by Ken McClure
“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 amp;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 amp;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.”
“Anything from Porton?”
“Nothing.”
“Damnation,” said Saracen. He told MacQuillan of the would-be escapers.
MacQuillan said, “I’ll call Porton again after the meeting.” The others started to arrive.
“First the figures,” said Saithe. “Despite thirty nine deaths during the night there are of this moment one hundred and twenty nine confirmed cases of plague in the wards.”
MacQuillan let out a long sigh and let his head rest on his chest. Saracen remained impassive but the numbers depressed him.
“Then the general quarantine order has made no difference,” said Jenkins the hospital secretary.
Saithe replied, “We don’t know that yet and we won’t for another four days.” In answer to Jenkins’ puzzled look he said, “The disease has an incubation period of up to six days. The cases that were admitted yesterday were people who had picked up the infection before the order came into force. That will be true of the cases today and those we see tomorrow. Only after that can we expect to see a fall.”
“But the numbers by then…”
�
��Quite so,” said Saithe, cutting Jenkins off. “I was rather hoping for some good news on the vaccine and antiserum front.” Saithe looked to MacQuillan who shook his head and said, “Nothing yet.”
“In that case,” said Saithe slowly, “I think we have to admit that things are slipping away from us. We have a serious space and staffing problem and things look like they are going to get worse.”
“We could open up ward 8A,” said Jenkins. “It’s been closed for re-decoration but in the circumstances…”
Saithe shook his head and said, “It’s not just a question of space. 8A is in the heart of the main hospital.”
“I’m sorry. I should have thought. I’m afraid there’s nothing else.”
“I know,” replied Saithe. “That’s why I propose recommending to Col Beasdale that we open up two of the local schools as temporary plague hospitals. There are two that stand in their own grounds and are therefore isolated from the rest of the community.”
“Makes sense,” said Saracen and MacQuillan agreed.
“But you will need staff,” said Olive Riley.
Saithe smiled and said, “I was coming to that Matron. We will need more nursing volunteers.”
“I am sure you will not find my nurses wanting,” said Olive Riley.
“I am sure we won’t,” agreed Saithe.
“What about equipment?” asked Jenkins.
“Frankly we don’t need much. Without antiserum there is little or nothing we can do for these people save let them die with a little more dignity and in a little less discomfort than might otherwise have been so.”
“I see,” said Jenkins.
“Can we agree on the schools?” asked Saithe. There was universal approval. Saithe called Beasdale to make his report. When he had finished speaking Beasdale asked, “Is Dr MacQuillan there?”
MacQuillan cleared his throat and said, “Yes, I’m here.”
“The antiserum, Doctor. Where is it?”
“I’m just about to call Porton.”
“Call me back when you have.” The line went dead and people exchanged surprised glances at Beasdale’s abruptness. Saithe said, “I think we are all interested in the outcome of that call. Shall we wait?”
MacQuillan left the room to call Porton and was back after less than a minute. “They will call me back this afternoon,” he said.
“Is that all?” asked Saithe.
“Yes.”
Saracen was as disappointed as everyone else but he was more than disappointed, he was afraid. He had just seen that look in MacQuillan’s eyes, the one he had first seen on Palmer’s Green.
Chapter Thirteen
Saracen found Tremaine in the locker room. He did not look up when Saracen came in but instead continued to stare at the floor. His general demeanour made Saracen wait for the younger man to say something first.
“God knows what we are going to do with them all,” murmured Tremaine, still hanging his head. “It was just an endless stream of people passing through on their way to the grave. There was nothing I could do…” Tremaine looked up and Saracen saw the look of despair in his eyes.
“Absolutely nothing. I might just have well been a plumber or a postman… “
“There’s nothing any of us can do until we get the antiserum,” said Saracen, resting his hand on the other man’s shoulder. He told Tremaine about the opening up of the schools to cope with the increasing numbers of patients. He had intended to ask Tremaine to work on for a bit had now changed his mind after seeing how hard he was taking it. He would cover plague reception on his own and ask Jamieson to work a double shift with Prahesh Singh in A amp;E.
Saracen found that the list of known plague contacts was two days out of date. He phoned the Public Health Department to find out why. When he got no reply he called Saithe’s office and asked about it. He was told that there would be no more lists. “Dr Braithwaite has suffered a complete nervous breakdown,” he was told by Saithe’s secretary. No fewer than four of his staff had gone down with plague and to all intents and purposes the Public Health Department had ceased to function. “Bloody marvellous,” said Saracen under his breath.
There was a phone message mid morning for Saracen. It was relayed to him from A amp;E and said simply that Nurse Rawlings wanted him to contact her. Saracen knew that it had to be something important and called at the first opportunity.
“James? Thank God, it’s Lindeman! She collapsed this morning. I think she’s got it. I think we are all going to get it!”
“Calm down Jill,” said Saracen but his stomach was turning over. “If Lindeman has got it she must have been careless and that’s not surprising the way she’s been overworking; she was bound to slip up sooner or later.”
“But she was the one we all looked up to,” said Jill with a sob in her voice.
“I know,” soothed Saracen. “I’ll come up and see her as soon as I can. I’m also going to see about some proper relief for you and the other nurses. It’s about time you had a break.”
Two hours had passed before Saracen managed to find time enough to go up and see Moira Lindeman. By that time the first of the schools had been made ready and cases destined for it were to be cleared through the County Hospital. This took the pressure off the General until such times as the second school became operational.
Jill came forward to meet Saracen as he entered the plague ward. Like him she was dressed in full protective gear. She gave a wan smile and Saracen smiled back. Inside his head he was suffused with guilt over what had happened with Claire Tremaine. Telling himself that there was nothing to be ashamed of and that there was no commitment between himself and Jill had not helped. He still felt ashamed. Maybe the feeling was telling him something, he reasoned. Maybe he did have a commitment to Jill?
It did not take long to see that conditions in the ward were atrocious and apart from the obvious overcrowding the air was filled with the stench of vomit and the moans of the dying.
“We can’t get enough clean linen,” said Jill. “People in the laundry are afraid to touch our stuff despite the fact that it goes through a steriliser first” Jill opened a door and led Saracen inside. The blinds were drawn but cold, grey shafts of light sought out the cracks and provided enough light for Saracen to make out the forms of eighteen sheet-covered corpses. They were lined up on the floor and were lying two deep. “Our makeshift mortuary,” said Jill. “It was emptied three hours ago.”
Saracen shook his head but could not find words. Jill led him out and along the corridor to another room. “Sister is in here,” she said. This was her office; we thought she should keep it.”
A nurse was sitting by the bed; she stopped sponging Moira Lindeman’s face and got up when Jill and Saracen entered. “Give me a few moments alone with her will you,” asked Saracen and Jill and the other nurse went outside. Saracen looked at the drawn face of Moira Lindeman and saw the sweat glisten on her forehead and the quiver in her lip. He sat down where the nurse had been sitting and gently wiped away the perspiration from Lindeman’s eyes. She opened them and Saracen saw a flicker of recognition. It pleased him. He smiled and Lindeman tried to speak. “Shouldn’t…have…come…”
“I had to,” said Saracen but then he saw that his protective gear had prevented Lindeman from hearing what he had said. He removed his mask and visor and repeated it, overriding the look of protest with a slight gesture of his hand. “Don’t try to speak,” he said gently. “There have been so many times in my life when I’ve wanted to say something and ended up letting the moment pass that this time I thought it had to be different. This time I am going to say it. For what it’s worth my lady you are one of the finest nurses I ever met and one of the most noble human beings.”
The suggestion of a smile appeared at the corner of Lindeman’s mouth but remained stillborn. “It’s worth …a lot,” she whispered, closing her eyes again with the effort.
“Get some rest now,” said Saracen and got up quietly to retreat to the door. “Sleep.”
Saracen left the ward suspecting that he would not see Moira Lindeman alive again. The thought added bitterness to the depression that was growing inside him like a cancer. He phoned Saithe about the need to relieve the nurses in Ward Twenty but with little success. Saithe maintained that he and Olive Riley were well aware of the situation but all the latest nursing volunteers had been used up in staffing the schools. There was nothing that they could do.
“Does Col Beasdale know about the shortage of nurses?” asked Saracen.
“The colonel has all the facts.”
“Then nursing volunteers could be brought in from outside Skelmore.”
“They don’t want to do that,” replied Saithe haltingly.
“Why the hell not?”
“It’s government policy to play down the situation in Skelmore as much as possible, keep the affair local at all costs. They are using the typhoid outbreak in Aberdeen in the sixties as a working model to handle things. If we start making nationwide appeals for help the cat will be well and truly out of the bag.”
“It’s going to come to that sooner or later,” said Saracen angrily.
“They would rather it was later,” said Saithe.
“How much later?”
“They want to give the antiserum a chance. In theory there should be a dramatic improvement in the situation within a few days and we will have control again.”
“But we will need even more nurses when people start recovering,” said Saracen.
“True, but it will be easier and more acceptable to the powers that be if we have an effective vaccine and antiserum at the time of the appeal. If we can synchronise our appeal for help with the announcement that we can now cure the disease then there will be no risk of panic. You do see the logic?”
“I see it,” said Saracen flatly. “Let’s hope the nurses in Ward Twenty appreciate it.”