The Health of Strangers

by Lesley Kelly

  ‘He is practically a woman.’ Maitland’s voice came from behind his PC.

  ‘Shut up, Maitland,’ said Bernard, and blushed.

  Paterson ignored the interruptions. ‘Carole Brooks phoned to say she’s at the hospital with her kid.’

  ‘Poor Carole.’

  ‘Is her son all right?’ asked Bernard.

  ‘We don’t know.’ Paterson turned to Mona. ‘I need you to get up there and check she’s OK.’

  She looked at her boss in surprise. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’

  ‘Yeah, and while you’re there find out how long she’s going to be off. If it’s going to be more than a couple of days we’re in trouble.’ He turned on his heel. ‘But be tactful. I don’t want another of those harassment-bullying tribunal thingies.’

  Mona decided not to wonder about the Guv’s past HR record. She picked up her bag. ‘OK, Guv. What’s the rush to get Carole back, though? We can cover for a few days at least.’

  He handed her a sheet of paper. ‘Here’s why. Our glorious leader has woken up to the fact that people have either not heard of the HET, or if they have heard of us they consider us a bunch of health fascists . . .’

  ‘Which isn’t exactly fair, Guv,’ said Maitland. ‘There is an epidemic going on.’

  ‘You don’t have to convince me. Everyone’s 100 per cent in favour of us enforcing the Health Checks, right up until the minute they forget to tell us they are going on holiday, and come back to a full-scale HET investigation. Then it’s all articles in the Daily Mail about our heavy-handed response, blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘Basically, people want us to enforce Health Checks for everyone except them,’ said Mona.

  ‘Exactly! Anyway, in an attempt to win hearts and minds, the Powers That Be now want us to . . .’ he gestured at the memo Mona was holding.

  She looked down. ‘Tour local high schools promoting the work of the HET? You’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘Yes, it appears that the million pounds Health Communications has spent on adverts in the middle of Coronation Street still hasn’t raised our profile sufficiently for people to see us as the fluffy bunnies we really are, so now someone has to go and speak to school assemblies across Edinburgh.’

  Maitland’s head appeared above his computer. ‘Carole is definitely your man on that one, Guv.’

  The car park at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary was full. Mona circled round half a dozen times before spying a woman walking toward a Ford Focus. She tailed her at a discreet distance, then sat drumming her fingers on the steering wheel while the woman hunted for her keys, got in, and slowly reversed out. Mona gave a polite wave to the disappearing tail lights, and swung sharply into the vacated space, narrowly missing the wing mirror of the neighbouring car.

  The ERI loomed in the distance, a low modern building with rounded turrets at each end. Its white squatness always reminded Mona of the bottom tier of a wedding cake. She reached into her pocket for her Green Card as she approached the security gate between the car park and the hospital grounds. A man coming in the other direction held the gate open and winked at her as she passed through. She smiled politely and wondered exactly how many plaques outlining the dangers of letting people through the barriers the NHS would have to pin up before people actually took notice.

  She walked at a smart pace into the foyer, ignored the queue of non-immune visitors waiting to plead their case with the Admissions Officer, and pressed her Green Card against the security turnstile. The light turned from Stop to Go, and she entered, nearly bumping into a woman who stepped forward and thrust a leaflet at her. She glared at her assailant, then noticed the Hospital Volunteer badge on her lapel and quickly morphed her features into a polite smile. The helper nodded at her, and let her pass. She looked down at the leaflet, and saw it was a Health Communications publication about Virus precautions.

  The influenza virus is spread by close personal contact . . .

  She scanned down to a box at the bottom. The author had gone overboard on the use of exclamation marks.

  Remember: A single sneeze can spread the Virus up to 6 feet away!

  Remember: A person has the Virus for up to four days before showing symptoms – just because someone looks healthy doesn’t mean they are Virus-free!

  Remember: You are infectious from the day before your symptoms show until up to seven days after you become ill – if you don’t feel well STAY AT HOME!

  Remember: punctuation overuse can kill!

  She shoved the leaflet in her pocket, walking past the café and bookshops until she found a board listing the different wards. There were an apparently endless number of possibilities. Would Carole and her son be in Virus Immediate Quarantine, Children’s Virus Ward, or Young People’s Virus Ward? At what age did a child become a young person? They’d discussed her family when she’d joined the HET, in the usual getting to know your colleagues way. Carole had obviously sussed that children weren’t her thing though, as Mona couldn’t remember ever discussing her kid again – or was it kids? And Christ – what was his name?

  She pulled out her mobile. ‘Carole, hi, it’s Mona.’

  ‘Mona, how are you?’ Her colleague’s voice was quiet.

  ‘I’m in the foyer of the ERI but I don’t know what ward you’re on.’

  ‘You’re here?’ She sounded surprised. ‘Did Mr Paterson send you to check up on me?’

  ‘He’s concerned about you. In his own way.’

  There was a brief pause. ‘Ward Four. It’s marked Young People.’

  Carole and her son were in a small side room, with a sign marked ‘Caution: Virus Assessment’ on its door. It had taken a bit of manoeuvring on Mona’s part to get this far; the double whammy of child protection and Virus control concerns meant that a letter from God himself was required to get on to a ward. Mona had the next best thing – an HET ID card. The nurse on duty had looked a bit doubtful, but a few veiled threats about the power of the Health Enforcement Team had given her enough leverage to get shown to the correct place.

  Mona hovered in the doorway. Carole was sitting by the bed, holding her son’s hand. Her eyes were closed and her head bent slightly forward, as if she was praying. Was she a Christian? Mona didn’t know. Maybe everyone in this position appealed to a higher power. When her father had had his heart attack she remembered a long night of bargaining with a deity she wasn’t sure she believed in. Much good it had done.

  A bank of monitoring equipment stood in position at the top end of the room, its light flashing rhythmically red then green. The covers of the bed had been thrown back, and the long limbs of the teenager were shifting restlessly. The pinkness of the boy’s cheeks stood out against the sea of hospital white. He looked like a textbook example of a Virus case. He could have appeared on a Virus protection ad with the PHeDA logo underneath: Phone Help. Don’t Approach.

  Indecision gripped her. Was it really worth bothering her colleague right now? It was pretty obvious Carole wasn’t going to be rushing back to work anytime soon, despite the Guv’s school assembly emergency. She was just coming down on the side of lying to her boss, when Carole opened her eyes and caught sight of her.

  ‘Hello, Mona.’ She attempted a not very convincing smile.

  To Mona’s relief, the boy’s details were written in pen on a white board above his head. Michael Brooks. He was only fifteen.

  ‘How is Michael?’

  ‘Not so good. The doctor . . .’

  The machine that was monitoring Michael’s heart rate gave out a loud buzzing sound. The flashing light changed to a persistent red.

  Carole leapt in alarm, dropped the magazine, and pushed past her to the door. Mona followed her into the corridor, scanning up and down the whitewashed walls for a sign of assistance. Carole stood in the middle of the hallway, and spun round in an anxious pirouette.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be . . .’ She stopped when the blue-clad form of a Virus nurse appeared at the end o
f the hall and ran in their direction. They followed her back into the room.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, pressing a button. ‘This machine does that from time to time.’

  The buzzing ceased. Relieved, the pair of them exchanged a look.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asked Mona, then realised how stupid the question was. ‘I mean, of course you are not OK, but are you . . .’

  ‘Coping?’ Carole walked round the bed and collapsed back into her seat. ‘I’ve been living on my nerves ever since the school phoned this morning.’

  Mona spied a chair in the corridor and nabbed it. She edged past the nurse, who was now taking Michael’s pulse, and settled down next to Michael’s feet.

  ‘Did they send him home?’

  ‘No, I went to the school to get him. I took one look at him when I got there and jumped straight into a taxi. He started coughing up blood on the way. The driver was immune – thank God – and helped me carry him in.’

  ‘It’s Carole Brooks, isn’t it?’

  Surprised, they both turned in the direction of the nurse. Mona looked at her properly for the first time. She put her at about thirty, with brown hair pulled back in a bun. She was round-faced, with slightly buck teeth, which, combined with her air of eagerness, made her resemble an enthusiastic hamster. Carole looked as if she vaguely recognised her, but couldn’t put a name to her. The nurse helped her out.

  ‘Amy Wilson, Phillips as was. I was a student nurse on your ward about ten years ago?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Carole, reprising the barely-there smile that Mona had seen earlier. ‘Long time ago.’

  ‘Yeah, you left to set up your . . .’ her face screwed up as she thought, ‘shop, was it?’

  ‘A herbalist shop, yeah.’

  The herbalist shop was a source of much amusement in the HET office. Maitland had visited it and reported back on the range of crystals, herbs, and other ‘wacko shit’ that it purveyed. Even Bernard had been heard to comment on the dangers of homeopathic remedies in the current climate. Amy Wilson didn’t seem to find it funny, her hamster cheeks working overtime as she nodded.

  ‘Yes, of course it was. Is that still going strong?’

  ‘Business has never been better, actually.’ Carole gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Everyone’s desperate for a cure.’

  They all looked at Michael.

  ‘I just wish I had one.’

  Amy Wilson, Phillips as was, smiled and smoothed the sheets back over Michael’s legs. ‘How’s Jimmy? Will he be in?’

  ‘No. He’s not immune, nor is my other son, so sadly it’s just me.’

  ‘That’s a shame. So, you’ve left him minding the shop?’

  ‘Actually he’s been running the business since I started working for the Health Enforcement Team.’

  Amy’s eyes widened. ‘You’re with the HET now? How did you end up there?’

  Carole turned her face away, and shrugged. ‘Oh, you know,’ she looked at Michael, ‘there were all those adverts for nurses who’d left the profession . . .’

  Mona could see her colleague’s attention was drifting back to her son’s bed.

  ‘ . . . and, what was I saying? Sorry, my head’s not in the best place right now.’

  Michael shifted uneasily on the bed.

  ‘It’s all right, sweetheart.’ She stroked his hand. ‘Mum’s here.’

  Amy moved toward the door, and as she did so a man in blue scrubs appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Just press the red buzzer if you need anything.’ She smiled at them both. ‘Good to see you again.’

  Carole muttered something, but Mona could see that all of her attention was now focused on the doctor.

  The doctor was young, with blonde hair in a perfect Marcel Wave. He looked like a 1920s Hollywood starlet, albeit a star who had just worked a twelve-hour shift saving the lives of fever-stricken minors.

  ‘Which one of you ladies is Michael’s mum?’

  Carole let go of her son’s hand. ‘I am.’

  ‘I’m Doctor McMenamie.’ He stuck out a hand to shake hers.

  Mona stood up to leave, ‘I’ll head off now.’

  The medic picked up Michael’s notes from the end of the bed.

  ‘Could you stay, Mona, just until the doctor’s gone?’

  There was a tone in Carole’s voice that Mona hadn’t heard before, and the hint of a plea was playing around her eyes. She reluctantly sat back down. ‘Sure.’

  The doctor looked at them both.

  ‘As you know, the blood tests confirmed that Michael is suffering from H1N1-variant influenza, or as we usually call it, the Virus.’

  Carole nodded.

  ‘So, I just wanted to run through with you what we will be doing with Michael’s treatment.’

  Mona stood up and motioned to the doctor to sit down in her place.

  ‘Thanks.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The Virus, as you may be aware, is particularly dangerous for young people.’

  Mona waited for Carole to admit to being a nurse, but she didn’t enlighten him. Mona wondered why; Carole had been out of nursing for around ten years – perhaps she was unsure of the latest responses to the Virus? Maybe she just wanted to hear it all again as a refresher? Mona looked over at Carole and got her answer – Carole was trying so hard not to cry she couldn’t speak.

  ‘This is due to a phenomenon called a cytokine storm, which basically means that your body’s immune system completely overreacts to the Virus.’

  Carole dug a hanky out of her pocket and wiped her eyes. ‘I’ve heard the term.’

  The doctor smiled. ‘It’s amazing the terminology everyone has become familiar with over the past couple of years. So, this overreaction is bad in adults, but in young people like your son, it’s particularly powerful as they have the strongest immune system.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘But you got him to us really quickly.’ He held up a reassuring hand. ‘He stands a very good chance of recovery. Our main concern is making sure that this doesn’t develop into bacterial pneumonia, and to that end we’ll be monitoring him throughout the day.’ He stood up. ‘Any questions, just ask.’

  Carole covered her face with her hands.

  Mona reached over and patted her shoulder. ‘Thanks, Doctor.’

  He gave a nod of acknowledgement and disappeared out of the door.

  Carole laid her head face down on the bed, next to Michael’s hand. ‘Sorry, Mona,’ she said, her voice muffled by the bed sheet.

  ‘Don’t apologise, it’s totally understandable.’ What did it feel like to have your son go through this? The idea of having a child was quite difficult enough for Mona to imagine, without factoring in life-threatening illnesses. ‘I could stay for a while.’

  ‘No.’ Carole sat back upright, wiping her eyes. ‘No, get back to work. Try and save some other poor bugger from going through this.’

  Mona backed slowly out of the room. ‘Take care, Carole.’

  As soon as she was out of sight she started to run, and didn’t stop until she was back at her car.

  2

  Bernard stared at his screen saver, willing the shoals of brightly coloured fish to spring into life and tell him what it was that he should be doing right now. Usually Mona took the lead in their investigations, bringing her decade of experience in law enforcement to their work, as she prodded and patronised him in the right direction. He should probably go and talk to Heidi’s flatmate, but he’d like a second opinion that this was the best course of action. There were two people currently in the office who could assist him with this dilemma. One of them was his extremely scary boss, and Bernard immediately ruled out this option as he didn’t fancy being told, as he had been on previous occasions, that he was an idiotic waste of space and lacking in the common-sense department. Unfortunately, the only person this left was Maitland.

  He turned round and stared at his teammate, who was unusually focused on his computer. Bernard moved slightly to see what he was looking at, and had an uninte
rrupted view of what appeared to be an online rundown of America’s Top Ten Sexiest Babes. This probably wasn’t the best time to disturb him. Bernard turned back to his virtual fish tank, only to see Paterson moving stealthily across the office, with a finger pressed to his lips, forbidding him from warning his colleague of his approach. Bernard cringed and waited for the explosion.

  ‘Is that official work business?’

  Maitland turned to see Paterson watching the video over his shoulders. He grabbed the mouse to turn it off, but only succeeded in freezing the screen with a picture of Christina Aguilera in a bikini. Bernard silently rejoiced at this gift provided by the HET’s elderly hardware.

  ‘Eh . . .’ Maitland looked up at his boss’s outraged face. ‘I was just doing some research?’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’ Paterson snorted. ‘Anyway, my room, now. You too, Brains.’

  Maitland got to his feet, flicked a surreptitious V-sign at Bernard, and ambled along behind Paterson. Bernard followed them into the office, where their boss had already squeezed himself into his chair. Maitland threw himself into the other available place to sit. As Bernard wasn’t invited to make himself comfortable, he leaned against the wall, which moved slightly under his weight.

  ‘Right, I’ve got a No Show needs chasing up by you. Eighteen-year-old girl, name of Colette Greenwood. Her parents last spoke to her on Sunday, who suggested we talk to these people.’ Paterson waved a sheet of A4 in Maitland’s direction.

  ‘Thing is, Guv, we’re not supposed to chase up No Shows single-handed and Carole’s not here, so . . .’

  Paterson threw the memo in Maitland’s direction. It fluttered gently and landed at his feet.

  ‘I’m well aware of the health and safety implications of you flying solo, Maitland, hence Bernard’s presence in this discussion. Although, to be honest, in this instance I think I can guarantee you are not about to get your head kicked in.’