The Second Cure

by Margaret Morgan

  ‘Hang on, what’s happening?’ asked Brigid.

  He gave her a hard look, one that wasn’t interested in questions. ‘Just come this way.’

  He took them down a floor via the fire stairs to a part of the complex she didn’t know and herded them into a long, white corridor. Assorted journalists and office staff were assembled, waiting, looking as confused as Brigid felt. More QSSA officers were there, standing impassively. Seeing the same uniforms with their array of weaponry threw her straight back to the riot. Blood slick on the ground, its stench in her nostrils.

  ‘Do you know what’s happened?’ she asked a man next to her.

  He shook his head. ‘No one’s saying anything.’

  Brigid pulled her phone from her bag.

  ‘There’s no point in that,’ he told her. ‘Mobile signal’s been jammed.’

  She saw Keith returning from a clutch of journos and he was now looking very sober. ‘There’s a bloke over there,’ he said to Brigid, ‘who reckons Effenberg’s been shot. Assassinated.’

  The locked-off corridor turned into a game of whispers. Rumours flowed from ear to mouth, mouth to ear. Someone had apparently seen Effenberg bleeding out, a doctor calling it. Another said she’d seen him protected by a guard who threw himself across him, taking the bullet in the spine. Still another said Effenberg wasn’t even in the building. He was in Cairns.

  The air-conditioning wasn’t coping with the unprecedented presence of bodies in the enclosed space. Bladders weren’t coping either after an hour of confinement. Tempers were unravelling. A man not far from Brigid had fashioned a mask using paper towels he’d found in a cupboard. He was challenged by another guy nearby.

  ‘Wanker.’

  ‘What?’

  The baritone aggression of their voices carried across the hubbub of chatter. Attention turned to the two men as other conversations muted.

  ‘You scared of catching something?’

  ‘Bloody oath I am. You would be, too, if you got your head out of your arse.’

  ‘You’re not going to catch it from the air, you idiot. You need to snog or root someone who’s infected.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ a woman said, moving closer to the man with the mask.

  ‘Yeah, I do. I read the research. You know, like journos are meant to?’

  ‘Or you’re infected,’ she said. ‘Well, I’m pregnant, and I’m buggered if I’m letting you infect me and my baby.’

  The volume rose again as people reacted to the growing tension, some trying to bring reason to the conversation, others becoming uneasy.

  ‘Look,’ called out the man with the mask. ‘If we’re going to be stuck in here breathing each other’s air, let’s at least put a bit of distance between us. People who are infected, that end of the corridor, people who aren’t, down this end.’

  Some moved briskly to join him, while others hesitated. People at the oposite end realised that staying there implied that they were infected, so moved away, but resisted moving all the way down to the instigator. A handful of people remained in the ‘infected’ end, but it wasn’t clear if they were doing so because they were infected or to make a point. Brigid and Keith positioned themselves at the centre, which seemed to be a popular choice. Good to see not everyone was buying into the hysteria. But that so many were was disturbing, especially since so many were journalists with access to the truth. Perhaps they actually believed the tabloid crap they wrote about the ‘Plague’ and the ‘Unclean’.

  ‘Back in the eighties,’ Keith growled quietly to Brigid, ‘one of the subs I was working with got AIDS. Gay bloke. It was in the early days, but we knew what caused it, about the virus, how it was transmitted. He went off on leave. I don’t know if any of us thought he’d make it back. Probably not. Anyway, one of the journos arranged for his desk, all his possessions, to be taken out into the car park and burnt in a huge bonfire. The whole office went out to watch. Everything, even the photos he had on his desk. Burnt like a fucking sacrament. Thing was, everyone knew you couldn’t catch it from his desk or his papers, but that didn’t matter.’

  It was one of the longest speeches Brigid had ever heard Keith make. ‘That’s disgusting,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, it was. Bloke died a week later.’ He shook his head and looked down the corridor where more people had donned masks.

  ‘I was the journo, Brigid.’

  She didn’t know how to respond, but it seemed he didn’t expect her to.

  ‘I thought people were getting less fucked up,’ he said, mildly. ‘Thing is, though, I get this lot’s fear. I know what it feels like.’

  The redistribution of bodies in the corridor had at least decreased the tension, and the conversations around them reverted to speculation about Effenberg and who might be behind the shooting. The problem was, it was a bit like an old-style murder mystery where everyone had a motive. It could have been an extremist from the left, a crazy, an Islamist terrorist, or one of any number of minority groups targeted by the Effenberg regime. Others were discussing his successor. Effenberg had effectively disempowered any potential rivals through a combination of white-anting and what they suspected was good old-fashioned strong-arming. He had surrounded himself with weak yes-men, none of whom could conceivably take on the leadership.

  ‘He’s totally nobbled old Gerry Barnes,’ she heard one of the journos say. It was Scoop Johnson, a hack with a tabloid owned by a mogul given to propping up conservative governments. ‘Word is he’s got some dirt involving a prostitute he’s threatening to leak. So Gerry’s apparently not re-seeking preselection.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said another.

  ‘Nah, mate. Source is impeccable. He’ll never get that bum of his back on the premier’s seat.’

  Brigid was antsy. ‘So, why don’t you report it, then?’

  The journo turned to her. ‘What?’

  ‘If your evidence is so good, why don’t you report it?’

  ‘Dunno if you’ve ever heard about the laws of defamation, Brigid …’ Scoop smirked at his mates.

  ‘Truth is a defence. Why don’t you dig? A former premier being blackmailed by the current one is big news. Instead of just gossiping about it, why don’t you find out if it’s true? Won’t your boss let you?’

  She felt Keith shift uneasily next to her.

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Brigid,’ Scoop told her.

  She ploughed on, ‘You’re just a jumped-up stenographer, aren’t you? Copying and pasting Effenberg’s press releases like holy writ.’

  ‘You little bitch –’

  Now Keith intervened, ‘Look, we’re all a bit short-tempered right now. Let’s just leave it, yeah?’ He took her to one side, steering her by the elbow. ‘Jesus, Brigid. Some of those blokes drink with Effenberg.’

  ‘They’re enablers, Keith. It stinks.’ But he was right, she knew. She didn’t want to find herself frozen out from her contacts in the government. She forced herself not to look back at Scoop and his mates, now guffawing, probably about her.

  Two hours after they’d been herded into the corridor, a series of pings, buzzes and alerts travelled around the space, and people reached for their phones. The mobile block had been lifted and the doors at both ends were opened by QSSA personnel. The lockdown was over.

  The released crowd spilled into the basement foyer, those with masks pulling them off. Rather than waiting for the lift, Brigid and Keith went to the fire stairs to get back upstairs, reading their phones as they walked. Brigid had a missed call from her mother and they’d both received an emailed statement from Effenberg’s chief of staff.

  Jack Effenberg was alive. He had indeed been shot, they were told, but was wounded in his shoulder. He was being treated at Royal Brisbane and was in a stable condition. The sniper had not yet been apprehended, but police were following a number of leads. A press conference was being arranged for later in the afternoon. Security for all MPs and dignitaries was being increased, with safety being of the highest priority.

/>   ‘So Jerkberg remembered to duck,’ murmured Keith. They opened the fire door and emerged into the lobby. Armed QSSA officers stood at every doorway. The door to the porte cochère was open, and Brigid walked over to it to look out into George Street. Police cars with flashing lights, armoured vehicles and more QSSA goons in every direction.

  ‘I don’t like the way this is playing out, Keith.’

  He stood behind her, watching. ‘Neither do I, girl.’

  28.

  Sydney

  Charlie couldn’t put it off. Not now. She had to ring Jack Effenberg. She and Juliette didn’t know how much of the conversation with Reed had been recorded, but the students were planning to upload it to YouTube. ‘Reed is toast,’ one of them said. If it included her saying she’d refused Effenberg and he saw it …

  She got out the card he’d left her with his direct number. Not so direct, apparently. A woman answered.

  ‘Premier Effenberg’s office.’

  ‘Hello, this is Dr Charlotte Zinn. The premier gave me this number.’

  ‘One moment.’

  The next voice wasn’t Effenberg’s.

  ‘Eric Falsworth here, Dr Zinn.’ The premier’s scientific advisor. The same smooth, beguiling voice that had set her on edge in Reed’s office.

  Charlie explained to him that she had decided to reject the Premier’s offer of funding. He was silent in response, and she found herself filling the space with her stumbling apology. Just when she began to wonder if he was still on the line, he spoke.

  ‘That’s regrettable.’

  Another pause, then Charlie said, ‘Perhaps I should talk with the Premier, explain to him –’

  ‘You haven’t been paying attention to the news.’

  ‘I – what?’

  ‘Turn on the television.’ He ended the call.

  Flummoxed, Charlie stared at her phone, then brought up a news site. It was the first item. Someone had shot Effenberg.

  She and Juliette were in the tearoom running over some data when Sofia, Reed’s PA, tracked them down. ‘Thought you should know,’ she told them. ‘Gordon’s been summoned to the VC’s office. The Dean’s there too. You didn’t hear it from me.’ She left again before either woman had a chance to ask for details or to thank her. An hour before, their phones had pinged in unison. It was one of the students, sharing the YouTube link. The message said it had also been sent to ‘all the bosses’.

  ‘He’s going to be using my refusal of Effenberg’s money to defend himself,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I should have told the VC my decision before I told Reed. I don’t even know if the executive knew the money had been offered.’

  ‘He’d have told them. He’d have presented it as un fait accompli, all his doing.’

  ‘Great,’ sighed Charlie. ‘We don’t even know if the offer would still be on the table. It’ll depend on what’s happened to Effenberg.’ She reached for the teapot to top up her cup.

  ‘Let me brew another.’ Juliette took the teapot across to the sink and dumped the soggy tea leaves into the compost bin.

  ‘I wonder if anyone’s planning on releasing footage of the whole conversation,’ she said, spooning tea into the pot. The video had been edited, beginning only with Reed’s personal attack on her and ending with his realisation he was being filmed, and his turning tail and fleeing to his office, where Sofia was standing in the doorway, aghast at what she’d just witnessed. The students had apparently decided to omit the women’s goading of him. Juliette was beloved among the biology students and they were protecting her.

  ‘Even if they do, what he said is completely out of order,’ said Charlie. ‘He can’t get away with that.’

  And he didn’t.

  The email sent to all department staff from the Dean of Science announced that Gordon Reed was being suspended immediately from his position as Head of Biology, as well as from the university generally, pending a full inquiry into allegations of his racist, sexist and homo-phobic behaviour. In the interim, Kristopher Wilcox, a well-respected professor from the Conservation Genetics Lab, would be Acting Head of Department.

  They read the email together and then looked at each other. ‘Is it wrong that I want to be drinking Champagne now instead of tea?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Juliette. ‘Bar?’

  Charlie looked at the clock on the wall. It was getting late and she wanted to be home for Winnie.

  ‘I really shouldn’t,’ she began to say when her mobile rang.

  It was the dean, and at the sound of his voice her stomach thudded. As she feared, Reed had told him about the Effenberg offer and her refusal. She expected the worst, at the least a reprimand. The dean had interpreted things differently from Reed, though. He saw her knock-back as loyalty to the faculty, placing academic independence before greed. He had found some funds that would cover more staff and resources for her lab. He was delighted she had chosen to stay at the university and hoped she’d accept his offer. She managed to stay calm as she thanked him and ended the call.

  She told Juliette the gist, and now neither felt any compunction about rejoicing. They grabbed each other by the hands and jumped around the tearoom, shrieking. The bar. Definitely.

  As she walked towards the railway station, Charlie thought about celebrating with Richard and Winnie her remarkable change in fortune. They could get takeaway Thai from Berowra and make it a proper night in. She’d reassure Richard there was no reason now for her to contemplate Shadrack’s offer and end his jealousy. She’d make a little speech about how she would stay in the lab she loved, doing the work she loved, and all would be fine.

  She rounded the chemistry building and jolted to a stop. Gordon Reed was right in front of her, standing next to his grey BMW. He was holding a cardboard box containing things he’d taken from his office. His framed collection of beetles protruded from loose papers that were stirring in the breeze. Something about his stance seemed odd; his shoulders were tight and lopsided. Completely motionless, he seemed alert, as though he were straining to catch something just beyond the threshold of hearing. If she kept walking, she’d be in his line of sight, and she’d be compelled to talk with him. What could she say? Sorry your life’s been destroyed? But turning around and taking another route would be, well, cowardice. She owed him a word of … if not apology, then at least commiseration. She owed him some honesty.

  Yes. Her guilt told her she owed it to him, but the fear of his anger, his contempt, was more than she could bear. It would propel her back to the shy Honours student she once was, the blushing and inadequate and unsure Charlotte of her past. So she decided. She would retreat. She would take the path back, circle the chemistry building, cut through the ivy-clad garden bed. She would avoid him.

  And then he turned.

  His gaze was strange. It seemed to be fixed beyond her, yet his eyes were directed at her face. There was no escape. He pinioned her with his stare.

  ‘Gordon?’ she said, capitulating, approaching. ‘Look, I just wanted to tell you, I didn’t mean for –’

  He frowned. His eyes were empty and his face ashen.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You don’t look well …’

  ‘I’m dead,’ he said, simply.

  ‘Oh, no. Yeah, okay, I’m the last person to say it’s only a job, but, really, it is. There is so much more to life. You’ve got heaps of superannuation, I bet, and there’s … travel, and well, lots of things you can do.’ She felt herself blathering, and he was shaking his head.

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I’m dead. My body …’ He gestured at his torso, looking at it as though it were something he’d only just noticed. ‘It’s dead. I’m dead.’

  Her embarrassment now replaced by concern, Charlie took him by the arm, and he watched where her hand met his elbow. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down. You’re upset. I’ll get you some water.’

  ‘Dead people don’t drink,’ he told her, as though surprised at the foolishne
ss of her suggestion. He sniffed and frowned. ‘Can’t you smell that? I’m rotting. My flesh is rotting.’

  Charlie led him to a garden bench, put his carton on the seat next to him, and there he sat passively, still staring at his body with faint incredulity. She pulled her phone from her bag and called university security to direct the ambulance. Then she rang Shadrack, hoping he was still at the hospital. If this was neurological, and it sure looked that way, she could think of no one better placed to investigate it.

  Reed was admitted to the university hospital, and the psych registrar and Shadrack conferred at length about his condition. Now Charlie and Shadrack carried cups of coffee into his temporary office where they’d await the results of the scans. The registrar had thought the imaging unnecessary because Reed’s breakdown could, he thought, most easily be explained by the emotional trauma of his dismissal. Charlie had given his recent history, as far as she knew it, and the registrar had provisionally diagnosed a form of dissociation brought on by the shock. Shadrack had been persuasive, though, and offered his own staff and influence in the radiology department to have him tested.

  ‘So what do you think it is, Shadrack?’ Charlie asked, taking a seat on the sofa arm, keeping some physical distance between them. If he was feeling the same irksome, tingling awareness of her presence, he wasn’t revealing it.

  ‘I don’t want to get ahead of myself before the results come back, and it is a long shot …’

  ‘I won’t tell a soul if you’re wrong, promise,’ she said dryly.

  He perched on the edge of his desk and sipped his coffee. ‘Have you ever heard of Cotard’s Syndrome?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘It’s very rare. At least, it used to be. There has been a spike in recent diagnoses.’

  ‘Not pestis again?’

  ‘Well, correlation doesn’t equal causation, of course, but we’ve gone from a handful of cases worldwide to around eight hundred in the last month or two. And it is plausible, given what we know of the mechanism of pestis in the selective suppression and stimulation of neurological activity.’