Pestilence (29 page)

The next day was Friday and at nine thirty, when the medical committee met, there were fourteen patients in Ward Twenty and twenty two in the County’s isolation unit. Saracen phoned to find out how Jill was just before leaving for the meeting but Sister Lindeman, who answered, said that she had gone off duty and was probably asleep.

“Don’t you ever sleep Sister?” asked Saracen.

“When I have to Doctor.”

MacQuillan was rattled. “I don’t understand it, I just don’t understand it,” he complained. “So many people not on Braithwaite’s list. It’s as if there was a spread of random contacts all over the town that we know nothing at all about.”

“Where is Dr Braithwaite this morning?” asked Saithe, looking at his watch.

“I understand he is not too well,” said MacQuillan. Eyebrows were raised around the room prompting MacQuillan to add, “No, no, just been overworking I think.”

“We have to decide what to tell Col. Beasdale,” said Saithe. “There is no doubt that the situation has worsened.”

No one thought to disagree.

“With the volunteer force as it stands our capacity to cope stands at one hundred and ten patients between the County Hospital and ourselves. It seems certain that we will reach this figure within three days.” said Saithe.

“There is the turn-over factor of course,” said Saracen.

Jenkins started to ask what Saracen meant when Saithe interrupted him. “What Dr Saracen means is that nearly all of the patients admitted will be dead within three days. This helps keep the numbers down.”

“Are the dead going to be a problem?” asked Olive Riley, the senior nursing officer.

“If they are Matron it’s not ours,” said Saithe. “If the crematorium can’t cope I dare say Col. Beasdale has contingency plans.” Saithe repeated that they would have to agree on what to report to Col. Beasdale.

“Tell him that the situation is worse but not yet out of control,” said MacQuillan.

“Is everyone agreed on that?” asked Saithe. There were no dissenting voices.

“If only I knew where these damned wild cards are coming from,” muttered MacQuillan as he entered the latest details on his chart. He shook his head and Saracen noticed that his hands were trembling slightly as he wrote.

Saithe made his report to Beasdale and was asked for a prediction. “Impossible to say,” replied Saithe. “Things may get even worse before they get better.”

“How long before they start to get better?”

“I can’t say.”

“How is everything else Colonel?” asked MacQuillan to get Saithe off the hook, thought Saracen.

“There was a sudden increase in the number of people trying to leave Skelmore yesterday after the quarantine announcement. My men turned them back of course but things got a bit nasty for a time. We lost a lot of good will but I’m afraid that was unavoidable; people are getting scared. It’s a small town and word gets around fast. Tales of horrific deaths and mass funerals are now commonplace.”

“Perhaps the radio can be used to reassure them,” suggested the hospital secretary.

“Too much reassurance can be a bad thing,” said Beasdale. “Apart from the fact that the rumours are basically true an element of fear in the population works in our favour. Under these conditions people will police themselves. I don’t want to have to ban people from the streets; it’s impractical and we probably couldn’t enforce it anyway. Voluntary co-operation is our best hope and that’s where fear plays a part. But it’s a delicate balance, too little and we’ll have open defiance, too much and we’ll have blind panic.”

“The whole bloody town is doing a balancing act,” said MacQuillan gruffly.

“Let’s hope it maintains it,” said Beasdale.

Saithe’s theoretical limit of one hundred and ten patients was passed by seven o’clock that same evening. The volunteer ambulance crews finally broke under the strain of so many calls and Saithe had to request the assistance of the army shortly after eight. Saracen’s heart sank as he saw the first military vehicle enter the grounds of the General carrying plague victims, four people all from the same street on the Maxton estate.

The soldiers, like alien beings in their white plastic suits and face masks deposited their cargo and left without removing their masks to speak. Saracen watched them as they drove off, feeling like a castaway watching a ship pass by on the horizon. He gave an involuntary shiver and turned to his patients.

Tremaine was due to relieve Saracen at nine in plague reception. At a quarter to Saracen called Ward Twenty and asked to speak to Jill. Once more it was Sister Lindeman who answered but this time Jill was there; she sounded tired.

“How is everything?” asked Saracen.

“The ward’s full to overflowing but I suppose you know that already. Seventeen deaths since I came on duty and nothing we can do except make people as comfortable as possible while they wait their turn. God, it’s like living in a sea of blood and vomit.”

“Things will get better soon,” said Saracen softly. “The antiserum should be here at any time.”

“I hope so. I don’t think I can bear much…” Jill’s voice broke off and Saracen tried to comfort her but he had a lump in his throat. He asked about Lindeman.

“She’s an angel,” replied Jill. “She never seems to rest. She’s always with the patients, ‘insists that no one must die alone. Even if a patient is hopelessly delirious one of us must be there to hold their hand and it’s usually her. I don’t know how she doesn’t drop.”

“Try to persuade her to take more rest,” said Saracen.

“I have tried. It’s no use.”

“Take care.”

“You too.”

Tremaine took over in plague reception and said that he had called in on A&E on his way over.

“How was it?” asked Saracen.

“Quiet,” replied Tremaine. “Less people on the streets means fewer fights, fewer accidents. Apart from that people don’t want to come anywhere near the hospital these days.” Tremaine asked Saracen what the plague situation was like and listened in silence while Saracen briefed him. At the end he remained subdued and said quietly, “Do you know, until this moment I hadn’t considered the possibility that we might lose this fight. What would happen if things were to get out of control?”

Saracen had to confess to having had the same mental block. “I don’t know,” he said. “I simply have no idea.”

Tremaine relayed a message to Saracen from his sister. She suggested that he go round for dinner when he came off duty. It would save him having to cook for himself. Saracen nodded and went off to shower before leaving the hospital.

“You look tired,” said Claire when they had finished eating.

“We’re all tired,” said Saracen.

Claire played with her tea spoon and said, “I know you don’t think much of me James, that I’m a silly London bitch and all that, but I would like to help in any way I can.”

Saracen shook his head and said, “I don’t think badly of you. Half the time I don’t know what to think at all. I can make decisions at work but when it comes to my personal life I’m a mess.”

“Did your wife hurt you that badly?”

Saracen grimaced and said, “That sounded like a bad line from a play.”

“You analyse everything too much,” said Claire. “Every phrase, every word is scrutinised for ulterior motive. You should relax more. Take things as they come.”

Saracen looked doubtful but did not protest when Claire moved round behind him and began kneading her fingers into his shoulders. “You make it sound simple,” he said.

“It is if you would let it be.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“That’s why you don’t have any fun,’ laughed Claire.

Saracen had to concede there was some truth in what Claire was saying. It made him feel uncomfortable. “I’m too old for fun,” he said.

“Nonsense! I think I know what the matter with you is,” said Claire. “On the one hand you are afraid of falling in love in case you get hurt again like you did with what’s her name. On the other you’re afraid that you might not be able to fall in love again because of that same fear. That makes you very vulnerable James. You could end up marrying someone you don’t love and that would be like standing on the shore watching yourself drown.”

“If you say so,” said Saracen quietly.

“Now let’s get this clear,” said Claire. “You sure as hell do not love me but you want me as much as I want you so where’s the harm? Let’s make life a little more bearable in this hell hole.” Saracen still looked doubtful. Claire got up and walked over to the wall. She turned to lean against it and said, “Don’t worry. You don’t have to pretend to love me. You don’t have to say anything at all. No suburban foreplay is required. If you want me you can have me.”

Saracen swallowed hard as Claire with a sudden movement of her hand tore her blouse open. She smiled at the look of surprise on Saracen’s face and started to hoist her skirt above her thighs. “Call it rest and recreation if you want. If you want me come and take me…right now.”

Saracen had not felt so sexually aroused since his teenage years. He moved towards Claire and pinned her to the wall while he tore away her underclothes.

“That’s it…any way you want me.”

Saracen took Claire hard against the wall with a single mindedness that could not be diverted. He felt an alien desire to hurt her for exposing in him such weakness and the cries from her throat only spurred him to greater efforts but Claire’s passion rivalled his own and her finger nails dug deeply into his back as he came within her and buried his face in her hair.

“Don’t feel bad,” murmured Claire as though reading Saracen’s mind. “I want you to enjoy me. I want to make all your fantasies come true…every schoolboy dream you ever had.”

Saracen’s bleeper went off at three thirty when Jamieson called from A&E to report that a number of people had been admitted with gunshot wounds.

“What happened?” asked Saracen.

“They were trying to leave Skelmore and the army opened fire.”

Saracen cursed.

“I’ve never dealt with this kind of injury so I thought I’d better call you,” said Jamieson.

“I’m on my way,” said Saracen.

Resentment against the military was rife in A&E when Saracen arrived. “Fascist bastards!” snarled one man who had been hit in the thigh. “Good God, this is England!” protested another.

“They’re Russians if you ask me,” added a fat woman, nodding her head wisely. We’ve been invaded. That’s why they wear them fancy suits. It’s to disguise the fact that they’re Russians.”

Saracen did not attempt to interfere for antagonising an already incensed mob was going to be nothing but counter productive. Instead he and Jamieson got on with the business of cleaning and dressing wounds. He knew little of arms and ammunition but quickly saw that the wounds he was seeing had not been caused by high velocity bullets. In addition they seemed to be confined to the lower limbs of the victims, indicating that intention on the part of the soldiers.

“If it’s a bloody fight they want,” continued the man with the thigh wound, “that’s what they’ll bloody well get. Next time we won’t be empty handed. My brother in law owns the sports shop in Griffin Street. We’ll give them bloody guns! Two can play at that game. Fascist bastards.”

Saracen decided that things had gone far enough. He told the man to shut up and added, “You got what you asked for.”

The man was outraged. “I’m an Englishman,” he said, “I have a right to go where I please.” Murmurs of agreement ran round the room.

“The soldiers are Englishmen too,” said Saracen. “They were only carrying out their orders.”

“That’s what the SS said,” crowed the loud-mouth. There were more sounds of agreement and Saracen had to wait until the noise had died down before saying, “There’s a world of difference. If there wasn’t you wouldn’t be sitting here on your fat arse running off at the mouth.” The noise rose again.

“Here, what kind of a doctor are you anyway?” demanded the man.

“The kind who’s fed up listening to all this crap. This town has a big problem and it’s our problem. Spreading it to other towns and villages is going to help no one so here we stay. All of us! Get used to the idea. Nobody leaves Skelmore until it’s all over.” Saracen could sense that he had won over most of the crowd, perhaps all of them with the exception of the loud-mouth who continued to mutter threats under his breath.

The trouble was over for the moment but Saracen was worried. He wondered how widespread ill feeling was in the town. Local radio had taken to assuring people that the arrival of an antiserum was imminent and had appealed for calm during the interim but the interim was being sorely stretched. Please God the loud mouthed man was the exception rather than the rule and please God there would be some news from Porton in the morning.

Saracen arrived early for the staff meeting and found MacQuillan unshaven and in his shirt sleeves. He was preparing filing cards and moving name tags around on a chart in front of him. He threw down his pen when he saw Saracen arrive and rubbed his eyes saying, “It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. They don’t know each other, they don’t live beside each other, they don’t work together and they have no common friends and yet they all get plague. This whole bloody thing…” He made a sweeping gesture towards the chart. “is a complete waste of time.”