The Chemical Detective

by Fiona Erskine

  Petr rushed over to intercept them. ‘Keep to the path. It’s been decontaminated out here, but inside there are radioactive hotspots. Anyway, the buildings have not been maintained, some are no longer structurally sound.’ He nodded at the warning signs.

  The group traipsed towards the lake where their bus waited for them.

  A dog howled. Svetlana started talking in a low, dreamlike voice. ‘We cycled out for a picnic – here, at the lake, to watch the firemen. It was such a warm weekend. I thought it was exciting, the beautiful red glow in the sky.’

  ‘Your parents let you?’

  ‘They didn’t know how dangerous it was. No one knew.’

  ‘Some knew, but said nothing,’ Brad said.

  ‘The next day, the buses came for us. We couldn’t take much, but they told us it was only for three days. We had to leave Sasha, our dog, behind. They told us they’d take care of him, there was nothing to worry about.’ She wiped a tear from her eyes. ‘He ran after the bus. He didn’t understand why we were leaving him. He ran down the road for miles and miles. Barking. All the way. I was crying.’ She was weeping openly now. ‘Crying for Sasha.’

  Jaq followed her gaze. A long, straight road. Conifers on either side. Her stomach twisted.

  ‘I promised Sasha. I promised to come back for him.’

  Brad held her hand. ‘You were a child, Svetty. You weren’t allowed to go back. No one was allowed. Your parents did what they had to do.’

  ‘I keep thinking I hear Sasha.’

  ‘They shot all the animals,’ Pip said. Svetlana winced and Brad glared at her. ‘They had to, didn’t they? They could have wandered out of the zone. Spread the radiation.’

  ‘Sweetheart, you’re not helping your mother—’

  ‘She’s not my mother!’ the girl hissed.

  Jaq backed away. Megan followed her. ‘She’s right, though,’ the pale woman whispered. ‘What did the animals do to deserve it? It wasn’t their fault.’

  Jaq said nothing. What could she say? When terrible things happen, the vulnerable suffer most: the elderly, the sick, pregnant women, babies, children, animals.

  Megan wheeled in front of Jaq, forcing her to stop. Jaq narrowed her eyes. There was something unsettling about Megan up close. Red hair scraped back into a bun so tight it stretched her skin and made her watery green eyes protrude from their red rims. Her pale skin was dotted with freckles. Her choice of clothes – unbleached cotton shirt, hessian pantaloons and flat leather brogues – contrasted oddly with the bright lipstick, a purple slash across her thin lips. A large silver cross on a long chain bounced as she moved.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ Megan pointed at a clump of weeds growing out of a tree stump. She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Wormwood.’

  An unremarkable plant, a small bush with red stalks, light green fronds and a cascade of yellow flowers. Megan bent forward, as if to pluck a flower.

  Jaq extended a hand to stop her. ‘Best not to touch—’

  Megan grabbed Jaq’s hand. ‘Wormwood,’ she repeated, and brought her face so close Jaq could see the blood vessels in her eyes. ‘The Ukrainians call it chornobyl. All this,’ she waved at the remains of the power plant in the distance, ‘this catastrophe was predicted in the Bible.’

  Oh, great, just great. Stuck in a post-apocalyptic radioactive hellhole, on a hopeless search for a locker, with a cheerleader for the God squad. And her stomach hurt like hell. Could her day get any better?

  ‘Book of Revelation, chapter eight.’ Megan’s voice changed as she opened her mouth wide to declaim in a monotone. ‘“And the third angel sounded . . .”’

  The halitosis from the woman’s mouth made Jaq gag and she tried to pull away, but Megan tightened the grip on her hand.

  ‘“. . . a great star fell from heaven burning . . . upon the fountains of waters . . .”’

  The queasy feeling in Jaq’s stomach had taken on a life of its own. This time she wrenched free and stepped back. The air around her turned white, a high-pitched whine thrummed in her ears and bile rushed into her mouth.

  Megan raised both her hands into the air. ‘“And the name of the star is called Wormwood . . . and . . . many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter”.’

  Jaq collapsed onto the tree stump beside Megan and bent her head.

  ‘Hey, you can’t sit there . . .’ Petr came running.

  Jaq clutched her stomach and groaned. ‘I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘What is it?’ Brad rushed towards Petr. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  The waves of nausea accelerated until she could no longer control the spasms, and Jaq turned her head away and vomited. Again and again.

  Petr ushered the group towards the bus and waited beside her until the retching stopped.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Petr offered a handkerchief. ‘Can you make it back in the bus?’

  Pip glared at her father. ‘She’s not coming with us, is she?’

  Jaq wiped her mouth and looked up at the group hovering by the steps of the bus. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m going to be sick again.’ And worse.

  ‘Radiation sickness!’ Pip shrieked. ‘She’s just the first. We’ve been to all the same places. We’ve all caught it. We have to get out of here!’

  Petr bent down and lowered his voice. ‘Did you eat anything?’

  Jaq shook her head. ‘Nothing.’ Nothing since breakfast. Not even breakfast. Just the slice of watermelon. At the thought of it, her stomach heaved again.

  ‘“And the name of the star is called Wormwood”!’ Megan screeched and moved towards them.

  Petr intercepted Megan, standing between her and Jaq. ‘Please calm down and get on the bus.’

  Megan dodged round him and ran back to the patch of wormwood. ‘“And the waters were made bitter”!’ She began twirling, round and round. Her hair came loose from the clasp and red curls fanned out around her face as her voice grew louder and louder. ‘“And many men died of the waters”!’

  The American girl screamed.

  ‘I’m calling for help,’ Petr said.

  Jaq vomited again. Other members of the tour group began to wail.

  ‘“And the name of the star is called Wormwood”!’

  The shouts became louder as Brad pushed his daughter back into the bus.

  ‘“And the name of the star is called Chernobyl”!’

  ‘Jaq.’ Petr returned and bent down beside her. A warm hand on her shaking shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to get the group out of here. Do you understand?’

  Jaq nodded and waved him away.

  ‘Stay here. Don’t move. The medical team are sending an ambulance for you.’ He hesitated. ‘I’d rather stay, but . . .’

  ‘Go!’ Jaq managed a wan smile. ‘Just take the lunatic with you!’

  Jaq wasn’t sure how Petr loaded everyone back on the bus, but when it trundled away and the wailing and shouting finally faded, the silence was glorious. Now that her stomach was empty, the pain in her abdomen abated. The sun warmed the back of her neck and she stopped shivering as she turned west to face it. A giant ball of radioactivity up there in the sky. A huge atom bomb. The energy source of all life on earth.

  Was she suffering radiation sickness? Unlikely. Even the men who received fatal doses on the night of the reactor explosion didn’t display the symptoms until hours or days later. Much more likely to be something she ate in Kiev. Her breath came more slowly and her clenched muscles relaxed. The silence was not so silent now. Nature had taken over, laying on a concerto especially for her.

  First came the smaller insects, beating wings, a low background hum. Then the bees, the buzz of activity as they danced directions for the hive. The flap of a bird’s wing followed by a splash as it plunged into the lake, the massive cooling pond created for the nuclear power plant. The rustle of long grasses. A little mammal – a shrew? No, bigger – a beaver. The chatter of a woodpecker and the song of a thrush. The neigh of a miniature horse lapping water wit
h a long pink tongue at the edge of the lake, tossing its silver mane as a foal joined it.

  The howl of an animal. A dog? The ghost of Sasha? Or a wolf.

  She vomited again.

  Where was the ambulance?

  Wednesday 1 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine

  The medical centre, assembled from a set of lead-lined shipping containers, was kitted out with every modern medical device. The walls inside were smooth and white, bright halogen lights recessed into the ceiling giving the interior the feel of a spaceship. Jaq lay on the stretcher and shaded her eyes.

  The ambulance staff had arrived in Pripyat shortly after Petr and Megan and the rest of the tour party left. Just before the wolves. Despite her protests, the paramedics insisted on wrapping her in a foil blanket, strapping her onto a stretcher and inserting a drip into her arm to feed a cocktail of fluids directly into her veins. She was feeling quite disorientated by the time they handed her over at the decontamination suite.

  Bleep . . . bleep-bleep . . . bleep. A nurse scanned her with a portable instrument. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he assured her. ‘Quite normal, low even. Whatever made you sick, it’s not the radiation.’

  He showed her the readings. Liquid crystal display on a silver screen. Numbers, just numbers. What was in a number? After the accident, the managers at Reactor Number Four reassured Moscow about the radiation. While high, it had not exceeded four. Their instruments only went up to four. When they brought in a wider-range instrument and it too went off the scale, they decided it was broken. They couldn’t believe the readings. Man’s ability to fool himself is legendary. Woman’s, too. Why had she come here? Her hand strayed to the key around her neck.

  The doctor arrived, a gruff Finnish woman with a blonde bob wearing a white paper suit. She asked Jaq questions – what had she done with the tour group, when had she last eaten, what had she eaten.

  ‘Aha, watermelon!’ she exclaimed when Jaq told her about the street seller in the park. ‘Never touch watermelon here. It’s a giant sponge, sucks up dirty water and barely filters it. Any bacteria remain in the flesh.’ She shook her head. ‘Radionuclides, too. We’d better err on the safe side and check out all possibilities.’ She explained the tests.

  ‘When was your last period?’

  Jaq counted back. ‘Ten days ago.’ Regular as the moon.

  ‘Is there any possibility that you are pregnant?’

  Jaq shook her head. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Undress, please.’

  Jaq shivered as she removed her clothes and slipped into a white paper gown.

  ‘That key as well.’ The doctor pointed to the yellow ribbon round her neck.

  Jaq hesitated. After all this effort she didn’t want to be parted from the key. She looked up at the doctor, realised she had no choice and reluctantly handed it over.

  Once the doctor had finished the examination and samples had been dispatched to the lab, she explained how the emergency medical centre had been pre-assembled and brought in for the workers on the New Safe Confinement project. The medical staff monitored and controlled the exposure to radiation, but they also dealt quickly with the conventional injuries of a big construction site; slips, trips and falls had the potential to be much more serious in such a contaminated area.

  When the first test results came back from the lab they indicated Staphylococcus aureus: food poisoning.

  ‘The worst is probably over. We’ll need to keep you hydrated for twelve hours, but not here.’ The doctor handed Jaq the tray containing her belongings and then stopped to peer at the key. ‘I thought you were with the tour group,’ she said.

  Jaq’s scrutinised her face, trying to read the reason for the reaction. ‘Day off,’ she said. ‘I’m an engineer.’ As if it explained anything.

  ‘They didn’t tell me.’ The doctor scratched her head. ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘Just arrived.’

  ‘But you left something in Sector Twelve?’

  Sector Twelve? Did the number on the key contain some sort of location code? Jaq waited.

  ‘I wonder why they put you in Sector Twelve, I thought it was empty.’ The doctor stood and inspected a large map on the wall. She started at Reactor Number Four and followed a thin line, highlighted in yellow. The line of the steel rails which would be used to carry the giant sarcophagus – the new containment for the core – and slide it over the stricken reactor. Her finger continued back to the New Safe Confinement construction site and the medical centre and then moved north-west, almost to the border with Belarus, where a workers’ dormitory was shown, labelled with the number twelve. ‘Well, it’s a good place for isolation and there’s a medical room. Do you want to go back to Sector Twelve?’

  The urge to vomit gripped Jaq. She barely had time to agree before her stomach emptied itself into the basin, acid burning her throat and nose.

  ‘Okay, Sector Twelve it is.’ The doctor called for the nurse. ‘Let me know when you feel strong enough to move, and I’ll arrange the transport.’

  If Jaq hadn’t felt so wretched, she would have cheered.

  Wednesday 1 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine

  Night was falling as the ambulance turned off a straight forest road and stopped in front of a wooden building. The dormitory in Sector Twelve appeared far from deserted: lights on and faces at every window. If anything, it looked positively overcrowded.

  It seemed that others thought so, too. Jaq waited in the ambulance while an argument raged in front of the headlights. The superintendent of the dormitory had the stance of a formidable woman – short and square with a lofty blonde beehive, hands on hips, legs planted wide apart. She couldn’t hear what was said, but the body language was eloquent. Minha Nossa Senhora. Any moment now she’d be found out. The superintendent would deny all knowledge of her, demand to know why she was impersonating a worker on the New Safe Confinement project, how she’d come by a locker key. The real workers would denounce her.

  Dimitri, the nurse who accompanied Jaq in the ambulance, was not, however, a man who took no for an answer. He’d been told to set Jaq up in the medical room of Sector Twelve with a rehydration drip, and he intended to obey orders. And he prevailed.

  As Jaq followed him into the little room, the hostile stares of women drilled into her back. ‘Do you know any of these people?’ Dimitri asked.

  ‘I’m new,’ Jaq said.

  At this the superintendent turned and inspected her with something approaching a smile before she closed the door.

  ‘Rather you than me,’ Dimitri said. ‘This place gives me the creeps.’ He set up a new drip. ‘Get some rest. This will last twelve hours. Only water for another twelve. I suggest you get a thorough medical back in Kiev.’

  Jaq dozed. Chatter. Shouts. A bell ringing. Clattering of glass and china. Footsteps. Doors closing.

  As the voices faded away, the noises of the night grew louder. Wind in the trees, pitter-patter of rain on a plastic roof. Creaks and juddering as the building cooled and contracted.

  Her stomach muscles ached, but it was the insistent pounding of her heartbeat that kept her awake. She checked her watch; several hours had passed since she last vomited. Could she risk exploring the building? The Finnish doctor didn’t even have to look at the number to know the key was for a locker in Sector Twelve. Why? Abloy was a Finnish lock company. The massive construction project – New Safe Confinement – was made up of several consortia: French, Italian, German, Swedish, Norwegian . . . why not Finnish, too? The door and windows were smooth blond wood with stainless steel fittings, a clean, modern design. A modular construction built in the safety of a factory and then shipped in pre-assembled modules to the contaminated zone.

  Sergei had left Snow Science for a job in the Ukraine. The New Safe Confinement project? He would be a perfect candidate – an engineer, native tongue Ukrainian, familiar with the Chornobyl complex.

  Jaq crept to the door of the medical room, the portable drip trailing behind
. She pressed an ear against the door. All quiet. Her legs wobbled. Food poisoning? Trepidation? No – excitement. The key seared her skin. The locker must be nearby. She was sure of it.

  Her heart jumped to her mouth as she opened the door and peered out. One corridor led back to the main door – the way she’d come in – and another branched off at right angles into darkness. Where was the locker room?

  Jaq padded into the corridor. The liquid sloshed in the bag as she lifted the drip stand wheels over the door seal. Her bare feet made a slicking noise on the grey linoleum of the corridor. She stopped before each intersection to listen and took a left turn at the first crossroads.

  Stop. Laughter drifting down the corridor. Someone coming. Hide. But where? Jaq crouched in the shadow of a stairwell, hoping the gleaming metal drip stand was not too obvious. Two women strolled past hand in hand carrying towels and shower bags. Jaq held her breath, exhaling only when they turned the next corner. At the sound of running water she followed the route they had taken. Water meant showers. Showers meant changing rooms. Changing rooms meant lockers. She found a new stairwell to hide in. Her legs began to shake. She longed to sit or to lie down, but she risked wrenching the drip from her arm if she tried. She couldn’t even lean against the wall, the drip stand prevented her from moving fully under the stairs. Each cramped minute felt like an hour. When the two women returned, Jaq caught a faint whiff of apple as they passed. Once the corridor fell silent again, Jaq resumed her search for the amenities, making two wrong turns before she found it.

  The changing room door had a large number five stencilled on the front. It opened on to a tiled room. A series of wooden benches gave way to a row of showers. She clutched her stomach as it heaved in response to the wall of smell – synthetic apple: pentyl pentanoate – and found a toilet. Individual stalls with doors. On the far side of the benches opposite the showers – a bank of lockers. Rows and rows of them. With the red spot and the magic word. Abloy.

  But none with the number 12016834.

  Damn.