by Louise Welsh
Stevie tried to push images of teeth and dissected spines from her mind.
‘What did they do?’
‘They found a pharmaceutical firm that would manufacture their form of the drug, set up their own company, Fibrosyop, and decided to offer the treatment privately.’
It chimed with what Nurse Webb had said.
‘So only rich people could afford it?’
Iqbal leant forward. ‘Do you have kids?’
The question was unexpected. It made her think of Joanie and Derek, the IVF treatments Joanie had only told Stevie about after Derek had left.
‘No.’ Stevie stretched her shoulders, trying to loosen the knot of muscles in her neck.
‘Neither do I,’ Iqbal said. ‘But I know that if I did, I’d do anything for them.’
‘I guess that’s the way it’s meant to be.’
‘Exactly.’ Iqbal smiled. His teeth were white, and so evenly spaced he could be mistaken for an American. ‘So it wasn’t only rich people who accessed the treatment. Parents raised money in whatever ways they could. Some of them more or less bankrupted themselves.’
‘A nurse I spoke to said that by offering the treatment privately, Simon and his colleagues hoped they’d find a way to make it cheaper.’
‘No doubt. But I’m betting they got rich in the process.’
Stevie remembered Simon’s exclusive apartment, the fast cars, five-star hotels and expensive meals.
‘I don’t see where this gets us. It might not be the prettiest story, a bunch of doctors profiting from sick kids, but they weren’t doing anything against the law.’
‘That’s true. But the treatment wasn’t fail-safe.’ Iqbal flicked through the sheaf of papers. ‘The raw data on Simon’s computer is a record of results of the trials they did. I haven’t worked my way through all of it yet, but it seems straightforward enough so far.’ He pulled a page from the pile and handed it to her. ‘I did, however, take a break from the data to do a bit of extra digging. Have a look at this.’
He maximised a window on the laptop and a website burst across the screen. The site was simple, an amateur job, but it had been made with passion.
DO NOT TRUST YOUR CHILDREN TO FIBROSYOP screamed the banner. A photograph of a smiling girl, wearing a party dress and glittery doodle boppers, took up most of the screen. It had been taken at Christmas-time and a silver tree, decorated with tinsel and baubles, sparkled in the background. The image was so full of colour that it was an instant before Stevie realised that the girl was in a wheelchair, her neck supported by a headrest. The text surrounding the photo was a passionate invective against Fibrosyop.
Joy Summers had been seven years old when she had died after undergoing treatment by Simon’s team. Her father was convinced that the doctors were to blame. Stevie wondered if Mr Summers had written his report of his daughter’s early death in the first throes of grief. His pain resonated in every accusation.
‘This is the treatment that Simon helped to develop?’
‘One and the same. I don’t know if he was justified or not, but Joy Summers’ father had a definite grudge.’ Iqbal clicked on a link to a newspaper article, with the air of a magician completing a trick. ‘After his daughter died, his wife committed suicide. They had already sold their house to pay for the treatment. He lost pretty much everything.’
Stevie scanned the article. Polly Summers had taken an overdose. Her husband Melvin had found her lying in their daughter’s bed, the child’s photograph face down on the sheet beside her.
‘Horrible.’
‘Imagine how it was for Melvin Summers. Maybe he decided he had nothing left to lose and took the law into his own hands.’
‘Simon was killed by someone with medical knowledge. They managed to make his death look natural.’
Iqbal grinned. ‘Did I mention that Mr Summers was a dentist? These guys are experts in anaesthetics. He’d know the best way to knock someone out, and the difference between a long sleep and the big sleep.’
‘I don’t know.’ Stevie spoke gently, not wanting to rain on his parade. ‘Mr Summers may have had a motive, but why would that make Simon hide his computer in my flat? I’m not sure it ties up.’
Iqbal’s smile faded. She could see his zeal waning, tiredness winning the battle. He screwed up a piece of paper and tossed it in the wastepaper basket.
Stevie asked, ‘What was that?’
‘Summers’ address.’
Stevie fished the paper from the bin and smoothed it flat. It was a close-up of a leafy cul-de-sac taken from Google Earth. The street had been surveyed on a bright, sunny day. A woman walking a golden Labrador was frozen mid-step outside a red-roofed apartment block. One of the flats was ringed in blue felt-tip. The street might have been anywhere in the city, were it not for the address printed neatly in the margin.
‘How did you find it?’
‘It was easy. Summers isn’t such a common name and the report on his wife’s suicide gave his age. I found him on the electoral role and cross-checked against council tax records. It took less than ten minutes.’
Iqbal picked a cluster of paper clips from a jar on the desk and started to thread them together. There was something self-conscious about the way he was avoiding her gaze. A thought occurred to Stevie and she asked, ‘Did you check up on where I live too?’
Iqbal let the chain of paper clips fall back into the jar. She saw a blush spreading across his face and laughed. It was a welcome release.
‘I looked you up on the Web. I’m afraid Shop TV is a little loose with info about its presenters. It gave me more than enough to go on.’ Iqbal took a piece of paper from his pocket, crumpled it into a ball and sent it into the bin. ‘That’s another problem with the Net. It’s too easy to find out things you shouldn’t want to know.’
Stevie had a sudden urge to take his hand in hers. She clasped her fingers together.
‘I’ll check Melvin Summers out. You’re right, he might be a lead.’ She laughed again. ‘Listen to me. I sound like a real detective.’ This time she reached out and touched him. ‘You should get some rest.’
Iqbal looked beyond her, out towards the lights of the city. Now that he was no longer absorbed in the documents his mouth had a worried set to it.
‘I shouldn’t have looked up your address.’
‘It’s okay.’ Stevie gave in to her impulse and sandwiched his hand between hers. Iqbal’s fingers felt warm and dry. She squeezed them. ‘I’m flattered.’
Iqbal returned her squeeze, a gentle pulse of flesh on flesh. He said, ‘There’s something happening out there.’
It was quiet in the flat amongst the glow of the computer screens. Stevie asked, ‘Is it getting worse?’
‘The official media is playing it down, but #sweats is just about the only topic on twitter. According to it and other sites I looked at while you were asleep, the sweats are spreading.’ Iqbal stroked the back of her hand. ‘I’m glad PC Caniparoli sent you here. Working through the data is just about the best distraction I could have had.’
‘Derek said that I was fiddling while Rome burns.’
‘What else is there to do?’ Iqbal sounded hopeful.
Stevie let go of his hand.
‘Watch television?’
She got up, took the TV remote control from its dock on the shelves, pointed it at the television and clicked. The same images as before flashed on to the screen: the hospital wards, the masked scientist staring intently at the test tube as he introduced something into it, drip by careful drip.
V5N6 IS NO RESPECTER OF AGE OR SOCIAL CLASS. SCIENTISTS ACROSS THE WORLD ARE TAKING PART IN AN UNPRECEDENTED COLLABORATION TO FIND A VACCINE. MEANWHILE PEOPLE ARE BEING ADVISED TO TAKE SOME SIMPLE PRECAUTIONS.
Stevie looked over her shoulder at Iqbal. ‘You were right. It’s better not to touch.’ She turned her attention back to the screen.
LIMIT TRAVEL TO NECESSARY JOURNEYS. DO NOT HOARD FOOD OR PETROL.
Iqbal got up from his seat and
stood behind her. Stevie could smell the fragrance of the fabric conditioner he washed his clothes with, and beneath that his own sharp scent. He rested his fingers gently on her shoulders, a feather-light touch more warmth than weight.
REPORTS OF WIDESPREAD INFECTION HAVE BEEN CONDEMNED AS ALARMIST BY THE GOVERNMENT
‘The more I consider it, the more I think it might be worse not to touch.’ Iqbal squeezed her shoulders gently. Stevie felt his breath on the back of her neck and then the trace of his lips, dry and delicate, at the top of her spine. She felt her body respond and whispered, ‘I might be a carrier.’
THE MINISTER FOR HEALTH HAS URGED INTERNET USERS AND THE MEDIA TO MAKE CLEARER DISTINCTIONS BETWEEN HARD NEWS AND RUMOUR
Iqbal pulled the left strap of her vest to one side and grazed her shoulder with his teeth.
‘I know.’ His mouth continued its progress across her shoulder and his words were a murmur. ‘But maybe the news is right and reports of multiple deaths are much exaggerated.’
‘My best friend died of it.’
He kissed the top of her head again. ‘Would you like me to stop?’
Stevie hesitated for a beat. Thinking about Joanie had made her remember how alone she was.
‘No.’
He shifted her other strap and ran the tip of his tongue along Stevie’s right shoulder, making her gasp.
‘The sweats has some positive outcomes.’ Iqbal’s teeth found the sensitive spot between her neck and her shoulder. ‘It makes men bolder. I guess, in the end, all we are is a bundle of cells with the same needs as a mayfly.’
Stevie shivered and leant into him. Iqbal was slim and light compared to Simon’s solid bulk, but the heat of him, his urgency, recalled Simon, and she found herself wanting to be overwhelmed. Stevie turned to face him, still in the orbit of his arms. She whispered, ‘Maybe we shouldn’t.’
‘Maybe we should.’ Iqbal caught her hands in his, holding her embrace tight. ‘People like you are survivors. I’m just a computer geek, the kind of guy who gets shot in the first frames of the movie.’
Stevie remembered her mother, the months of battling, the growing indignities that had turned her into someone else, and the final relief of defeat. She said, ‘It’s not as simple as that. Life isn’t like the cinema. No one’s invulnerable, no matter how strong they are. We can’t predict who’ll live and who’ll die.’
Iqbal whispered, ‘This might be the last chance either of us ever gets.’
Stevie laughed. ‘Do you hit every girl you meet with the please-make-love-to-me-before-I-die-of-the-plague chat-up line?’
He touched her hair with his face. She felt him breathe in her scent the way Simon had done when they were making love.
‘Not usually.’
‘Good, because only an idiot would fall for it.’ Stevie raised her face and they kissed. She felt Iqbal’s body tremble and knew that beneath his desire he was shy. The realisation emboldened her and she pulled off her vest.
Iqbal ran his hands the length of her body, stroking her breasts through her bra, exploring the slide of her back, the slope of her rear. She whispered, ‘Are you sure?’ and he led her up the floating staircase to his bed. Iqbal’s body was smooth, his skin almost as soft as her own. She tried not to think of Simon’s broad chest, the rough, gratifying weight of him, as she let Iqbal touch his lips to her bruises. He traced his fingertips across her body, his caress so light that when she closed her eyes Stevie was barely sure that he was there. She saw his hand on her thigh and thought, we are all flesh. Then Iqbal leant across her, turned out the lights and they clung to each other in the dark.
Twenty-Three
In the hours they had spent in bed, it had grown obvious what was wrong with the view from Iqbal’s apartment. There were fewer street lights than there should have been, and whole districts of the city were now sunk in darkness.
Stevie stood at the window, trying to work out which neighbourhoods were illuminated, but it was like trying to map an unfamiliar galaxy and she gave up. Iqbal was still in bed, sprawled beneath the duvet, sleeping like the dead.
She had lain on her side watching the gentle rise and fall of his breaths, and been surprised by two contradictory emotions: a stab of guilt at being unfaithful to Simon, and an urge to close her eyes, give in and stay with Iqbal. It would be the sensible thing to do. Sit tight, tune into the TV and radio and wait until things worked themselves out. But it would be a kind of death too.
Stevie padded downstairs in her bare feet and got dressed. She copied Simon’s files on to the memory stick Iqbal had given her and then printed out two copies of each. It might only be a matter of time before the electricity failed here too, or the Internet went down. She left one of the bundles of printouts on Iqbal’s desk and tried to compose a note, but there was too much and too little to say. In the end she scribbled her mobile number on a scrap of paper, added her name and a kiss: Stevie X. It would have to do. She hesitated over Simon’s laptop, wondering if she should take it with her, but decided to leave it where it was. It was safer at Iqbal’s, one computer hidden amongst many, the same way that Simon’s murder would have been one small death amongst thousands, were it not for the letter he had left her.
Stevie had her hand on the front door when she suddenly turned back, booted the computer up again and printed out the photograph of the two of them laughing together in Russell Square. She folded it into a small square and slipped it into the zip pocket of her tracksuit. The bottle of antibacterial gel was on the desk, next to a set of keys. She hesitated, and then shoved them both in her satchel and left, closing the door gently behind her, careful not to wake Iqbal.
The satnav instructed her to follow an unfamiliar route. Stevie obeyed its directions, slipping along residential roads and dual carriageways, passing parks and parades of shops, moving in and out of darkness like a restless sleeper sliding in and out of consciousness.
London had always been a city of contrasts, but tonight it seemed a place divided into light and shadows. She travelled through streets where every gate was bolted, every shop shuttered, every window a closed unblinking eye. Then she would turn a corner into bright lights and see drinkers crowding pavements outside pubs whose closing bell should have rung hours ago.
Stevie stopped at a red light and saw a man standing beneath a flickering lamppost, raising his arms in the air. She rolled down her window and heard him shout, ‘The four horsemen of the Apocalypse have saddled their horses and are galloping towards us.’ He put a hand to his ear. ‘Can you hear their spurs? Do you feel their breath against your neck? Soon the honest dead will rise from their graves and all sinners will be cast into Hell’s fire.’ The man saw Stevie watching him and pointed at her. ‘You know the pain of burnt flesh. Imagine the pain of burning all over your body, for all time, all eternity …’
The lights changed and she drove on, but it was hard to make headway. People spilled into her path as if, now that they had flung off the division between night and day, the boundary between road and pavement no longer existed. There was a holiday recklessness to the crowds, a sense of ragged revelry. She wondered if this was how it had been in the old days, when families packed a picnic and treated themselves to an outing to Newgate to watch the hangings.
A flock of youths on undersized bikes tore across the Mini’s path, bandit-quick, hoods up, mouths and noses hidden behind scarves and surgical masks. They vanished up a side street, fast as smash-and-grab men. A bag slid from one of the boys’ handlebars as he rounded the corner. A bottle shattered, tins bounced and dented against the tarmac, and Stevie realised that their booty wasn’t from electrical stores, sportswear outlets or computer shops, but a supermarket. She turned a corner and saw the supermarket, squat and shining, its car park jammed worse than any Christmas Eve. Men and women struggled to their cars, pushing ill-balanced trolleys heavy with supplies. Stevie paused to watch. The shoppers had an anxious edge, but assistants were still tidying away abandoned trolleys and it was clear that the
customers were hoarders and not looters. A car tooted impatiently behind her and Stevie moved on.
She was used to driving home in the early hours. The night-time city was a world beyond her windscreen, the preserve of drunks and police, of prostitutes, insomniacs, kerb crawlers and shift workers. She was used to stumblers and head-down walkers. But Stevie knew that London was unpredictable, a city that could explode into pitched battles, Molotov cocktails, burning cars and blazing buildings.
She drove cautiously, keeping to the rules of the road, until three buzz-cut-bald men approached her car at a red light, put their weight against its roof and started to rock it from side to side. They were chanting something, a football song she didn’t recognise. Stevie put a hand on the horn and her foot to the floor. Her right tyre skidded against the tarmac and she thought the Mini might roll, but the combination of horn and spinning wheels startled the men and they let go. After that she no longer bothered with traffic signals.
Busy streets held their terrors, but sliding back into the black, travelling the unfamiliar roads with only the glow of her headlamps to guide her, was even more unsettling. The unlit pavements looked deserted, but once her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she caught glimpses of people moving in the darkness, and was glad of the knife in her bag.
She only stopped once on an unlit road, when a fox stepped into the Mini’s path and forced her to hit the brakes. The fox was skinny, its flanks hollow and scraggy, as if it had not quite recovered from a fight. But the creature stared at her, holding its ground, eyes gleaming like polished metal. Stevie tapped the horn. The fox blinked, gave her a last assessing look, and then trotted into the dark with no more haste than a family dog returning from a stroll. Stevie wondered if it sensed something afoot, a chance that it and its kind might soon have more sway.