by Hugh Franks
As he turned the hot tap with his toes, he began to reflect with a deal of satisfaction on the future. One day he would be head of his father’s business. Indeed, that day might come sooner than many believed possible: Dad wanted to retire before he was 55.
As he put his foot back in the bath water, his body was struck by a sudden severe spasm. His head slipped under the water. His face became contorted, grotesque in agony as he resurfaced, his mouth gushing out the water that he had gulped. His valet discovered his body in the bath ten minutes later.
The death of Lord Helman’s son was uppermost in Mike Clifford’s mind as he entered Eleanor Johnson’s reception room. But that train of thought vanished as he heard the secretary, Julie, explain the strange, disturbing news. Julie, intelligent and pretty, reminded him of a cousin, who was always cheerful. But at this moment Julie was far from cheerful. She was obviously worried.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Dr Clifford,’ she said, ‘but Dr Johnson telephoned to say that she can’t come in this morning. I tried to catch you but you had left.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘She said that she wants to see you very much indeed, but she’s unavoidably tied up. It’s most unlike her. I’ve cancelled all her appointments for this morning.’
‘Unavoidably tied up?’ Mike said, suddenly angry. ‘I don’t have time to waste! Is it a patient of hers?’
‘I’ve no idea, Doctor.’
‘Has she left me a message?’ snapped Mike.
‘Yes. She said she would telephone here on the dot of ten.’
He looked at his watch. Three minutes to go. He could give her those three minutes, no more. Julie beckoned him to a chair. He dismissed the invitation to sit down with a brusque wave of his hand. He began to wonder if Dorman had been on the wrong track. It was possible Eleanor had a good reason.
He suddenly found himself liking the name ‘Eleanor’. Then he wondered if she had a boyfriend. Perhaps there was somebody else. One thing puzzled him; she was too attractive to be on her own. But what did he really know about her? She had told him briefly about the death of her husband in New York, but nothing else. But why should she tell him? He shrugged. Then a faint smile appeared on his face. There he was, in the middle of a worldwide drama of enormous dimensions, worrying about a possible relationship with a woman.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ Julie asked.
‘No, thanks.’ Then the telephone rang and he heard Eleanor’s voice, the voice with that fascinating mixture of American English. But he did not like the concern he heard in her voice.
‘Dr Clifford! I’m so sorry. Can you come round to my flat? I’ve got to see you.’
While listening to Eleanor, he noticed that Julie was staring at him intently. Should he be guarded in his reply? God! he thought, I’m already acting the complicated spy. In medical research, he had learnt to keep an open mind, listen to everything, respect others’ opinions and never resort to deviousness.
‘I suppose I can,’ he said, ‘but I have a busy schedule.’
‘I’m not far away. Julie will tell you where to come. Will you? Please come!’
‘Okay.’
Her voice was full of relief. ‘Thank you so much! And tell Julie I’ll contact her later.’
Mike left her consulting office quickly. He hurried into Harley Street, hoping for a taxi. It was impossible to find an empty one. He remembered that later in the day, the Ministry were to allocate a car and driver to him. As he cursed the slowness of civil servants, he realised how close he was to Brook Street and decided to walk. A few minutes later he was crossing Oxford Street and entering the top of New Bond Street.
He began to think again about the death of John Selwyn, Lord Helman’s son. By the time he got back to Park Crescent the autopsy report would be waiting for him. Somehow, somewhere, soon, the answer would be found. This latest death, coupled with that of the American President’s daughter would … As his thought processes changed he slowed down his pace. How did he know that John Selwyn was connected with the death syndrome? And if he was, who was going to be next? Supposing it was all related to pollution of some kind?
As he turned off New Bond Street into Brook Street, a young woman was walking towards him, a small child clutching the hem of her dress. He smiled at them. They both looked so fit and healthy and from the clothes they wore, very rich. Probably part of the Bond Street set. The lucky ones, who were able to afford the best medical treatment. But these were the people most hit by the wave of sudden deaths.
As he rang the bell of Eleanor’s flat, he had no illusions about himself, of the enormity of the task that faced him. Concern with death could turn us all into a race of hypochondriacs, but it looked more and more like a planned phenomenon, with no holds barred. A world totally divorced from his, a world of intrigue and hate, instead of dedication to the care of people, to the prevention of death and suffering, where everything should be done to prolong life, not shorten it. Prevention, as well as cure – Eleanor’s philosophy – whether she could be of help or not. At this moment he needed to see her. He heard her voice on the entry phone.
The front windows of Eleanor’s flat overlooked that mecca of hotels, Claridges. Once, when she was a child, she had been taken there for a fortnight’s holiday by a rich (very rich) American uncle and aunt. They had purchased the flat she now owned and bequeathed it to her. It had been tempting to sell it, but she had held back, a decision she had never regretted. As she showed Mike the view across the street, she briefly explained to him how she had come to own it.
He was not interested in ownerships of flats, he was more concerned with her nervous tension.
There was a large sofa in front of a huge gas log fireplace. They sat down together, side by side.
‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ he asked. ‘More importantly, what’s wrong with you?’
‘Wrong with me?’
‘Yes.’
She smiled nervously and began, ‘Since meeting you, I’ve been catching up on the news. I’d no idea of the extent of this sudden death syndrome, ENDS, as they all seem to call it.’
‘I’m glad of that. But I don’t like the word the media have coined to describe it.’
‘Why not?’
‘As you know, medically, the word “syndrome” means the concurrence of symptoms in disease, a set of such symptoms.’
‘So?’
‘So, these deaths are all from natural causes.’
‘I know very little about them.’
He looked at her very intently for a moment and asked, ‘Then it came as a surprise when Professor Dorman contacted you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you think he wanted to see you?’
‘I’ve no idea. I suppose he thought I might be of help.’
He found his hands reaching out for hers. She was happy as he enfolded them in his. There was a very long silence as they looked into each other’s eyes.
Suddenly she began to look more worried than ever. He gently squeezed her hands and said, ‘Yes, he did think you might be of help. But let’s get our priorities in some sort of order. I don’t like your worry, your concern. It’s written all over your face.’
‘I’ll sort myself out,’ she said gently. ‘It’s just that so much has happened in the past few days.’
He released her hands and said, ‘You must be terribly tired, after the late-night session with your patient.’ She nodded and he continued, ‘How about a coffee?’
The question relaxed them both. As he followed her into the kitchen, he wondered if it was fair to involve her. What could she do? A doctor of Oriental alternative medicine? There was no doubt about the effectiveness of her treatments, her diagnoses, her preventative skills. She was helping hundreds of patients. The file he had read on her in Professor Dorman’s office was full of praise in those directions. But what could she really do to help? Would it not be better to leave her alone, to let her carry on the work in which she was so deeply in
volved? Yet … why were her skills and talents so successful? He wanted to know more about them.
He went over to the kitchen window that looked out onto Davies Street. On the window ledge there was a large potted plant almost obscuring the view below. Almost, but not quite. Through the leaves Mike could see the building opposite. The words ‘The Grosvenor Estate’ were embossed on a wide brass plate. His eyes wandered down the steps in front of the sign. Standing beside them on the pavement was a tall man. He was looking towards Eleanor’s flat. Was that his bodyguard? If he was, who was watching the Brook Street entrance? It would be impossible to see around the right-hand angle of the junction. Did he have two of them now? God! If so, he was becoming important. He smiled inwardly at the thought, but it also concentrated his mind back on to Eleanor. Perhaps the tall man in Davies Street was watching her. Did she need protection as well? He heard the percolator bubbling and he turned around to find her looking at him.
‘What are you looking at outside?’ she asked.
He did not answer at once, remembering her reaction to his mention of his bodyguard. Then he said, ‘Please don’t get upset. There’s a man outside just standing still and smoking. Perhaps he’s my bodyguard.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled. ‘But don’t you know if he is?’
‘I was told they would be very discreet.’ He smiled and said, ‘Well, prudent. He’s certainly standing out like a sore thumb to me.’
Her emotions were mixed: she felt relieved to know Mike was with her, yet uncertain where it would lead, or how much she should tell him. ‘Let’s sit at the table in here, shall we?’ she said.
They sat down and he asked, ‘Are you going to tell me what’s happened to you in the past few days? What’s really happened.’
‘What’s really happened.’ She repeated his words, thinking of her meeting with Dr Ah-Ming. How could Mike possibly understand? She said, ‘I’m not really sure. I’m feeling very pressurised.’ She looked at Mike and smiled. ‘And I always tell my patients it’s important to keep life well balanced.’
‘That’s a good point,’ Mike agreed, ‘but I still feel that you are …’ he searched for the right words, ‘holding something back.’
She frowned, watching his face carefully, but it was expressionless as she replied, ‘Well, maybe you’re seeing things that don’t exist. You’ve had a lot on your plate too. Milk and sugar?’
‘Only milk. Thanks. So will you tell me?’
She glanced at him and smiled, but it was a nervous smile, unnatural. Could she really trust him? Was her affection for him becoming too strong, too quickly?
As she poured out the milk she said, ‘I received a strange note from the Ministry of Health. It was odd, it worries me.’
She watched his reaction carefully, but he gave nothing away.
‘It wasn’t signed, but it was on Ministry of Health notepaper. It was very strange.’ She paused. ‘I suppose I’ve had so much opposition to my kind of work, to my medical practice. It might have been sent by one of those people.’
‘What did it say?’
She hesitated a moment, smiled gently as she said, ‘Words and letters don’t talk …’
‘What did it contain?’
‘I want to forget it. It was probably written by a crank who despises acupuncture.’
‘It doesn’t worry you that much, then?’
‘Worry?’ There was a note of impatience in her voice. ‘I’ve told you it worries me! It threatened me. It suggested that I should reconsider the pattern of my life and work.’
Mike looked anxious. She liked the expression. He was genuine.
‘That’s terrible,’ Mike said. ‘But as you say, it was probably written by a crank. Has it happened before?
‘Not so much over here, but in the States, yes. When I came here I thought it would be different.’
‘Different?’
‘Yes. Added to which, there are many men who are anti-feminist.’
‘Not in this day and age, and certainly not in our profession.’
‘Perhaps not,’ she replied, trusting him more and more. Why not get to the point quickly? Before he could reply she continued suddenly, ‘Have you taken over the work that Professor Dorman was doing?’
The directness of the question threw Mike for a second; he nodded his head.
Again she got in the first words. ‘Then wouldn’t it be a good idea to tell me what is going on?’
Mike remained silent, looking at her, thinking how closely he could become involved with her – perhaps too close. He wanted to find out from her more, much more about her skills in Oriental medicine, about what was worrying her. He drank a large mouthful of coffee and said, ‘Shall I begin at the beginning?’
‘Yes, begin at the beginning.’
‘And then,’ he smiled, ‘then you must begin at your beginning!’
‘Fair enough,’ she smiled back.
Less than a mile or so away, Ah-Ming was seated behind the desk of his office in London’s Chinatown. Opposite, facing him, sat two Chinese men, both colleagues, both doctors. Ah-Ming had called them in at short notice. They had expected praise, as a direct result of the death of John Selwyn; they quickly sensed that was not going to happen. The cell leader was angry, a very angry man. The tense atmosphere suited his mood, for although his meeting with the American doctor Eleanor Johnson, alias Shousan, had gone as well as he could have wished, he had strong doubts about her. But for the moment, that was another matter.
His manner worried the two men and they looked nervous. One was thin and as cheerless as Ah-Ming the other was heavy-set and gloomy.
Ah-Ming addressed the latter first, leaning forward slightly in his chair. ‘I’ve been told that you ordered the mission against Selwyn?’ his voice sounded accusing as though the large man had been responsible.
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you do that?’
With a shrug of his shoulders, as though protesting that he had done nothing wrong, the reply came quickly. ‘Because it was a name on the list.’
Ah-Ming’s voice was controlled still holding his wrath. ‘But you know that any such mission requires my consent!’
‘Yes, but he had been recommended for a consultation with me months ago – it seemed a golden opportunity.’
Ah-Ming picked up a file which lay on his desk and slowly flicked through its pages. ‘This file shows that Lord Helman’s son was a good friend of China,’ he paused and added, ‘and Japan. And therefore …’
‘But his name was on the list!’
There was silence in the office for a few moments, then Ah-Ming’s anger surfaced. ‘As you know our saying, “Even a good rider will fall one day!”’ he shouted. ‘You are a good doctor but you have fallen! You know full well that I have to vet all missions in this country!’ Turning quickly to the other doctor, he went on unmercifully, ‘Did you know about all this?’
‘I knew the treatment course.’
‘Which was?’
‘Fei Ching.’
‘The meridian of the lungs?’
‘Yes.’
‘You agreed because he was on the list?’
‘I was told he was.’
‘Who told you?’
The thin doctor turned towards his colleague then quickly turned back towards Ah-Ming, saying nothing.
Ah-Ming gazed down at the file on his desk. He knew that there were always replacements, he could pick and choose freely. He suddenly looked up. The two men had made a grave error. They now knew their futures were at stake, but they both stared back at him, nervously, knowing that there was no place for mistakes. Ah-Ming looked at the two men. They were Chinese. Carry Tiger to Mountain was for China. Not the China of War Lords, ineffectual Boxer rebellions and decadent Taiwan and Hong Kong capitalists. The rich Chinese were a good cover for the New China. While they were of use they would remain. But one day…
His thoughts had calmed him. He suddenly smiled, though his eyes were expressionless. ‘As long as
no other mistakes are made, I can probably cover for you this time.’
The two men shifted in their chairs simultaneously, relief showing on their faces as Ah-Ming continued speaking in a calm voice. ‘Remember three vital things for the future: always check out names with me, follow the course of the Tao, and conform to the natural processes of Heaven and Earth.’ He paused and went on with emphasis and emotion. ‘It moves. It moves not. It is far and it is near. It is within all this. And it is outside of all this. In that way, gentlemen, it is easy to manage the whole world!’
As Mike began to explain to Eleanor, as she had put it, ‘what was going on’, she outwardly relaxed as much as she could but inwardly her mind was in turmoil. She was gnawed by thoughts about her dilemmas: her patients, for she had told Julie to cancel her morning appointments, not giving her secretary any explanations; her attempts to telephone China, for she had spent the past few hours telephoning Beijing in the hopes of contacting Chen’s father, only to be told that the old man had died. He would have told her the truth about Chen, whether he was alive or dead. And now the pressure from Ah-Ming! The flat became chilly. She got up and switched on the gas log fire. As she did so, Mike went on talking.
As he spoke, she began to realise how deeply involved he was in the drama. He spoke of how, in the past two years, the Western world had become perplexed by the sudden deaths – everywhere, the medical profession was baffled. It was no longer a question of money; Western governments had provided plenty of that commodity, particularly as politicians had suffered most. He asked her if she was aware of that.
She nodded, saying, ‘Yes, I’m aware of that after what you have said.’
‘And you probably know that there has been total failure to find the cause, let alone the treatment.’