeck Avenue, and I’m entitled to half the proceeds of that and also of half our savings and insurances and so forth – my solicitor says he’s falling over backwards to behave well.’
‘After all he did to you, how can you expect anything else? If he tried to refuse, you could throw the book at him, and he knows that.’
‘And he knows I wouldn’t,’ she said in a level tone. ‘I’m not vindictive, Ben. I just want it all settled as peaceably as possible, and he’s being … co-operative. Don’t try to make me feel bad by denying that.’
‘Make you feel … my dear, as if I care about anything but helping you to feel good. I don’t give a damn for Peter or his feelings ….’
‘I do. So no more, please. Just be glad for me that it’s all going to be as painless as possible. My solicitor’s making special efforts to get things sorted out fast.’ She grinned then, a little crookedly, ‘I’ll be quite well off, you know. Not rich, but able to think about what I want to do. I can buy a flat, get a car of my own, all that sort of thing. I’ve never really owned anything before. It’ll feel rather odd.’
‘You’ve owned it all this past twenty years, really. Half of the house, I mean and ….’
She made a face at that. ‘I know I did, technically. But this is really. I’ll decide what to spend and how to spend, on my own. It’ll be … odd,’ and her eyes were bright as she looked at him. ‘Do I sound mercenary? I don’t care if I do. It’s freedom, you see, money. It’s not anything else at all, not status or pleasure or … it’s just freedom.’
‘Yes. Freedom,’ he echoed, and lifted his chin to stare at the bright square of the windows again. ‘It’s freedom to work, too, isn’t it? To do the work you want to do? Oh, Jess, what shall I do? I wish I could make up my mind!’
The ambulance, for all its shrieking siren, seemed to go as slowly as a horse and cart, and she sat on the edge of the bunk beside Timmy, holding his hands in both of hers, and urging the vehicle forwards with every scrap of strength she had. Her belly felt as tight and knotted as an old tree trunk, and her legs trembled with the tension in them, and the uniformed ambulance man sitting on the other side of the swaying little box said sympathetically, ‘We’ll be there soon, missus, don’t you fret, now; soon be there. You relax, love. You can’t do the little chap no good getting so agitated, can you? You relax now.’
And she tried to, tried very hard, but it was impossible. Every time the ambulance slowed down to take a corner she wanted to shriek at the driver, wanted to rush and take over the wheel herself, to make the great lumbering thing go faster, faster, get there sooner ….
‘Mind you, they mightn’t take us at Minster Hospital, you do understand that?’ He said it as though he hadn’t already told her twice. ‘They might say this is one for Doxford –communicable diseases, you see, they prefer to keep ’em all in one unit ….’
‘You tell them my husband’s Dr Pitman,’ she said. ‘I told you, he’s the pathologist there and they can’t refuse us, they can’t. You tell them. We’ve got to be there.’ But she didn’t tell him why, didn’t say anything about the small bottle that was in her handbag, wrapped up in a clean tea towel. As soon as she got Timmy there, as soon as she could talk to Dr Lyall Davies, then it would be all right. But they had to get there, and again she leaned forwards on the edge of the bunk as the ambulance slowed down to take a corner, urging it forwards. But this time it was turning into the hospital grounds and for the first time she began to allow herself to hope that she could, after all, make it all work out right.
35
‘Is it the epidemic he’s got?’ June said, standing very straight beside Timmy’s bed, her hands just touching his shoulder. She needed to be in contact with him all the time; as long as she could feel him there under her fingertips she could stay in control of the situation and of herself, she could stop herself from screaming her terror aloud. ‘Couldn’t it be something else?’
‘It’s the same infection all right,’ Lyall Davies said, and there was a sort of satisfaction in his voice, the sound of a man who knew he was right in all things. ‘The bulbar involvement, the muscular weakness, the lot – comatose too, you see? Yes ….’ And he leaned down and pinched Timmy’s finger hard and the child didn’t respond, just lying there with his eyes half-closed and his breathing painful and laboured.
‘What’s going to happen?’ June said it loudly, needing to hear her own voice. ‘What treatment will he have?’
‘There’s nothing I can do, my dear.’ Lyall Davies looked at Sister standing beside June and lifted his eyebrows, signalling his opinion of her as a stupid woman as clearly as if he’d shouted it aloud. ‘I must explain that this dreadful infection involves a virus we just can’t control. Far be it from me to point out that it was started by the research your husband does, but there it is, it can’t be denied ….’
‘And what about the Contra … the stuff he’s been working on? That made that girl better, didn’t it? That’s why there’s been all this fuss in the papers and on the television.’
‘Yes, it made Andrea better. She’s in excellent health, excellent,’ Lyall Davies said, almost preening. ‘I knew she would be and so could all the others, as I’ve told everyone who’ll listen to me, but the one person who won’t listen is your husband.’ He shook his head ponderously and bent again over Timmy, prodding him with the bell of his stethoscope but patently not listening to any sounds that came through it.
‘It would be as effective for this child, too, but what can we do? Your husband won’t let us have any ….’
He straightened and then nodded at Sister and said, ‘You go ahead, Sister, and see about making the respirator available for this child, will you? We may need it – I’ll stay here with Mrs Pitman ….’ Sister nodded and went rustling away and Lyall Davies came round the bed to set his arm heavily across June’s shoulders. She didn’t move but stood there, staring down at Timmy’s flushed face, her own expression wooden.
‘Now tell me, my dear, how much influence do you have on your husband? He’s a very estimable man in many ways of course, but stubborn – I dare say I don’t have to tell you that, eh? Yes, stubborn. But it occurs to me that now his own child is affected he may be more reasonable?’
‘Timmy’s my nephew. Not Ben’s child. My nephew,’ she said dully.
‘Well, yes, m’dear, I quite understand that, but clearly a much beloved member of the family, hmm? Mother away, you in charge – surely your husband will bend a little under these circumstances? If we can persuade him to use the stuff on Timmy, you see, it could not only help Timmy – it could help all those other little children who are afflicted. There are hundreds now, literally hundreds. Some more might die – and if you can prevent that by appealing to your husband to let us use his stuff on Timmy and so prove to him it’s safe for others, why ….’
‘I
don’t have to ask him,’ June said, still not taking her eyes from Timmy’s face.
‘You … how do you mean?’ Lyall Davies seemed to sharpen and his voice lost its avuncular tone, became louder and more peremptory. ‘Have you already discussed this with him?’
‘I haven’t seen him for well over a week,’ she said, and now she turned to look at him. ‘He doesn’t even know Timmy’s ill. I didn’t waste time trying to call him.’
‘Then perhaps we should call him now? I can send a message down to the laboratory, get him up here at once ….’
‘No!’ She said it sharply. ‘I don’t want him to know we’re here.’
‘Oh!’ Lyall Davies peered at her in the shaded light of the small screened bed. ‘Well, private affairs, I suppose, private affairs, none of my business. But what did you mean that you don’t have to ask him about his stuff?’
‘I’ve got some,’ June said, and turned again to look down at Timmy’s face. ‘In a bottle.’
‘You’ve … my dear girl! How did you manage that? I understood he had it all under lock and key, damned near an armed guard ….’
‘He took it home. Put it in the fridge in the kitchen.’ June spoke in the same dull voice. ‘I found it there, so I took some. Put it in a bottle I had.’
Now she looked at him again. ‘I boiled the bottle of course, did my best to make sure it was properly clean and all that. I thought – if Timmy gets ill, I’ll just use it and then he’ll be all right and Ben won’t know and ….’
Slowly her eyes filled with tears and she looked at Lyall Davies appealingly, like a terrified child.
‘But then Timmy did get ill and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how much to give him or anything and then I heard all the time about Ben saying it was dangerous, it could have side-effects and I just didn’t know what to do, and then today, when he got so much worse, I thought … to bring him here, to the hospital, try to see you, because you don’t say it’s dangerous, do you? You’ll know how to use it, I thought, and now … now I just don’t know what to do. I’ve got it, and Timmy’s got to get well … but if it’s dangerous … oh, what shall I do? If I give it to you and you use it and it hurts Timmy in some way I’ll … and if I don’t and he doesn’t get better … oh, what shall I do? I don’t know what to do ….’ She wailed the words, and began to rock herself from side to side, keening like a child, still never letting go of Timmy’s hand where it lay lax on the sheets.
‘Where is it?’ Lyall Davies said, and looked around the room as though it would jump out at him. ‘Let me have it.’
‘But suppose Ben’s right and it’s dangerous and could hurt Timmy? Then what? I couldn’t bear it if I did anything to hurt Timmy … and I couldn’t bear it if I had the stuff and he needed it and I didn’t use it …. It seemed so easy when I took it, it made me feel everything was going to be all right because I had it, and after Ben sent and took the stuff away again I thought … I took it just in time, I took it and hid it just in time, and I was so pleased with myself …. It seemed so easy then, before Timmy got ill. But now … now I don’t know what to do ….’
She was still touching Timmy’s hand, but the other one moved about as though she were trying to wring both hands together, giving her a curiously wild appearance, and Lyall Davies looked at her with an irritated expression on his face and said sharply, ‘Now, my dear, don’t you worry your head over such things. The important thing is you’ve got some, and it will help this child. Now, where is it? Give it to me at once and we’ll start his treatment.’
Still June stood there, moving her left hand about aimlessly and saying nothing and Lyall Davies said loudly, ‘Well, it’s up to you, I suppose. He’ll die without it, that much is certain. Here I have a treatment that could save a patient’s life and you’re withholding it. I can’t force you, of course ….’
June’s hand stopped moving and she stared at him with her eyes very wide, and then she said breathlessly, as though she had to rush to get the words out before someone stopped her. ‘It’s in my bag. Over there, under my coat, in the corner, in my bag. It’s wrapped in a tea towel to stop it getting broken. It’s a clean tea towel, it was boiled so it’s absolutely clean, and I thought it was the best thing to do, to be on the safe side ….’
But he was paying her no attention, scrabbling in her bag, spilling the contents everywhere and then straightening up with his face plump with satisfaction.
‘Sister!’ he bawled at the top of his voice so that June jumped, and then he pushed the screen aside and shouted again. ‘Sister!’ There was a rush of footsteps as Sister came and shot behind the screens, almost pushing Lyall Davies aside, going straight to the bedside.
‘I’ve got the respirator ready – Staff Nurse is just bringing it ….’ And then she bent closer and stared at Timmy. ‘He’s still breathing the way he was,’ she said accusingly, and looked at Lyall Davies.
‘Of course he is!’ He sounded jovial and beamed at her with great good humour. ‘No one said he wasn’t. I need syringes, Sister, packs of new syringes and a treatment chart. We’ll put him on the same regime as used for the Barnett child and we’ll get the same result, you see if we don’t! And I tell you what else I want. I want you to send one of your nurses down to the main lobby and bring up a couple of the journalists down there. Tell ’em I’ll see the man from The Times and one other – not the cheap ones, of course, perhaps the Daily Telegraph – yes, they’re the ones, The Times and the Daily Telegraph, and they can have photographs too. You won’t object, will you, Mrs Pitman, my dear? It’s important news, you see, and I know these journalist fellas, they always insist on photographs too. If they don’t have them, you don’t get much of a showing, and this little chap deserves all the showing he can get. He’s going to get better! Now, chop chop, Sister! No time to waste ….’
He was glowing with satisfaction and excitement and June looked at him and then down at Timmy and tried to think about what she’d done, about whether it was right to have done it, whether there was still time to stop him and whether it would be right to stop him; and again her thoughts began to scurry round in her head, over and over again, each thought coming in the precise words and in the same precise order; if he has the stuff it could hurt him, if he doesn’t he mightn’t get well, what shall I do? And dizziness filled her and she swayed slightly and the staff nurse who had just arrived, pushing the respirator before her, saw her and left the machine at the foot of the bed to hurry to her side and set a hard hand under her elbow.
‘You’d better come outside and sit down, dear,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re not feeling well, are you, and we’re busy – I’ve got a lot to do and ….’
‘No!’ June cried shrilly. If there was one thing she was sure of it was the importance of not leaving Timmy, of being always literally in touch with him. ‘If you make me go I’ll fetch Ben and tell him what I’ve done and ….’
‘Let her stay,’ Lyall Davies said at once. ‘Get her a chair, let her stay. But not a word more, my dear. We’ve got a lot of work to do ….’
It didn’t seem possible. There he lay, his eyes properly closed now, and, it seemed, sleeping normally. Her hand was still clamped over his and for a mad moment she considered pinching him hard, the way Dr Lyall Davies had done, to see if that would make him move and prove he was no longer unconscious, but she couldn’t do that. She who had never done anything to hurt him, who would do anything to make him well, to deliberately inflict hurt? It couldn’t be considered, and she whimpered deep in her throat as once again all her fears and doubts about what she had done rose in her, and then she looked swiftly at the nurse sitting on the other side of the bed.
She had been left there to special Timmy – to check his pulse every half hour and to take his blood pressure – but most of the time she dozed, comfortable in the knowledge that June was there and would wake her if she was needed, and now she sat with her head drooping on her chest, her arms folded across her starched apron front, and didn’t s
tir at the sound.
June looked back again at Timmy and then at her watch on the bedside locker, beside the covered dish where the syringe, already filled with the next injection, sat waiting. Her heart thudded against her chest wall as she saw it. Almost quarter to. At three a.m., in another fifteen minutes, the nurse would have to be woken to give him the next injection, to push the needle into the tube that dangled from the bottle above Timmy’s head, dripping its contents steadily into the vein in his arm, and then to push the plunger home and send the Contravert into that small body to fight the infection that had invaded it – June sat and stared at the covered dish, imagining the syringe lying skulking there, seeing the needle glittering on the end, seeing the straw-coloured fluid in it, trying to see equally clearly how it would behave in Timmy’s body. Would it travel gently through his veins and arteries, kill the germs that so threatened him? Or would it seep wickedly where it shouldn’t, damage those small arms and legs, that round soft belly, the firm little buttocks and the curving nape of his neck that always made her chest tighten when she looked at it – she shook her head, tried to look away from the dish and back at Timmy, but she couldn’t, and for the first time lifted her hand from his, and moved it away.
It wasn’t that she had actually thought about what she would do; it was almost as though someone else was doing it as very gently she lifted the cover from the dish and set it down softly on the locker top. The syringe lay there exposed, and still moving steadily she dipped her fingers into the dish and, using just her thumb and forefinger, very delicately picked it up.
The syringe lay in her palm, and she looked down at it and then, still with that same steady movement that seemed to be powered by some other brain, not hers, and governed by some other thoughts and certainly not hers, she took it up with her other hand and, moving easily and without hesitation, drew her skirt up above her knees to reveal her thighs. She watched her own hands moving just as she had watched the nurse’s hands when she had given the last injections to other people; pinching up the flesh, setting the needle against the bulge, pushing it easily inwards. It hurt, a sharp pain that she liked, almost gloried in, and still with that same steady movement she pushed the plunger home and the sharp pain became a deep dull ache that spread across her legs and made her eyes fill with involuntary tears, but still she moved steadily, pushing on the plunger with her thumb until the piston met the end of the barrel, and then withdrawing the needle.
The Virus Man Page 35
