by Eve Smith
I pull up the news on the monitor. Five hundred shoppers quarantined in the central atrium. Another two thousand in the cinema complex. It’s a total lock-down.
‘Mrs Connelly?’
I flinch. I have a sudden urge to hang up. I can’t hear her say it. I cannot have her make it true.
‘We’ve found her.’ The breath spills out of me. ‘She’s on the other line. I’ll put you through now.’
I hear a slight rustle: ‘Mum?’
My hand flies up to my mouth. ‘Hello, baby,’ I say, forgetting she’s a teenager, forgetting everything apart from the fact that she’s safe.
‘What’s going on? Miss Granger said there’d been another attack. No one’s allowed out.’
‘That’s right.’ I try to steady my breathing. ‘At the Westbourne Centre. Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. Are you alright? You sound terrible.’
I bark out a laugh: that’s my girl. ‘I was just worried, that’s all. You didn’t answer your phone.’
‘Oh, Mum. It was BakeFest, remember?’ The desk shimmers slightly. ‘I was one of the judges. All I’ve done for the past hour is shovel down cake. I thought I’d told you. Sorry.’
I press the heel of my hand into my forehead as my adrenaline fizzes out. This is normal to her, quite normal. While she’s been eating cake, a few miles down the road a terrorist with a lethal disease has walked into a shopping centre and infected hundreds, possibly thousands of people. Should I feel relieved that it bothers her so little, or terrified?
‘You’re awfully quiet, Mum. Are you sure you’re OK?’
A wave of exhaustion hits. ‘Yes, I … I’m just a little tired.’ I grapple behind for a chair.
She sucks the air through her teeth. ‘OK. Well, I suppose I’d better get back. See you later, yeah?’
‘Assuming the curfew lifts. You will come straight home, Sasha, won’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she says in a drawl that tells me I shouldn’t have asked.
‘And you’ve got your mask?’
‘Mum, really?’
‘OK, OK.’ I clench my hands. ‘Love you. A lot.’
‘You too.’
I hold on to the phone, unable to put it down. Never forget. Never forget how precious she is. Because the world can change, and you can lose everything, in an instant.
‘All OK?’
I look up. The ward manager’s still clutching the door: I’d forgotten. ‘I think so,’ I say, although I’m really not sure. ‘She’s safe.’
He breaks into a smile. ‘Thank goodness.’ He glances at his phone. ‘The results are in. It’s another flu mutation. They’re sending us fifty.’ He pauses. ‘Look, I completely understand if you’d rather—’
‘I’ll be there. Just give me five minutes. I need to call Mark.’
I take a deep breath and dial. As the phone rings I think about all those people destined to die because of one misguided man, and all the staff who will put their lives at risk trying to save them.
We just keep going round and round in the same futile circles.
I wonder if it will ever end.
CHAPTER 7
LILY
‘Enjoying the music, Lily?’ Anne leans over and fills my cup. I say cup but it’s actually a beaker: orange plastic with two handles.
I eye the man who is sweating into his microphone, chubby legs spread wide astride the stool. He’s cranking up for the finale, hammering away on that keyboard with his fat little hands.
‘It’s certainly a change,’ I say, as the electric drum throbs inside my head. They look like sausages, his fingers. Bangers, that’s what my grandmother used to call them. Nice with a bit of mash. Not that I can talk, of course. My twisted fingers look more crustacean than human. They curl into my palms, as if even they’re embarrassed.
Anne bends towards me, her gloved hands at the ready. ‘Here you go.’
I open my mouth like a baby bird. She puts two capsules on my tongue. I lift the water to my lips and swallow. ‘Down the hatch!’ That’s what I always say. She smiles, even though she must have heard it a thousand times. It’s what we do, these little rituals: the carers know what to expect, and we do what’s expected.
‘All gone?’ Anne asks. I nod as the singer disembowels another refrain. Beads of moisture glisten on his forehead. ‘Good girl. Well done.’
Anne moves on to George, who is slumped in the armchair next to me. She’s waving at him to get his attention, but his rheumy eyes are far away, in some better place. Right now I wish I could join him. Music therapy is the latest addition to our activities schedule. They play us songs from our youth; it’s supposed to jumpstart our neural pathways. The trouble is, they’ve hired someone whose musical talents would be better utilised calling the numbers at bingo. But it’s either this or the solitude of my room. And solitude doesn’t feel as good as it used to.
I wait until Anne’s moved on to Vivienne and Pam’s busy with the tea trolley. I force a cough and tug my lace hanky out of my sleeve. My tongue dislodges the capsule and on my next cough I spit it into the hanky. I check on Anne. She’s still hovering in front of Vivienne with a smile that’s becoming strained. I fold the hanky over and slip it into my pocket.
‘Let’s slow things down, shall we?’ shouts the man. A couple of frail heads nod politely. ‘Remember this? Bet you all had a few smooches to this one!’
It stabs me after a couple of notes, even though this version is pitiful. My eyes snap shut. I see the emerald butterfly leaves fluttering above us. I feel his hands around my waist, the dust between my toes. His fingers were slim and tanned, their hairs burned blonde in the sun. Sometimes he’d get calluses and they’d catch like sandpaper against my skin.
A piercing wail drags me back. Vivienne is crumpled over her tray.
‘My legs! My poor legs!’ She rocks back and forth, making little whimpering sounds, her hands clawing the air. I notice an ominous stain on her skirt. ‘Please, do something!’
The musician falters and stops. The organ carries on playing without him.
Anne rushes over. ‘Oh, Viv, what happened?’
‘My tea … it, it scalded me!’
Only now do I see the cup on the floor. My heart sinks. They’re not supposed to serve the drinks too hot; someone’s going to get it in the neck for that.
‘It’s alright, Viv,’ says Anne. ‘Just try and keep still.’ Anne carefully lifts Vivienne’s skirt, revealing a glimpse of tan support stockings. I ought to turn away but I can’t. Angry puce rages across translucent skin. Anne turns to Pam and lowers her voice. ‘Call Dr Barrows. And bring me a chair, quick.’
Vivienne stares at her thighs, hands clenching and unclenching, her narrow chest pulsating like a tiny sparrow’s.
‘We need to get your skirt off, Viv, get some cold water on them right away,’ says Anne.
Vivienne’s eyes brim. ‘Is it bad?’ she whispers.
Anne runs her tongue over her lips. ‘Don’t worry. It looks much worse than it is.’
We all know she’s lying. Burns are notorious: they take ages to heal. It’s only a matter of time before infection sets in.
Anne pulls on a fresh set of gloves. ‘We’ll run your legs under the tap for a bit and wrap them up in cling film; that should do the trick.’ Her smile is so forced I have to look away.
The performer manages to switch off his machine. He clasps his hands together, eyes fixed on the carpet. George starts picking at his sleeve, whispering words I cannot hear. The rest of us watch in silence. When Pam brings the wheelchair they take great pains to be gentle, but Vivienne screams when they lift her in. As Anne wheels her out, the back of Vivienne’s head gets smaller and smaller until they turn a corner and she disappears.
Pam whispers to the music man. He fiddles with some buttons and a ballad bursts into the room. Pam squats down on her haunches and starts mopping up the tea. I shuffle my bottom to the edge of the chair, kick the tray contraption away with my feet and scrabble for my walker.
My elbows dig into the arms as I hoist myself up. I manage to get an inch clear before collapsing back on the seat.
‘What are you doing, Lily?’
I don’t answer. What does it bloody look like?
‘You know you’re not supposed to,’ Pam says, and slams Vivienne’s cup back on its tray. ‘Not after your little episode. What if you have another fall?’
I want to shout at her that I don’t care. But the trouble is, I do. All the scenarios race through my brain unbidden: a catalogue of disasters waiting to unfold.
‘Need the loo again?’ she asks.
I nod, even though I don’t. Might make her hurry up and help me if she thinks I’m going to piss on the chair. ‘Come on, then.’ She grabs me under the arms and hauls me up.
I twist my wrists into the clamps and shove my frame forward. My feet refuse to move, as if they’ve come out in protest; I have to haul them across the carpet. No one looks up, no one speaks. I know what they’re thinking. Just one slip of a teacup. Is that all it comes down to, in the end?
By the time I get back to my room, my head is pounding; the tinny electric beat still pulses between my ears. I shuffle to my wardrobe and creak the door open. Cloth sachets seesaw above me, withered notes of rose and lavender infusing the must. I grope behind the hangers for the ledge. My fingers close around a small, steel tube. After a couple of attempts I manage to unscrew the lid. I deposit the pill from my hanky safely inside. I think of the postcard and my grip tightens. Just a couple more should do.
As I wedge the tube back my hand brushes something else: hard, wooden. The idea circles like a wary fox. I lift the box out, sending dust motes spinning through the air. My heart races beneath the patch. I balance the box on my frame and slide over to the dressing table. I rummage around the disused make-up brushes and ageing pots of age-defying creams until I find it: a green metal tin. I prise it open. Nestled amidst a tangle of brown kirby grips is a small silver key.
I ease myself into the chair and catch my breath. I have learned how to do this over the years, one sense at a time. I slot the key into the hole and close my eyes. There’s a grating noise as the lock turns. I flip the lid. It’s still there, but much fainter now. A smell of otherness. Another place. Another life.
The first thing I see is the velvet pouch. I tug the drawstring loose. Spirals of gold dance across the walls as the bracelet tips into my palm. Unlike me, it has not dulled. I rub the cool metal with my thumb, press my fingers into its grooves. Memories beckon: meticulous but frayed. That’s the trouble with memories: the more they’re summoned, the faster the originals fade, until only the edits remain. It’s like those old music cassettes that you used to play over and over. You learned the words off by heart, but the spool of tape wore perilously thin.
I slip the bracelet back into its pouch. I sift through yellowing papers and bundles of creased envelopes. My hand halts at a folded newspaper cutting, and I feel the familiar lurch. That bit of paper finds me every time. I make myself pass on, keep looking, until eventually I find it: a small rectangular envelope, no writing on the front. A bitter taste fills my mouth. It has never been opened, not in twenty years. I had hoped it never would be.
I slip my thumb into a corner and tear. Inside is a crisp, white business card with three oval green leaves embossed at the top. They’re so lustrous and fine, they might have been printed just yesterday. I swallow and turn the card over. My fingers won’t be still, as if they’re itching to stuff the damn thing straight back. I focus on the handwritten letters. The blood whines in my ears.
I hesitate. But I have no choice. I reach for my tablet.
He’s the only one who can help.
CHAPTER 8
Twenty-seven years pre-Crisis
MARY
I squint at the oblong grey packets with funny names. You’d think the pharmacy section would at least have some English brands. I select a box with a bald orange head that looks as if it has been set on fire and scan the shop for someone to ask. Pink-faced tourists huddle by fridges, enjoying a brief respite from the heat. Two little girls in lacy shorts shunt a freezer lid back and forth while their parents load burgers and chicken wings into their trollies. The next aisle along, a woman is on her knees, stacking shelves. I’m about to head over to her when I spot a tanned guy in khaki shorts at the till. My breath stops.
It’s him.
My eyes swerve back to the painkillers. I tuck in my shirt and drag my fingers through my hair. He hasn’t clocked me yet. Too busy chatting with that girl behind the counter, all eyelashes and teeth. When he does eventually turn, I hold up one hand in a hesitant wave. He frowns, and for a terrible moment I think he’s forgotten. But then he ambles over.
‘Raced any more rhinos, recently?’ A smile plays around his lips.
‘Actually,’ I say, jutting out my chin, ‘I decided to stick to plants. They don’t run as fast.’
He throws back his head and laughs. Something inside me leaps.
He nods at the tablets. ‘Hurt yourself?’
‘Oh, just a bit of back pain.’ I twist the packet round, squeezing it between my fingers. ‘Too much crouching over bushes.’
‘Ah.’ His mouth makes a clicking sound. ‘Professional hazard.’
I wonder again what exactly it is he does. He wasn’t very forthcoming the last time we met, although I did glean that he used to be a ranger. When I asked one of the other researchers about him, they told me he’s bioprospecting for medicinal compounds from plants.
‘So, how long are you down for?’ he asks.
I manage to meet his gaze for a second. Jesus. I want to give myself a good slap. ‘Just the day. Replenishing supplies, picking up post, that sort of thing. I may even attempt a couple of calls. How about you?’
‘Same. Need to restock. Then it’s back to the field.’
My eyes scurry over his face, lingering on a small white scar on his left cheek. It looks like an inverse beauty spot. I try to think what to say, but words have abandoned me.
‘So.’ He claps his hands together. ‘This is the only place in the park that sells half-decent coffee. Want to grab one?’
I check my watch, as if I’m not entirely certain my schedule can permit it. As if. ‘Sure.’ A blush burns in my cheeks. ‘Why not?’
I follow him out onto a stone veranda. A cluster of white plastic tables have been impaled with canvas umbrellas. He chooses one right by the railings, overlooking the dam. Three crocodiles cruise the murky waters below, just the tops of their eyes and the uppermost ridge of scales visible. There’s a pungent smell of animals and damp vegetation.
The waitress takes our order and he starts firing questions at me about my research. I’m flattered by his interest, only too happy to talk. Research can be a lonely business. I pull out my field book, even show him some of my precious data. He listens attentively, nodding.
‘So then,’ I say, suddenly aware how long I’ve been talking. Something about his expression suggests he may have stopped listening a few data points back. I tug a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘What do you think?’
A muscle in his arm twitches. ‘I think that all sounds quite interesting.’
The heat rushes into my face. Quite interesting? I’m doing a PhD at Oxford. My papers will be published in leading scientific journals.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he adds, ‘you’re doing great work.’ He rests his elbows on the table. ‘But I think your talents could be put to better use.’
My hand tightens around my field book. I glare past his shoulder to the dam. A pair of waterbuck are wandering down the bank. They stamp their hooves, tails swishing, summoning the courage to drink.
He fixes me with his gaze. ‘Half of all prescribed drugs are derived from plants. You probably know that. Quinine, morphine, codeine: the list goes on. But here’s the thing: none of them are antibiotics. Even though many plants are rich in antimicrobial compounds. And that’s just the ones we know about.’ He leans forward, and I catch a pulse
of perfumed sweat: sharp and fragrant, like the zest of lemon.
I arch my fingers in a show of calm. ‘Which is why we need more research. To catalogue and conserve the species. Before they disappear.’
His lips slide back, revealing a blaze of teeth. ‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more.’
Patronising as well as arrogant. My eyes veer back to the dam. The male waterbuck moves cautiously to the edge. He splays his front legs and lowers his head, his spiralled horns reflected in the water. I think of my camera, trapped in my bag.
‘Antibiotic resistance is growing, Mary. Skin and gut infections. Sexually transmitted diseases. TB. Some of them are becoming practically untreatable.’ His elbow brushes mine. ‘Have you heard of an American drug called Taxol?’
I shake my head. A fat bead of sweat slopes down my back. I start fanning myself with the menu.
‘Cancer drug. A report was published last year on the results from phase-two trials on patients with ovarian cancer.’ He pauses. ‘Taxol had a response rate of thirty percent. We’re talking one of the biggest ever breakthroughs in cancer treatment.’
The sun arcs under the umbrella, blinding me. He cups one hand over his eyes. ‘Do you know where Taxol comes from?’
My thighs make a sucking sound as I peel them off the plastic and scrape my chair into the shade. ‘No.’ I’m an intelligent woman but this man has the knack of making me feel stupid.
‘Taxus brevifolia.’
At last. Familiar territory. ‘The Pacific yew,’ I say. He smiles.
Now the female waterbuck steps down, her pale haunches twitching. After a prolonged scan of the bank, she dips her dainty mouth in the water.
‘Taxol is the name given to the active compound they isolated from its bark. Which is what inhibited the cancer’s progress. And do you know how they found it?’
I swat the air between us with the menu. ‘No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.’ Most people would be discouraged by that. But not him.