by Nicholas Lim
“Are you offering me an atheistic argument?”
“Atheist makes me sound like a member of some Russian sect, a Karamazov, all pride and sensual sin.”
Bryce nodded. “It does, doesn’t it?”
Garrett checked herself. She wondered at her sudden openness. “Can you track across the blood?”
“Sure.”
“You see the variation in forms? Look – tiny rings and spheres, banana shapes – trophozoites, merozoites, sporozoites, gametocytes. I noticed them this morning but they are much clearer here than in my printouts.”
“Hmm. Normally, only one parasite form is seen in the blood at any one time: trophozoite broods causing hot fever, gametocytes cold sweats–”
“Yes, I know–”
“It’s rare but this breakdown of brood synchronisation has been recorded before as a side-effect of high infestation rates.”
“I didn’t know that. Can you put samples from the others alongside? Same mag. I’d like to compare.”
Bryce fiddled. The display split, and split again, forming a triptych of three windows. “Pretty much the same.”
They began an exhaustive blood study. Bryce gave up first, straightening to massage a shoulder. “Well, I don’t think there’s much more–”
“Wait a minute. Back up a bit. No, there.”
Garrett walked over to the screen and pointed. “What’s that? Can you enlarge?”
The screen shivered. The blood cells grew.
“More?”
The screen shivered again, cells growing until less than forty of the pale lilac balloons were visible.
“How is it you're not losing definition?”
“I'm using a military image-enhancing program. It was originally developed for missile guidance but some bright spark spotted we could use it.”
Garrett’s lips thinned. Inches from her nose, a dark spiky ball floated amongst larger blood cells. It looked out of place, floating loose like a mine. Garrett pointed.
“What is that?”
Bryce frowned. He said nothing.
“Can you enlarge further?”
“Hang on, just have to convert–” The image shivered then began to grow again. “We are at times seven hundred, enhancing now to fifteen hundred.” The black parasite began to fill the screen. Details began to blur. “We’re at the optical limit,” Bryce announced.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Skinner was staring at the screen. He and Zahra had rejoined them while Bryce had reformatted the image.
“Ovoid, interior apicoplast, thickened exterior with spike formations: it’s definitely an ookineete,” Skinner said.
“Don’t ookineekes only exist in the vector?” Bryce asked.
“Yes. In the mosquito host.” Garrett pointed. Her arm extended through the cell wall of the rogue cell, three feet into the magnified interior. One side of her body and half her face was speckled blood-red.
“Can we go back, look at the other samples?” Garrett asked. Fifteen minutes of painstaking study revealed just three more of the rogue cells: a pair together and another isolated cell.
“Perhaps they’re just part of the mixed broods,” Bryce suggested.
Skinner nodded. “When the lifecycle clock becomes unstable I suppose any plasmodium cell form could be produced.”
“Or maybe there’s another enzyme present, triggering the change,” Zahra said.
“We’re guessing,” Garrett said. She pursed her lips, thinking. Skinner opened his mouth to speak but Garrett continued. “I suggest you centrifuge the blood, separate out cells by mass.”
Skinner closed his mouth, nodded. “I would–”
Garrett interrupted again, “A Buffy Orange test would be best.”
“Just what I was going to suggest,” Skinner said. “Good idea.”
Zahra looked from Garrett to Skinner and back. Between two beautiful women there is a moment soon after meeting when they must decide whether they will be friends or enemies. Zahra smiled at Garrett. “Good idea.”
“Let’s also get high quality stains and images: blood and tissue,” Skinner said. “And we need some proper electro-mags of the interiors of those cells. Okay good–”
“We are looking at three cases,” Garrett said, “Three fatalities. No natural disease can afford to kill all its hosts.” Garrett held up a hand to forestall objections. “I know it’s a tiny sample. Even so. That’s too lethal. So this cluster must be an outlier. Just for my peace of mind, can you start an RNA probe? I would like to identify the exact strain we are dealing with.”
Skinner inclined his head, a slight movement of courtesy. “Of course. It’s routine.”
He sighed and picked up a clipboard.
“Shani, the Angola staph. cases are the highest priority. And the Chagas second. But start the tissue prep.” Skinner shook his head at Garrett. “The material workup is labour intensive. And given how short-staffed we are right now… Christine, I know it's the bank holiday weekend. I don’t suppose–”
“I can give you a few hours this afternoon,” Garrett said. She saw Skinner jump at the offer. “But I'm driving back down to the coast this evening. I want to look into the circumstances surrounding the deaths.”
“Surely the lab investigation is the priority?” Bryce was frowning at her. He clearly couldn't see the point in knocking on doors.
“Lab and field work go hand in hand.”
“But the initial prep takes the time–”
“I hope to be back tomorrow afternoon.”
“We shouldn’t discount on-the-ground investigations.” Skinner said. “Thank you Christine. We’ll take all the help you can spare. Okay. Let’s get started then, shall we?”
“Deuparth gwaith yw ei ddechrau,” Bryce said. Seeing Garrett’s blank look he added, “Starting the work is two thirds of it.”
“It sounds wiser in Welsh,” Garrett said. Bryce smiled.
“Don’t encourage him,” Zahra said, following him out.
Skinner watched Garrett’s eyes track Bryce through the glass walls. “I hope Rheinnalt didn’t spook you. He can be a little… intense, on first meeting.”
Garrett glanced at the projector screen. “He was helpful.”
“He’s a good microbiologist. Not as good as he thinks he is but you get used to him. Well, we have. Rheinnalt is Rheinnalt.”
Garrett stayed behind re-reading the case notes. When her thoughts idled they turned to Bryce. She found herself wanting to continue the discussion they had started, if only with herself. The loose end of it was like a stray hair on her lips.
Chapter 11
“Peshawar – that’s where you can get real dysentery.”
“You stayed at the Khyber Hotel?”
“Course. Best banana pancakes, man.”
“Better than the Pudding Shop?”
“You eat anywhere in Istanbul you’ll have the trots. Guaranteed.”
Jade sneezed.
“You alright back there?
“I'm fine. Thanks.”
“You don't sound it.”
“I’m okay." She pulled her sleeping bag up to her ears. It didn't stop the shivers. Or the knifing head pains. Her breath came and went in shallow pants.
Smoke hung in the air in twisted, sinking ribbons. A Kashmiri prayer shawl hung over the seats in front of her. She watched it sway to the movement of the coach as she listened to the other passengers. From where she lay across the back seats she could see only the tops of heads.
“Better than at Amir Kabir?”
“Better.”
“Better than The Matchbox in Kathmandu?”
“I’m telling you they're the best. End of.”
Jade closed her eyes. She had hitched a ride out of Brighton that morning with the crew of a London to Sydney tour bus.
The chatter continued. It was hard to put the words together.
“Cakes in Pokhara.”
“Or Surat Thani.”
“Mekong and coke, mate.”
&nbs
p; “Just the Magic Bus.”
Jade felt the sweat on her back. The fevers were getting worse. She wanted to go home.
The Bus was going close.
“Hasn’t run for three years. Couldn’t get Iranian transit visas till last month.”
“Or the Crown. Be in Delhi in about three months. Only twelve countries to go!”
Jade got out near Dover. It was hard to stand, harder to lift her pack. She got angry when helped. She wandered for hours, drifting aimlessly along the front, reluctant to leave the sea.
It felt like a last link to Christmas. Such a bastard. And he didn’t care. That hurt the most.
“When your down, and troubled, and need a helping hand, and nothing, nothing is going right.”
The songs on her player looped and looped. She started to enjoy shouting when people tried to speak to her. Occasionally she stopped to sit on a bench, to cough and retch.
“You just call out my name, and you know wherever I am, I’ll come running, to see you again.”
“Lizzie?” she whispered. “Where are you?” She felt tears on her cheeks. She doubled over, spitting gouts of red saliva.
She heard the sea. The sea!
She steered by the promenade railings until she found a staircase. The steps were steep and narrow. She slipped and hit a small concrete landing.
“Shit!”
She stood. Her ankle was not right. She realised she’d lost her pack. Blood pounded in her temples. Sweat gathered in beads along her forehead. She heard the sea again. She got up and continued down, favouring her left foot.
At the bottom of the stairs a small sandy beach sloped down to rock pools. The narrow compartment was shut in on one side by a breakwater and on the other by a high curving wall of concrete, lime green at the base. Jade stared up at the wall, trying to understand why it was there. At the edge of the rock pools a rusting container lay half-submerged in sand. Around it was strewn old fishing tackle and plastic rubbish in heaps. There was no-one in sight. Somewhere out to sea she could hear a ship’s horn.
The sea.
She took a few tentative steps away from the stairs. She could just see the waves. A weaving path of wet sand shone between outcrops of sharp black rock. She thought of the cooling water and broke into a hobbled jog.
“And you know wherever I am,” Jade half-shouted, half-sang, “I'll come running!”
Her fall was awkward, arms still spread-eagled. The ground that came up to meet her was unexpected. She lay still, dazed. Her eyes brightened with the pain in her head.
“Close your eyes, and think of me, and soon I will be there, to brighten even your darkest night.”
“Lizzie? Mum?”
Blackness rushed in. Her limbs began to jerk, movements of spasmodic reflex, disconnected from her mind. After some minutes she was still.
Carol King continued to sing on a loop. Out across beach the tide was coming in. Foaming water filled the rock pools and ran fast along the gleaming channels of sand.
***
“Home time.”
Garrett glanced up. Bryce was waiting by the door.
“I’ve just got one more tissue section to prepare.”
“Come on, it’s late. It’ll wait. Araf deg mae dal iâr.” He waited for her to look up then added, “The way to catch a hen is – slowly.”
Garrett sighed and nodded. She had wanted to complete the Buffy Orange test but it had taken longer than expected.
They left together. Out of a lab coat, Bryce looked different. He wore a collarless rough-weave linen shirt that looked unexpectedly – Garrett searched for the word – trendy. Yes. That was it. Trendy. It was a surprise.
He stopped by his car.
“I want to show you something. Why don’t you follow me?” When he saw her hesitate he added, “It’s not far out of your way.”
Bryce drove through the compound gates and turned away from the main Porton campus. Garrett followed. Behind her, to her right, the sun was an orange glow low on the horizon. The road ran across open grassland and after a few hundred yards Bryce turned off onto a gravel track. Garrett stopped at the junction.
She could see a low brick building on a slight rise of land perhaps a mile down the track. Bryce’s car, a hundred yards away now, had not stopped. Garrett thought of the fence encircling the MoD land, and the guardhouse and soldiers. She frowned at the distant building, released the brake and turned onto the track. She would go that far and no further.
As she approached she could see there were no doors or glass in the windows. Weeds sprouted out of the roof. Bryce stood by his car and gestured like a car park attendant for her to pull up alongside.
“What–”
“Shhh.” He put a finger to his lips. He took her hand and led her into the building.
“What is this place?” Garrett whispered.
Bryce drew her over to a window. He stood behind her. She gazed out through an empty window frame.
“What?” her voice was sharp. She didn’t know why she was here and felt that holding his hand had made her complicit.
Bryce said nothing.
“I think I should–”
“Shh!”
She caught the excitement in his voice. He turned her by the waist to point where he was looking. She wondered if she should be angry that he had touched her again. She thought of David.
She decided to leave.
“Can you see her?” Bryce whispered. He raised his arm to point.
She frowned. Out over the grass the ground undulated in natural furrows. She could see nothing. Then, as she lost her patience, she saw a slight movement. A small grey creature scurried low over the ground.
“Oh.”
Garrett watched as the animal froze. Motionless it almost disappeared, its buff, brown-streaked body merging into the colours of the grass and earth. Fifty yards away, she could just make out long knobbly yellow legs, and wings held half-lifted in a curious arrested pose.
“What’s it doing?” she whispered.
“There’s a ground scrape – a nest – there.”
Right on cue, two little sand-coloured chicks scuttled into view. When Garrett started to speak Bryce put a finger to his lips again and whispered. “They’re very shy. Jumpy. Come on.” He led the way out of the building.
He crouched down by the west-facing wall. When Garrett hesitated he gestured with his head that she should sit.
“If we’re still they may come close.” He pointed at a nondescript expanse of stony ground.
“At this time?”
“They’re nocturnal.”
“What are they?”
“Stone curlews. Burhinus oedicnemus. A breeding pair. Very rare.”
“How rare is very?”
He drew his legs up beneath him and settled his back against the wall.
“Over the past fifty years numbers have declined all over Europe.” He grimaced. “Loss of suitable habitat. Norfolk still gets a few visitors on reserved land, in summer – it’s a Palaearctic migrant. Over there they call them Dikkops, or the thick-kneed bustard.”
Garrett sensed he was showing off and suppressed a smile. She sat down. He gestured at the grasslands in front of them.
“But with the right conditions the birds return. They demonstrate conservation works; I like that about them.” Bryce stopped. She waited but he didn't continue. The silence deepened.
“How did you find them?”
"Spotted one from the car." He broke off. "You hear?"
Garrett listened. A soft, repeated banshee call echoed out across the greying grassland. Kur-lee. Kur-lee.
“I see the name is–”
“Shh.”
Garrett waited. She became embarrassed then saw he wasn't. Suddenly she realised how tired she was. It’d been a long day. She rested her back against the rough wall and closed her eyes. The brick still retained some of the day's heat. She felt a vertebra in her neck pop softly as the muscles in her shoulders relaxed. When she opened her eye
s again Bryce hadn't moved.
Somewhere in between noticing his calmness and opening her eyes she realised she had become comfortable. She studied the grass. She could see no movement. She wondered how long they would have to wait. She thought about being held by the hand and turned at the waist. On the tanned back of his hand where it rested on his knee Garrett noticed fine gold curls. He nodded very slightly. She looked up.
In front of them, not ten yards away, a queer creature bobbed over the ground. Garrett could make out much more clearly now the knobbly yellow knees and large yellow eyes. Nocturnal. The bird held an insect in its beak. Another bird bowed deeply, touching the ground with his bill, his fanned tail held high in the air. The chicks scurried around the courting adults, always on the move.
They watched for some time, until the birds drifted away, grazing across the stony ground.
"I wonder why they breed here?" Garrett asked.
“This is good country for wildlife. Most of it’s untouched since Porton Down was set up nearly a hundred years ago.” Bryce spoke in a normal voice, relaxed now he had seen the birds up close. “Last summer, there were over forty species of butterfly logged. That’s a UK record.” He raised his eyebrows in appreciation and explained. “No pesticides. This is about the most undisturbed countryside in England.”
“Is none of it cultivated?”
“Over by there, to the west, there’s Arlington farm, but that’s only a few fields. Ah, it’s amazing how beautiful nature is, given a chance, hey? This place is more untouched than the Brecon Beacons. You could call it a small piece of Eden.”
“Have you seen the birds in Norfolk?”
Bryce smiled and Garrett was embarrassed by her curiosity. "Am I a birder? A twitcher? I suppose so. My father was." He hesitated then rushed a little, as though to beat a question. “He’s dead. He died many years ago. But he taught me a lot. I think it’s why I like this place so much. I feel close to him here. He would have liked to see these birds. Of course he would never have had the chance. But I think he would have liked the idea of this uncrowded land.”
He seemed to want to say more but didn’t.