by Ken McClure
“Excuse me gentlemen,” said the Police Inspector. “About the bodies, we’ll have to remove them.”
“The place will have to be fumigated first and the bodies sealed in plastic sacks before they are moved anywhere,” said MacQuillan.
“And then there are the funeral arrangements…”
“Too many corpses,” said MacQuillan without enlarging on his assertion.
The inspector looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think I understand,” he said.
Saracen could sense that MacQuillan was on edge. He saw him turn on the inspector as if to snap at him and only restrain himself at the last moment. “There are too many,” he said hoarsely. They will all have to go together.”
“A mass grave you mean?” asked the policeman, obviously astounded at the suggestion.
“A mass cremation to be precise,” said MacQuillan.
“But the relatives…” protested the policeman.
“Our priority lies in getting rid of these corpses as quickly and as cleanly as possible,” said MacQuillan. “Nothing else matters.”
“Doesn’t seem right,” mumbled the policeman.
Saracen could still feel that MacQuillan’s nerves were taut. He stepped in to defuse the situation. He said, “Perhaps some kind of memorial service could be arranged.”
The inspector was pleased at the suggestion but MacQuillan said, “They can do what they like with their mumbo jumbo just so long as they burn these bodies first.” With that he disappeared into the caravan to collect his things.
“Cold bastard,” muttered the policeman.
“He’s under a lot of pressure,” said Saracen. It wasn’t MacQuillan’s coldness that was worrying him it was the look on his face when he had come out of the flats.
MacQuillan came out. He said, “I managed to contact Braithwaite. His people will deal with the fumigation; the army will remove the bodies.”
“The army?” exclaimed the policeman.
“You don’t have twenty eight hearses in Skelmore,” said MacQuillan with what Saracen thought was unnecessary brusqueness. “A squad of soldiers will bag the bodies and take them away in trucks.”
“I don’t know that we will have suitable plastic bags,” said the inspector.
“The army already have them,” said MacQuillan. “Body bags, as used in the Falklands.”
“Where will they store the bodies?” asked Saracen.
“There will be no storage. They will take them directly to the crematorium,” replied MacQuillan.
The inspector indicated his disapproval by taking a deep breath and turning his head away. The gesture annoyed MacQuillan and pushed him too far. He said, “Now understand this! This town is on the edge of disaster. You do not mess around with plague or if you do it kills you, your wife, your children and everyone else you ever knew. Believe it!”
Saracen was alarmed, not at what MacQuillan had said but because of the way he had said it. The man wasn’t just jumpy and on edge. He seemed genuinely afraid. The policeman backed down and slipped behind his professional self saying, “Very good sir. I’ll keep my men here until the army arrive.”
MacQuillan nodded and then said to Saracen, “There’s no point in you hanging around. Go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Saracen wanted whisky when he got in but he denied himself and switched on the electric kettle instead. He spooned instant coffee into an earthenware mug and let the spoon fall in with a clatter. He returned to the living room while the water boiled and flicked through his album collection, finally deciding on Schumann. He drank his coffee to the strains of Traumerei. Twenty eight dead people and that look on MacQuillan’s face. His stomach felt hollow. He got up and looked out of the window; it had started to rain again.
Within seconds of arriving at the morning meeting Saracen could sense that something was gravely wrong. Saithe looked drawn, Braithwaite looked as if he hadn’t slept all night and MacQuillan seemed nervously preoccupied. Saithe said, “In addition to the tragedy at Palmer’s Green there were eight other new cases during the night.”
Saracen was surprised at the news for he had left strict instructions that he should be called if any cases of suspected plague should arrive at the General.
Saithe continued and answered Saracen’s unasked question. “All the new cases were admitted to the County Hospital’s isolation unit. The County have agreed to accept all plague cases until the General’s new reception area is fully operational, some time later today.”
“Where did the new cases come from?” asked Saracen.
“All from the Maxton estate,” replied Saithe.
“Contacts of known cases?”
Saithe paused and took a deep breath before saying, “Four were but the other four were not.”
“Four more wild cards,” said Saracen thinking out loud. “What are the chances of getting to the new contacts?”
“In the circumstances…nil.”
“I don’t understand,” said Saracen, totally bewildered by Braithwaite’s air of hopelessness.
It was MacQuillan who replied. He said, “We’ve had a bit of bad news. Porton Down say that the vaccine we have been using is useless against the Skelmore strain.”
Braithwaite added, “I cannot in all conscience ask my staff to continue working without any protection at all.”
“Of course not,” murmured Saracen.
“So what happens now?” asked the hospital secretary to break the ensuing silence.
“We start general quarantine measures. We close all schools, all shops and businesses that are not essential and we tell people to stay indoors. We back it up with the police and the army if necessary.”
“Are Porton working on a new vaccine?” asked Saracen.
“Of course,” replied MacQuillan. “And an antiserum but it will take a little time.”
“Does Col. Beasdale know about all this?” Saracen asked Saithe.
“I told him earlier. I’m awaiting his reaction. Why don’t we all wait together?”
They did not have long to wait before Beasdale called over their special communications link to announce the new measures for the town. From noon Skelmore would be placed under conditions of generalised quarantine as advocated by his medical advisors. Schools, cinemas, businesses, non essential shops would be closed as from mid day. People would be requested to remain indoors although not ordered to do so at this stage. Public gatherings of any sort would be forbidden.
News of the new measures would be given on local radio at eleven thirty after which the radio station would be used exclusively for advice and information on the emergency. The public would be invited to telephone the station with questions which would be dealt with by a panel comprising an army officer, three civilian administrators and the medical superintendent of the County Hospital. “Are there any questions?”
“Have your men been told that their vaccination against plague was ineffectual?” asked Saracen.
“Not in so many words,” replied Beasdale. “But I will have to reverse my original decision about their wearing protective clothing. They will now wear it for all duties in the town. The public will be told that they are trying out the suits as part of an exercise.”
“Let’s hope they are dumb enough to believe it,” said MacQuillan.
“You don’t believe that they will?” asked Beasdale.
“Would you?” retorted MacQuillan.
“Perhaps not,” conceded Beasdale evenly. “But that’s the way it’s going to be.”
Saracen smiled at having discovered that the velvet glove was not empty.
“Now gentlemen,” continued Beasdale. “You have presented me with facts and figures. What I need now is an explanation. Twenty eight people all die together and eight new cases appear during the night. What’s going on?”
MacQuillan said, “The deaths at Palmer’s Green were… unexpected in an epidemiological sense in that they do not fit into the expected pattern of events. I think we have to treat
it as a tragic, one-off occurrence. I would think that the Archers were almost certainly to blame but the exact mechanism of the infection is for the moment unknown and, for that matter, academic. Our main concern must lie in the fact that four of the new cases were not on our list of contacts. This means that we can expect yet more cases.”
“Is the situation out of control?” asked Beasdale directly.
“No,” replied MacQuillan.
“Is it under control?” asked Beasdale.
“No.”
“Then things are still in the balance?”
“Very much so.”
“Thank you gentlemen. Keep me informed and tell me when the General is ready to admit plague cases will you?”
“Of course,” said Saithe.
Saracen inspected the newly completed reception area at two o’clock. He was accompanied by Jenkins, the hospital secretary. It was clean and functional, thought Saracen and the whole area was bedecked with warning signs forbidding entry to the unauthorised. He examined the restored access to the stairs leading to the ward above and saw that Jenkins had been right. There was plenty of room for stretchers.
“It seems fine,” said Saracen.
“Then the General can go on line?” asked the secretary.
“We can go on line.” said Saracen.
When Jenkins had left Saracen phoned Moss at the County Hospital to tell him personally.
“About bloody time,” said Moss.
“Knew you’d be pleased,” said Saracen. “How are things going?”
“Three more this morning.”
“Known contacts?”
“Not on Braithwaite’s list.”
“Not good.”
“To say the least.”
“You’ve heard about the vaccine?”
Moss said that he had.
At four in the afternoon, with the town stunned into enforced idleness, Saracen received the first plague alert for the General. An ambulance was on its way with a forty-five year old male suspect. Saracen checked the name against Braithwaite’s list. It was not there. He swore under his breath.
Saracen donned his protective clothing and headed for the new reception area. One nurse accompanied him, also in full protective gear. They familiarised themselves with the details of the patients while they waited. The man was married with two children and worked for the Water and Drainage Department of the Council. He had no known contact with the Maxton Estate. The sound of a siren in the distance said his arrival was imminent. When the siren stopped Saracen put on his face mask. There was a hospital rule about turning off sirens within a quarter of a mile of the hospital.
The ambulance pulled up outside and its two volunteer attendants, clumsy in plastic suiting, unloaded their patient on to a trolley and brought him inside. The stood by while Saracen examined the man. It did not take long. Saracen’s fear that he might be presented with an atypical case and have trouble reaching a firm diagnosis did not materialise. The patient presented as a classical, text book pneumonic plague.
Saracen nodded to the attendants who, in contravention of normal working practice, had agreed to take all confirmed cases up to the isolation ward. This obviated the need for volunteer porters who would normally have done the job. In a way Saracen was glad that the patient was too ill to realise what was going on around him. Gowns and visors, gloves and scarlet danger signs would not have reassured him. By eight in the evening the General had admitted six patients to Ward Twenty, the County Hospital had taken in another two.
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.
<
br /> 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 amp;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.