by Ken McClure
Laarsen was clearly upset and guilty about his error over the cable’s security. Jordan felt bad about being ultimately responsible for the whole mishap. The digger driver felt guilty about his handling of the controls, and everyone else felt bad by association. There was a general surge of relief when the ambulance arrived and removed the accusing presence of the injured man.
The casket was secured to the digger’s shovel and transported slowly over the ground at a height of only a few inches to the mobile lab, where it was manhandled with some difficulty into the facility. Steven decided not to involve himself in the opening of the casket and removal of the body. Instead, he used the time to walk up and down outside, calming himself and once again running through in his mind what he was going to do.
‘All yours,’ said Laarsen, emerging from the lab. ‘We’ve put her on the table but we didn’t take her out of the bag. Maybe you won’t want to do that, either?’
‘Maybe not,’ agreed Steven. There was no need to have the corpse totally exposed as if for full post-mortem examination. Exposing the chest area should be sufficient, and the less handling of a filovirus-infected body the better. Steven did up the seals on his suit and lowered his hood and visor. Laarsen himself checked him over thoroughly, giving his approval with a tap on the shoulder.
Steven entered the lab through the plastic-walled airlock and sealed himself inside. He was suddenly very aware of the silence. The digger’s engine had stopped and even the generator for the lights could not be heard in the inner compartment. Mary Xavier’s body lay in its sealed bag on the examination table.
Steven removed the seal over the zip and started to undo it. It stuck after the first inch and refused to budge. He cursed as he struggled with it, thinking that this might have been an ill-fated venture from the outset. He recognised the danger of such a negative train of thought and took a moment to compose himself before looking around for some mechanical assistance. He found a pair of Spencer Wells forceps and slipped them through the loop on the zip so that he could apply strong downward pressure with both hands. He managed to move the zip down a few more inches but it was a struggle; and so it continued until it was at last fully open. Inside his helmet his breathing sounded as though he was running a marathon.
Steven checked his gloves and cuffs yet again, making sure no cuts had arisen during the struggle with the zip, then donned the chain-mail gauntlet before opening the bag to expose the body. The weather had been cold so decomposition was minimal but the blue/grey skin was distended around the chest area, which started alarm bells ringing in his head. It was almost certainly due to an accumulation of body gases which had failed to dissipate. They would escape when he made the first incision, bringing with them a cloud of filovirus particles.
‘Shit,’ he murmured, wondering what to do. He could feel the pulse beating in his temples as he sought inspiration. He removed the chain-mail gauntlet and looked through the equipment cupboards. What he found there sparked off an idea of how to divert the gases. He rigged up a two-way plastic syringe to a length of clear plastic tubing, one end of which he immersed in a beaker full of Virkon disinfectant. He fitted a large-bore needle to the barrel of the syringe and checked all the joints. The plan was to insert the needle into Mary Xavier’s chest cavity and release the gas. It would flow through the tubing into the disinfectant, which would kill the virus but allow the gas to bubble to the surface.
There was a moment when Steven experienced for the first time in his life what he thought afterwards must have been stage fright. He found himself unable to do anything but stand there motionless for a few moments. He was imagining what would happen if the condition of Sister Mary’s skin turned out to be so bad that the needle had the same effect as on an inflated balloon.
The seconds passed until, calling on every reserve of courage he could muster, he pushed the needle into the grey skin. To his enormous relief, the puncture site held its integrity and the disinfectant in the beaker started to bubble violently as the escaping gas passed through it. For an awful moment he thought the beaker might up-end and spill over, allowing the gas to escape directly into the atmosphere, but, as he stared at the shuddering beaker, the flow lessened and eventually the bubbles stopped coming.
He removed the needle, put the chain-mail gauntlet back on and selected a suitable knife for the first incision. He murmured an apology to Sister Mary as he opened her up, and got on with the business of removing her heart without further incident. When he had dissected out the mitral valve and it was safely stored in the high-security container, he sewed up the chest incision with large stitches and sluiced disinfectant liberally over the area before re-zipping the bag. He had just as much trouble with the zip as before and was sweating with the effort before the seal was complete and he could wipe down the outside of the bag with yet more disinfectant. He placed all the instruments and equipment he had used in steel security containers for autoclave sterilisation later, and proceeded to sluice down the entire lab.
One of Laarsen’s men was waiting for him when he emerged from the lab, and he stood still while the man sprayed his suit with disinfectant. When he’d finished, Steven removed his hood and visor and took deep breaths of the night air. It didn’t matter that it was cold and damp. It tasted oh so sweet.
‘How did it go?’ asked Laarsen.
‘I got it,’ said Steven.
‘Can we put her back?’ asked Jordon.
Steven nodded and gave a simple, ‘Yes.’ He didn’t feel communicative. He was no longer running on adrenalin and all he could think about was writing to Jenny. He wanted to tell her that he was thinking about her and that he hoped she would have a lovely Christmas.
NINETEEN
It was four in the morning when Steven got back to Manchester, but he sat down and wrote to his daughter straight away, telling her how much he missed her and how sorry he was that he couldn’t be there on Christmas Day. He would, however, phone her and was looking forward to hearing all her news about what Santa had brought her and the other two children. When his job was finished, he promised, he would spend lots more time with her and, come the summer, they would do lots of lovely things together. With Robin and Mary, they would build the biggest sandcastle anyone had ever seen on their favourite beach at Sandyhills and surround it with a moat that they could all paddle in.
His eyelids were becoming increasingly heavy but he forced himself to stay awake long enough to check for messages from Sci-Med on his laptop. There was one, saying that two new wildcard cases had been reported, one in Preston and the other in Exeter. Both names were on Greg Allan’s list and the authorities had been well prepared. John Macmillan sent his congratulations. Files on the two new patients were appended. Steven did not bother opening them. He just lay down, closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign that he’d hung on the door did its job and he slept straight through until eleven-thirty next morning. He felt better than he had done for many days and lay still for a while, thinking about Sci-Med’s last message and, in particular, John Macmillan’s congratulations. He had been keeping so busy — mainly to blot out things that he couldn’t afford to dwell on — that he had not been giving himself credit for having done the most important thing in any outbreak: identifying the source. He might not yet understand why the people on Allan’s list were the source, but that was academic when viewed against the fact that the outbreak was now under control. Wildcards were no longer wildcards. The authorities knew exactly who these people were and where they lived, and would be prepared and ready for new cases of the disease, which would be isolated before they infected anyone else. Steven got up and had a leisurely shower before dressing and starting to think about food. He was going to have a day off, he decided: he deserved it.
He didn’t want to take breakfast or lunch in the hotel, so he decided to walk for a while and eat where the fancy took him. The sky was clear and blue and, although the temperature was close to freezing, it was
perfect weather for walking. He walked for close on an hour before deciding to have lunch in a pub which looked as if it might have a bit of character. Before going in he bought himself a newspaper to read while he waited for his meal.
He found, as he sipped a pint of Guinness, that the newspaper seemed to share his good mood. The number of new cases in the Manchester area had been dropping over the past few days and, although the public were urged to remain vigilant, there was a cautious hope that the worst was over. Health boards in other areas had been very successful in isolating new cases where and when they occurred, and a government statement had announced that the source of the outbreak had been identified and steps taken to eliminate it, although no details had been released. Steven smiled at the last bit.
His meal arrived and he remarked to the waitress that the place was very quiet; he was the only one having lunch, although two old regulars by the look of them were seated on stools at the bar.
‘Been like this for weeks,’ she said. ‘Worst Christmas season we’ve ever had.’
Steven nodded sympathetically. ‘Looks like it’s over, though,’ he said, gesturing to the newspaper.
‘About bloody time. If it hadn’t been for that stupid bitch of a doctor letting all those kids from the disco roam around all over the place at the beginning, this would all have been over ages ago. I mean, I ask you…’
Steven felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. Thankfully, his momentary surge of anger was almost instantly overwhelmed by a realisation that, whatever he said, this woman and countless other people would go on believing that the Manchester outbreak had been caused by Caroline’s mistake. This was what Spicer had done to her, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. His only comfort lay in the knowledge that Spicer himself would be going to prison for a long time. He wished him a particularly unpleasant time. In the meantime, his good mood had evaporated and taken his appetite with it. He put a ten-pound note under his untouched plate and left.
It took another couple of hours of aimless walking for Steven to calm down and realise that he was by now very hungry. He wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice when it came to eating-places in the area, but he came across a small teashop, where he made do with toast and cheese and no conversation.
Steven spoke to Macmillan in the early evening and was informed that Mary Xavier’s mitral valve had reached Porton safely. Work had already begun on analysing it, but he shouldn’t expect quick results. The material would have to be handled under category BL4 conditions, and safe meant slow.
‘Why don’t you take a couple of days off?’ suggested Macmillan. ‘We’ll call you on your mobile if anything breaks. Go up to Scotland and see your daughter.’
‘Not possible,’ said Steven. ‘I’ve been exposed to the virus. I can’t take the risk.’
‘Of course not,’ said Macmillan contritely. ‘That was stupid of me.’
‘But I think I will take a couple of days off. I’m sure I’ll find something to do.’
‘Good,’ said Macmillan. ‘On a different subject, I had a letter from the PM this morning. He sends his thanks, as do the others. Having to call a state of emergency would have been no joke.’
‘Suppose not,’ agreed Steven.
He had a drink downstairs in the bar while he thought about what to do the following day. Getting out of Manchester seemed a very good idea. He needed to be away from it all, even if for just a few hours, somewhere away from people, somewhere where he could see the sky and breathe fresh air. It occurred to him that he wasn’t that far from the Lake District. It was ages since he’d been back to that part of the country where he’d been brought up. He could drive up there first thing and have a day out, walking in the hills. The more he thought about it, the more he warmed to the idea. When he was a boy, being out in the Cumbrian mountains had always helped him get things in perspective. That was exactly what he needed right now, a sense of perspective, a sense of proportion.
Steven ordered another drink and moved away from the bar to sit down in a quiet corner and think about things in general. On the positive side, he had identified the source of the outbreak and had been thanked by the Prime Minister for doing it. His disdain for politicians could not entirely extinguish a feeling of satisfaction over this, but on the down side he was still a long way from explaining it and the unknown was always a cause for worry.
Caroline’s death had left an ache inside him that he couldn’t yet bear to face up to. He had been successful in pushing it to the back of his mind until the waitress had brought home the awful truth. Not only had Caroline lost her life to the virus, but she was going to be blamed wrongly by many for the outbreak. Victor Spicer had ruined her career and indirectly caused her death, and had also ensured that even history would vilify her. The realisation made Steven very angry. Caroline’s only crime had been to use common sense instead of following procedure like a mindless automaton.
It was no comfort to think that was the direction the whole country was going in. Somewhere along the line, common sense had been replaced by political correctness. The meek, in the form of the stupid and ill-informed, were now inheriting the earth a little earlier than planned. When he thought about the job Caroline and the others had done down at St Jude’s, Steven started to feel guilty. It was true that the outbreak was slackening but it wasn’t over. Caroline had gone, but Kate and the other nurses would still be doing their best for the sick while he sat there sipping gin and tonic. He now knew what he must do for the remainder of the evening.
Kate was drinking coffee from a chipped mug with a teddy bear on it when Steven arrived at St Jude’s. She gave him an uneasy grin when he walked in and said, ‘Hello.’
‘Hi, how are you?’ Kate asked with plain meaning.
‘Fine. How are things?’
‘Much better now that we know the source of the outbreak’s been identified. Well done.’
The other nurses in the room added their congratulations.
‘I’m perfectly well aware of who the real heroes are in this affair,’ said Steven. ‘And they’re heroines, not heroes. Frankly, I don’t know how you all do it, day in, day out.’
‘It’s ’cos we’re too stupid to know any better, sir,’ said one of the nurses in a burlesque country-bumpkin accent.
‘No, Mavis,’ said the other in the same accent. ‘As I see it, shit-shovelling’s an art and we’re sort of artists, like-’
‘Cut it out, you two,’ said Kate.
All three nurses broke into laughter and Steven joined them.
‘Well, this unworthy man has come to offer his unworthy services for the evening if you can use them,’ said Steven.
‘We never turn down an extra shovel,’ said Kate.
He was pleased to find that the church was only three-quarters full, proof that the newspaper story had substance. Kate indicated where he should start work and he set about doing his bit, working his way along the line of patients, ensuring that they were clean and comfortable. But when he came to the second to last patient in the line, a shiver of horror ran down his spine: it was Trudi, the Spicers’ au pair.
He looked long and hard at her, hoping he was mistaken but knowing in his heart that he wasn’t. She was only semi-conscious, her hair was lank and she had lost a lot of weight, but she was the girl who had opened the door to him on his first visit to Spicer. He thought back to the look on Spicer’s face, when Steven had warned him about the possibility of having given the virus to his wife. Now it made sense. Spicer had shown no relief when he said he and his wife hadn’t made love, and this was why. He’d been having a fling with Trudi and knew he’d put her at risk. Maybe this was also the real reason why he’d dropped Ann Danby: he’d simply moved on.
‘Bastard!’ Steven whispered under his breath. ‘Slimy little bastard.’
At the end of their shift, Kate and Steven left the building together. Kate remarked that he seemed preoccupied and asked why. He told her about Trudi and got the reaction he expected:
‘The little shit!’
‘About sums him up,’ said Steven.
‘You know, I hold him personally responsible for what happened to Caroline,’ said Kate quietly. ‘She just wouldn’t take any proper rest and, whatever she said, it was because that man blamed her for the spread of the outbreak. She felt driven to atone for something that wasn’t her fault.’
Steven nodded his agreement.
‘The word is they’ve reduced the charges against him,’ said Kate.
‘ What? ’ exclaimed Steven, unwilling to believe his ears.
‘There’s a rumour going round that they’re reducing it to manslaughter.’
‘It was murder,’ he insisted.
‘Maybe not when you’re an MP with a powerful daddy and friends in high places.’
Steven had a restless night but when he awoke to see the sun shining in through the windows he decided to follow his original plan and drive up to Cumbria to have his day out on the hills in crisp, clear conditions. The mountains, as he knew they would, made him feel very small, and thoughts of the timescale involved in their formation made his own lifetime seem like a mere breath in the cosmos. He was as unimportant as a single grain of sand on the face of the earth, and that was exactly the feeling he wanted. It always brought with it absolution.
In all, he walked for five hours, pausing only once, high above Windermere, to sit on a rock and eat the sandwiches that he’d bought earlier. He didn’t rest for long, though, because he felt his body cooling rapidly and his fingers becoming numb in the subzero temperatures. Darkness was already falling by the time he got back to the car, and his calf and thigh muscles were telling him that they’d had a hard day.
