by Nicholas Lim
The musicians settled down to their first song. A beautiful complex polyphony filled the tent. Garrett followed the five parts and heard with astonishment the musicians weave of their separate pieces a whole cloth. A harmony lifted her – to an English folk tune. The monk nodded time. His hooded eyes twinkled briefly orange through the smoke. Once, in her tiredness, Garrett thought she heard Jason’s name. She waited through the verses but it did not repeat. Other words sounded above the music: faith, soul, heaven. Through shared imagination, art easily serves superstition. The sad confusions and alarms of the Healing Field touched her again.
“Can I help anyone?”
A young girl appeared at the counter behind the muffins and chipped mugs. She wore a brightly-patterned headscarf around her temples. A gold sun and silver moon were painted on either cheek.
“I'm looking for Christmas. Have you seen–” Garrett’s phone beeped for a new text.
“Christmas is in December.”
“Yes, I meant–”
“Although that's just a prediction. Personally, I don't make predictions. Never have. Never will.”
Garrett noted dilated pupils, delayed reflexes. The girl was drugged. She tried again.
“I'm looking for a tattooist called Christmas.”
“Sounds like he’s branching out. Is he a father? Likes to dress in red? Rides a big flying sleigh?”
“No.”
“Look, I don't really work here. Just helping out this shift. If it’s important, why don't you ask site security?”
“I'm searching with the local police.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
Garrett sighed. “Yes, thank you.”
“We've got camomile, redbush, nettle–”
“Normal’s fine,” Garrett interrupted.
The girl made a circle out of thumb and forefinger and inspected Garrett through this hole for a moment. “What's normal?” She looked solemn then grinned. “One fifty please.” She poured Garrett a tea.
“You're very serious. You're like a teacher, or a traffic warden.”
“Thank you. I'm a doctor, and I'm looking for–”
“Are you! That is a serious job.”
Garrett read the caption on the mug. Careful, or your karma will run over my dogma. She wasn’t going to get much help here.
She returned to her place by the fire. She checked her phone. There was a text from Fly: ‘Christmas seen at Sanctuaire. Heading over. Wait.’
Garrett stood up. The band were still playing. Three girls were buying muffins. There was no one else in the tent.
The monk had gone. His cardboard sign lay discarded on the ground where he had been sitting. Below the quote she had read were a row of prices above logos in black-ink, of a cross, crescent, lotus, auṃkāra, wheel, taijitu and star.
Rastafarian, Christian, Muslim, Shaivas, Buddhist, Confucian, Jewish – Garrett saw the monk had found his own answer to an old charge – that the religious were atheists to all religions except their own – and it was the opposite to Gandhi’s, “God has no religion”.
Below the logos she read the words “Tattoos while you wait”.
Damn it!
Garrett ducked out of the tent. The endless queue was still shuffling. Garrett ran up and down the line. She swore and stopped. Overhead, a jagged line of orange stood out against a paling sky. It was approaching sunrise. A man in a top hat, rainbow waistcoat and purple tails swerved out of Garrett’s path and overbalanced into a ditch, dragged there by a wheelbarrow full of a girl in a white ball gown. The couple lay there laughing.
Garrett looked back at Café Sanctuaire. The pavilion marquee stood out greyly in the strengthening light. A man emerged from the side of the tent carrying a backpack. Garrett held still. Her phone beeped. The man withdrew back into the gap between tents. Garrett followed. She peered into an alley walled by canvas. Guy ropes criss-crossed the air.
“Hello? Is there somebody there?”
A man moved out of the shade, tall, heavily-built with a shaven head. Garrett could see bare arms. The skin was darkened, blue not browned and mottled like a turning bruise. As her eyes adjusted Garrett could make out the tattoos. They moved like living creatures.
“Are you Christmas?”
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Dr Christine Garrett.”
The man sniffed. “I heard you looking for me. You're a cop.”
“I’m a doctor. I–”
“You smell like a cop. You talk like a cop.” He turned his head as if to listen. “You’re a cop.”
“No, I am a doctor,” Garrett offered both hands, empty. “I just want to talk to you.”
“Hey look I'm clean. I ain’t carrying.”
They both heard the lie. The man hefted his pack and took a step forward.
“I’m not interested in your drugs. I want to talk to you about an infection. Some friends of yours are dead. Spyder. Lizzie–”
The man stepped back.
“The girl you met at the Brighton festival, Fiona–”
“This is some kinda frame?” Garrett heard an effort at self-control, as if something was snapping in the man.
“–Fiona Grant.” Garrett’s mobile beeped again. She glanced down. “They’re all–”
The blow caught her in the stomach. Garrett staggered, one step, then kicked out hard at the shadow closing over her. She heard a grunt and saw Christmas trip back over a guy rope. She doubled over. Empty lungs drew on nothing.
She looked across to Christmas. He got to his feet and shook his right arm as though loosening up.
“Christmas–”
Garrett gasped for more air to speak. Christmas lunged. She saw the danger late, the glint of light on metal and jumped back. She looked down at her left hand. A red line looped over her wrist. It thickened to a liquid and spilled over her fingers.
“Get out of my way.”
“Wait–” Garrett tried to speak again. Her stomach spasmed as she retched air. She waited, to try and talk again.
The knife extended like a toughened nail from Christmas’s fist. He circled. Instinct told Garrett if she lost this man now she’d never find him again. She forced herself to mirror Christmas’s feet, to block the exit. She stepped quickly to her right behind a guy rope.
Christmas shuffled forward on his toes. Garrett retreated within the tangled geometry of the ropes. He feinted, feinted again then, when she slipped, jabbed the knife point towards her face. She raised her left hand to block the blow. The blade sliced deep into the flesh of her forearm. Part of her mind felt the metal edge touch the radius bone near the elbow. The knife snagged on the guy rope and fell.
A fist slammed into the side of her head. Garrett put out a hand to break her fall. A heavy boot trod down on the middle of her injured forearm. Bright pain blinded her.
She shook her head and saw the knife lying between her feet. She snatched it up with her good hand and twisted away. With quick steps she moved around the ropes. She blocked thoughts of the pain in her arm with a calculation of distances.
With a yard between them she shifted her grip, noting the blade's weight, similar to her prosector’s knife but balanced more towards the butt. Christmas’s eyes narrowed.
“Christine?”
She heard Fly's shout through the canvas walls of the tent.
“Here!”
Christmas sprang forward, his pack held in front like a shield, and sprinted towards the exit.
Garrett blinked past the pain. Outlined against the paling sky she could see another man standing in the gap between the tents.
“Follow him!” Garrett ordered. When Fly hesitated she said, “Don’t lose him! I'm fine!”
Garrett pulled herself up one-handed. She stood on both feet, swaying as if against a wind, then leaned forward, forcing steps. She emerged from between the tents. With her good arm she searched her pockets for her phone. She moved very slowly. Pain throbbed to her pulse.
A man with a shave
d head, dressed in an orange robe, walked out of the crowds towards her. Something about him was out of place, like a bouncer at a party. The man gazed down at a piece of paper. It appeared to be guiding him, like a dowser’s twig.
Garrett looked down at her left hand. It was dripping blood. Too much blood. She dropped the knife. Her fingers found the brachial artery just below her left armpit and applied pressure.
She looked up. Overhead, the sky was a royal blue. A knife-thin line of red clouds scarred the lower horizon. Garrett shook her head, trying to clear it. How long had she been in that muddy, roped tunnel? It seems like years. She suddenly felt old and very tired. She noticed the approaching man. Their eyes met.
“Doctor Garrett, you all right?” A group of policemen were running up Muddy Lane led by Inspector Hembry. The man in the orange robe broke eye contact and walked past.
She gestured in slow motion up the hill.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Go on. Fly’s chasing Christmas. Quick!”
The policemen ran on. Garrett followed with a toppling step, fighting for balance. She reached a gate and looked over. A wide grassy slope led up to a small summit encircled by stones. Two figures raced across the grass, weaving like skaters between small knots of festival-goers gathered round fires. Christmas. Fly.
The police officers followed in a tight unit twenty or thirty yards behind. Garrett swayed. Ensure correct medical supervision. She forced herself to move forward. Pain brightened in her arm, then through her body. She stopped. She looked across the immense distances of the field. She wasn't going to make it. Must get to Christmas. She pulled out her phone and tried to dial a number. Blood sample. She closed her eyes. Porton. Opened them again. She recognized the place, but couldn't remember why. A man approached her, smiling. Who was he? She had seen him before. She closed her eyes again. Tiredness, an overwhelming wave, flooded in. She let go and the ground rushed up to meet her.
Chapter 22
“Sir, I thought you should see this. Just came over the wire.”
Over the wire. White glanced up from his monitor, past Hanratty to a line of small brass bells mounted on the wall beside the door, attached to nothing. To his predecessor forty years ago they had signalled the arrival of telegrams. Tempus fugit.
“Thank you James. Put it there will you?”
“Sir, I think you should read it now.”
James Hanratty remained where he stood, a single sheet of paper held out over the desk in front of him like the baton of a relay runner. Commander White frowned. Being pushy just didn't do, not at Five. Or if it was the frustration of working Sunday… that didn’t do either. The rota came with the job: security threats were not weekday-only events. White caught sight of his subordinate’s face and checked his irritation. Hanratty’s face was red with self-importance.
“What is it?”
“Do you remember that report about unusual malaria deaths, on the south coast? Being handled by CDSC and Porton Down.”
“Yes.” White reached out and took the sheet of paper.
“You asked my opinion, and I thought it was not a worry.”
“Yes.” James had such a confessional streak. White suppressed a grin. Perhaps it was the Catholic gene. Just like his father in so many ways. Funny how these things go through the generations, like a gammy leg or left-eye squint. White read the printout as Hanratty summarised.
“Late yesterday afternoon, Sniffer intercepted four separate reports on fever cases to the CDSC, from two hospitals in the Brighton area.” Hanratty’s voice was a little breathless, too earnest. White shifted in his chair. “One fatality so far.” Hanratty added, “Suspected malaria has been confirmed by stains.”
“Sir, the oddest thing is they still don’t know how they caught it.”
Hanratty stood waiting. “I thought you should see it immediately sir. Just in case.”
White frowned down at the piece of paper. He tried to place a strange feeling, low down, in his bowels. “Why has this alert come through Sniffer? What about the CDSC?”
“Nothing from them.” Hanratty coughed. “That’s strange too. Their data should be better.”
“Chase them please.” White turned to his terminal. “I’d like to see the original reports, including lab results and hospital autopsies. Thank you James.”
“Yes sir.”
Hanratty left the room. White got up from his desk and strode to the tall sash windows overlooking Whitehall. Toward Westminster, he could see the Cenotaph looming like a standing stone out of the traffic, singular and white. The coloured spears of the service flags were just visible, obscuring Kipling's chiselled words.
He glanced back at his computer terminal. It sat on his desk like the flattened head of a rearing snake. Power and video cords ran down into floor sockets. Five years ago, the emerging facts of the Newhaven influenza outbreak had trickled in through those same electronic wires: four fatalities, an infection cluster on the south coast, an unusual strain…
And here were new facts. An infection cluster on the south coast, caused by an unusual strain, this time of malaria, with four fatalities so far, a question of unresolved transmission…
He remembered the original briefing now. For once, he had asked Hanratty’s opinion. Partly for the young man’s confidence, but also to stall. That's right. He had had a niggle.
Cars queued up in stationary lanes waiting to enter Trafalgar Square. White watched the traffic and began to bite a fingernail. His department head was back from his summer holidays Tuesday. This incident would hopefully wait till then. Or maybe it would turn out to be nothing.
A muted trumpet signalled receipt of mail. White flinched.
Jesus. Talk about Chicken Charlie! What was he scared of? An electronic message? He reminded himself that he was a Surgeon-Cmdr in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. He had served with distinction in two naval campaigns. He suddenly realised how much he hated the train in to work each morning, the waiting green files on his desk, and above all, his computer terminal.
He stared out of the window. A sudden flashback from his naval days superimposed over the Whitehall traffic. A dog day of mirror-calm seas. Steady. Storms in teacups.
He returned to his desk and logged on. He skimmed the brief summary by Captain Skinner. They confirmed malaria by stain slides. And unusual pathology. Mixed broods. Rogue ookineetes.
White stared around the room, eyes alighting on the row of Victorian signal bells. Alarms were ringing through his mind.
That niggle. He turned back to his screen and logged on to a secure filing system, feeling distaste for the keyboard he was forced to use like some secretary. Damn machines were taking over. Even he was reduced to relying on the things for his memory…
He typed in a few search terms. “UK. Malaria. Transmission.”
He rubbed his fingers. They felt cold. Four thousand two hundred and twenty-six hits.
Too wide. White clicked to narrow search terms. “From ten years to current day.” He hesitated, hunting through his own memory, then, on a vague hunch, added two extra keywords. “Security breach.” He clicked Search again then scrolled down the results page. Stopped. “Potential breach of GM protocols at Kronos malaria vaccine research laboratory.” There! He clicked on a link. A single title page appeared.
White sat back in his chair staring at the screen. 24/11/2018. Two years ago. Yes. No wonder he hadn’t remembered. He wrote down the reference on the top of Hanratty’s printout, folded the A4 sheet and put it in a pocket. He locked his office on the way out. When the lift arrived, he punched for the agency basement stacks.
***
“Bristol General Hospital. Go!”
Harith slammed the grey panel van into a small slot in passing traffic. A car beeped. Kirtananda leaned forward in his seat and stroked the close-cropped red stubble on his head, slow, comfortable, as if at home watching the game with his dogs at his feet.
“Be there in twenty minutes Ji.”
“This is easier
than Glasto. We know where she is and she ain’t going anywhere.” Kirtananda watched Zakiya take out a packet of beedies then put them away, for the fifth time. “Chris did us a favour.”
Zak and Dharma glanced at each other and grinned. Harith pulled out, accelerating up a blind rise towards a ridge top. He overtook one, two, three cars, swerved in front of an oncoming container lorry, trimmed to avoid fishtailing the back end. A retreating horn blared.
Kirtananda took his kartals out of the glove compartment. The miniature cymbals voiced muffled, stopped notes.
Tick – tick – tick. Tick.
Quiet. Sunday afternoon quiet. Smells of new linen mixed with bleach.
Tick – tick – tick. Tick.
Light everywhere. Great chunks, with pieces broken off at angles. A ceiling. Three walls. A burst of sound like a hello. Silence again, a tap shutting.
Tick – tick – tick. Tick.
That quiet again, so peaceful. Whose arm is that on its own?
Tick – tick – tick. Tick.
“Hello.”
Garrett turned her head. A green graph moved on a small screen. She could still smell bleach.
Tick – tick – tick. Tick.
“How you feelin?”
Garrett tried to focus.
Tick – tick – tick. Tick.
“You knitting?”
“No, I’m making soup. Yes, I’m knitting.”
Garrett watched Cherry’s fingers for a while.
“Mum says I’m never happier than when I’ve something on my needles.”