The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  He gives me a sharp look. ‘Still keeping me in check, I see.’ His face relaxes. ‘Must be that rebellious streak.’ The heat rushes to my cheeks. ‘You look well, Mary. How are you? Family keeping safe?’

  What family?

  The old wound resurfaces: bloodied and raw.

  I swallow. ‘Why exactly are you here, Piet? I assume it’s about the trial.’

  He opens his mouth and closes it. ‘Yes, and … no.’ His fingers hover, mid-tap. My body tenses. ‘The truth is, Mary, I wanted to speak with you. Alone.’

  There’s a rushing noise. As if I’ve jumped out of that plane and the air is barrelling past my ears, the ground racing up to crush me.

  ‘We never talk about what happened. I know it was a long time ago, and the whole world’s going to hell, but…’ His eyes wander up to mine. ‘I’m sorry, Mary. For how I behaved. I wasn’t … I didn’t handle things well.’

  I cannot speak. I’m torn between pressing my hands over his mouth and letting him say the words I’ve longed to hear.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot, lately. I want to settle things between us. Put the past to bed.’

  An unfortunate choice of phrase.

  He sucks in his lips. ‘So we can move on.’

  Move on? The anger rolls up through my body like a waking dragon as the age-old recriminations clamour to let rip.

  Did you know we had a daughter? That I had to give her away?

  Did you ever love me or was it always about the sex?

  It takes all of my strength to muzzle them; they can’t help me now. But I’m damned if I’m going to make it easy for him.

  ‘Tell me about the trial, Piet.’ My voice is cold, clinical. There’s no absolution to be had here.

  ‘Please, Mary. Can’t we at least—?’

  ‘It’s not good news, is it? Otherwise you wouldn’t have come.’

  His eyes burn into me. I recognise that expression. It’s the same one he had that night. Things could have been so different.

  If the poachers had never come.

  If Piet had picked up the radio.

  If he had left her for me.

  These alternate worlds used to whisper to me, used to beat their wings inside my head. I thought I’d finally managed to dispatch them.

  ‘OK.’ He swallows. ‘Have it your way.’

  My way? It never went my way.

  The wall slides back down between us as silence fills the room, like a noxious gas. I move to the window, slowly suffocating.

  A convoy of aid trucks rumbles past, sandwiched between two army jeeps. I notice the soldiers have started carrying guns. I wonder how long it will be until the food parcels run out.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says, eventually. ‘About the trial.’ He coughs. ‘It’s not the response we’d predicted.’ I grip the windowsill. ‘Brotanol did inhibit the growth but … there were some adverse reactions.’

  A bitter taste creeps into my mouth. ‘What kind?’

  He hesitates. ‘Liver and kidney dysfunction.’

  I spin round. ‘What? But you said they’d reduced toxicity! That the earlier problems had been rectified.’

  His eyes flash. ‘Drugs react differently in healthy and sick bodies. And the immune systems in this cohort were severely compromised. Most of them, remember, were refugees.’

  This cohort … refugees. Does it help with the guilt, I wonder, if he doesn’t call them people?

  ‘How serious is it?’

  He takes a deep breath. ‘Twelve. Twelve fatalities.’

  ‘Jesus, Piet—’

  ‘If we’d used subjects who were in the earlier stages of the disease, they would have had greater tolerance. Administering antibiotics alongside immunotherapies is a complex process; reactions can vary widely. The dosage parameters must have been off.’

  ‘So you screwed it up, then, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No, I’m saying we learned a valuable lesson at an unfortunate cost. Another variable might be the level of exposure to different strains. That’s something we’ll need to test.’

  An icy chill washes through me. ‘You’re going to farm it out again, aren’t you?’ He doesn’t reply. ‘Aren’t you?’

  He looks me straight in the eye. ‘The drug can work, Mary, we know it can. We just have to do more studies.’ He pauses. ‘It’s been approved for trials in South Africa.’

  And there it is, the unwavering flame of his ambition. Captain Ahab, taking the whole ship down.

  ‘Before you let fly, Mary, hear me out. It’ll only be administered to a controlled sample of patients, on compassionate grounds.’

  I shake my head. I want to hit him. I want to punch him in the chest as hard as I can.

  ‘We’re talking one or two hospitals at most. Informed consent. Entirely voluntary.’

  ‘Voluntary? Is that what you told the ethics committee? What option do those patients have? I knew you could be a ruthless bastard, Piet, but I used to think you at least had some principles. You can’t just … experiment on people. You have to take it back into the labs.’

  He throws his hands in the air. ‘We don’t have time for that! Every second, dozens more people are infected and we’re no closer to a vaccine.’

  ‘This is exploitation, of the most vulnerable! It’s against all ethical codes. What did you do? Use your old boys’ network to cut some corners? Grease a few palms to push it through?’

  His jaw clenches. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ There’s a fire in his voice that used to send me scrabbling for compromise. ‘We’re at war, Mary! And in war, people have to do things. Things they would never normally do. And we’re not just fighting any army, we’re fighting a silent army that’s evolved to resist anything we throw at it—’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Piet, I know the facts—’

  ‘No, you don’t!’ He’s practically shouting. He checks himself. ‘Not all of them. The bacteria are replicating quicker than previous strains. A much higher proportion of people are developing the active form of the disease. You know how transmissible TB is. And with the length of incubation period, well…’ He swallows. ‘The reproductive number originally varied between four and ten, depending on the country. Now they think in some cities, it’s closer to fifteen. That’s fifteen new people infected for every one person that gets it.’

  Jesus. The same ratio as measles. But a damn sight more deadly.

  ‘This strain is activating TB in carriers where it has lain dormant, and it’s reactivating TB in people who’ve had it before. Which means those two billion carriers out there are sitting ducks.’

  As if on cue, I hear a strange whimper outside. On the pavement, just in front of my flat, a woman is on her knees, rocking slowly back and forth. She throws back her head and howls. That’s when I notice the small body lying in her lap. The lacy pink nightdress with blood stains over the bunnies.

  He comes up behind me. ‘This isn’t going to burn itself out, like influenza. This is just the start.’ He pauses. ‘And now there’s intelligence that suggests there may be more to all this than we thought.’

  I can’t take my eyes off the child. One pale arm hangs loosely over her mother’s thigh, palm outstretched, as if she is begging.

  Where is our daughter, I wonder? Is she at home, safe with her family? Is she even alive?

  Piet pulls me away from the window. ‘Are you listening, Mary? There’ve been reports. At the highest level. Some kind of unholy alliance between man and microbe.’

  I stare at him and something shrivels inside. ‘Sorry, what? What exactly are you saying?’

  ‘It’s quite simple when you think about it. Bacteria are programmed to replicate and survive. They’re adept at seeking out new hosts. To accelerate the spread, all someone has to do is ensure that conditions are optimal.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ I clutch the back of the chair. I want to pinch myself, and wake up. This is the stuff that happens in books and films, not here, in this sitting room, with John L
ewis sofas and Laura Ashley prints.

  The blood throbs in my ears. ‘Are you saying …? Is some kind of organisation behind this? Is that why it’s spreading so fast?’

  He nods. ‘We expected the disease to thrive on the main transport routes from Africa and Asia, but these other pockets in the West don’t make sense. None of the transmission models can explain it. It’s not as if there aren’t precedents.’ He rubs his knuckles into his eyes. ‘In the Middle Ages, when the Mongols lay siege to cities, they catapulted the corpses of bubonic plague victims over the walls.’

  My stomach roils. ‘Who would do such a thing?’ I lower my voice. ‘Piet: who do they think’s responsible?’

  He hesitates. ‘They’re not sure yet.’ His gaze shifts to the window. ‘Or if they are, they’re not telling me. But all it’ll take is another couple of mutations and then no amount of isolation chambers or infectious disease units are going to be able to contain this.’

  Piet’s eyes are blazing, electric. My heart stills. Can it be that part of him is actually enjoying this?

  I step away from him. He frowns. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You.’ My skin pricks. ‘You’re in your element.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’ll bet you’re loving it, aren’t you?’

  He screws up his face. ‘Sorry, what are you talking about?’

  I raise my hands like a preacher. ‘Piet Bekker: the wise apostle. The man who predicted this would happen.’ My arms drop to my sides. ‘You just can’t wait to be the man who saves us all.’

  He stares at me, bewildered. Like a priest who’s just been told that God doesn’t exist. ‘Don’t be absurd. You can’t really think that, Mary.’

  ‘Can’t I?’ Now I’ve got a reaction I can’t stop. ‘You’ve always relished a good crisis. Let’s face it, Piet, there’s only ever been one true love in your life. And that’s Piet Bekker.’

  I expect him to defend himself, but he doesn’t. As the silence between us grows I think of my mother. Of how like her I have become.

  ‘I should probably go.’ He picks up his coat. He looks older. As if he’s aged since he stepped into my flat. He reaches the door and turns. ‘Whatever you think of me, consider the facts. Production has to ramp up. You understand the vagaries of that plant better than anyone, and, right now, it’s the only weapon we’ve got.’ He touches my arm. ‘Please, Mary, I…’ His hand falls to his side. ‘We need you onside.’

  I stare at his fingerprints on the cabinet. Smears in the dust.

  Choices, there are always choices.

  But sometimes, none of them seems right.

  CHAPTER 37

  KATE

  I tuck in my shirt a little tighter and adjust my skirt. Stop faffing, girl. That was one of Pen’s favourites. If she could see me now: I’m onto my third outfit and it’s only nine o’clock. I’ve been awake since five. Did she have any inkling where this would lead?

  Mark wanders in with a mug of tea. ‘You look nice.’

  ‘Nice good, or nice bad?’ I smooth my hand over my stomach; it doesn’t stop the churning.

  He slips his arm around me and nuzzles my neck. ‘Definitely nice good.’

  ‘Watch that tea!’ I bat him away, laughing. He sits on the bed and takes noisy slurps. I can already sense the words hovering on his lips.

  ‘Why don’t you let me drive you?’ It’s the third time he’s offered. ‘You hardly slept last night.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. It’s not exactly far.’ I tidy a smudge of eyeliner. ‘And if the worst comes to the worst, Sasha can take the wheel. I’ll just shut my eyes.’

  No one was more surprised than me when Sasha asked if she could come. She still has her reservations, but our little spat at the monument seems to have cleared the air. For now. And Mark didn’t object. Even though I know he’d much rather be there himself.

  He plucks absently at the duvet. ‘You will go easy on her, won’t you?’

  ‘Sasha?’

  ‘No! Lily.’

  I glance at him in the mirror. ‘I thought you were more worried about what she had to say, not me.’

  He meets my gaze. ‘I just want it to go well, that’s all. I know you want answers, but I guess it’s like any new relationship. You have to ease in gently. It doesn’t always click straight away.’

  I pencil in the arch of an eyebrow. ‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning the Spanish Inquisition.’ He smiles. ‘I’m steering clear of any drug-related questions. And I’m sure Sasha will intervene if I get carried away.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what worries me.’ We both laugh. Mark comes up behind and hugs me, hard. I breathe him in. ‘Good luck.’ His mouth presses to my ear. ‘Remember: you’re a brilliant nurse and a wonderful mother.’

  I wrap my arms around his. ‘You missed out the wife part.’ I turn and kiss him gently on the lips. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  I pick my way downstairs, trying not to slip in my heels. Sasha is waiting in the hallway, kitted out in skirt and boots: no ripped jeans or crop tops in sight.

  She gives me the once-over. ‘Off for an interview?’

  ‘Oh. D’you think it’s too—?’

  ‘Joke, Mum!’ she trills.

  I grip the banister as my nerves take another spin. Maybe I should have let Mark come after all. ‘Right. OK, then. Ready?’

  ‘Yup. And you?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be.’

  As we walk out to the car I give her hand a squeeze. ‘Thanks for coming with me, Sasha. You didn’t have to.’

  ‘Well, the way I see it, if I’ve got a notorious criminal for a grannie then I’d better suck up to her from the start.’

  I exhale. ‘I’ll assume that’s another joke.’

  She smirks. ‘After all the shit I’ve put you through, I figure I owe you.’

  I stop and brush my fingers over her cheek. ‘Honey, I’m your mother. It doesn’t work like that.’

  I unlock the car. Sasha swings her long legs into the passenger seat. As we crunch along the drive, I see Mark in the rear-view mirror, waving, and something bittersweet stings inside.

  A sense of something passing.

  As if our family may never be quite the same again.

  It’s not what I expected.

  Manicured hedges line the long driveway, interspersed with ornamental bushes at discreet intervals. The building itself remains hidden until we round the last corner; it rears up in front of us, flanked by majestic beech trees. Wisteria and pink roses clamber across Cotswold stone; rows of windows peer out from underneath. This bears no resemblance to the establishments I’ve seen. It looks more like a stately home.

  ‘This is a bit smart,’ says Sasha, eyes bulging. She elbows me. ‘Your mother must be loaded.’

  I’m too nervous to play. This reminds me of when Dad and I pulled up at the church, before we went down the aisle. I want to do this, I really do. But I have no idea how things will turn out.

  I default to details. ‘Make sure you call her Lily, OK? Even if we’re alone.’ I tug my hair behind my ears. ‘The cameras aren’t supposed to record the sound. But in these places, you never know.’

  Sasha frowns. ‘OK, now you’re beginning to freak me out. How come you’re so calm?’

  ‘Remember, I do calm for a living. You can’t see what’s going on inside.’

  We walk up the path towards the huge oak door. As we get closer, I realise the period look is an illusion. The building is relatively new, no doubt purpose-built: it’s been weathered to make it look older. I count three security cameras watching us and exchange glances with Sasha.

  I press the buzzer. After a few minutes a short, olive-skinned woman opens the door. ‘Hello, can I help you?’

  ‘We’re here to see Lily. Lily Taylor.’

  A smile breaks out across her face. ‘Ah, you must be Kate. Her friend’s daughter. It’s a pleasure to meet you. So nice for Lily to have visitors. Please, come in.’

  As we walk through the vestibule the smell hits me:
just like the hospital; chemically fragrant. I put my bag into the tray for the scanner. She indicates a small black box next to the security gate.

  ‘If you could just place your thumb here, please.’

  I press my thumb onto the glass and a blue light flashes. The gate opens. ‘Well,’ I say, in an attempt at a jocular tone, ‘at least our thumbs are clean.’

  The carer’s mouth droops. ‘I’m so sorry about all the checks. We have to be so careful. I remember the days when all you had to do was sign your name in a book!’

  Obviously hospital humour doesn’t work here. ‘Please, don’t worry, I’m a nurse. I’m used to it. It’s good that you take these things seriously.’

  We turn left into what must be the visitors’ area. She leads us through another door into a room with two white cubicles: smarter-looking versions of the ones we have at work.

  ‘If you’d like to leave your bag here.’ She presses a button and the cubicles slide open. ‘This won’t take long.’

  Sasha hesitates and shoots me a look. ‘This is just a scanner, right? No radioactive extras?’ Sasha’s not normally one to baulk at such procedures. She must really be nervous.

  The carer interjects. ‘No need to worry.’ She flashes Sasha a smile. ‘It’s just the usual smart imaging. We don’t use tracers for microbial scans.’

  She bustles over to a white filing cabinet and pulls two packets out of a drawer. ‘Now, could I ask you both to undo your top buttons? We need a bit of skin for the sensor.’ She turns to me. ‘You know the drill, I expect.’

  I lean across to Sasha. ‘It’s basically a disposable patch.’

  Sasha nods and disappears inside. My cubicle smells of the usual plastic and disinfectant: its familiarity is bizarrely comforting. The carer follows me in and unwraps the sensor. It’s no thicker than a sticking plaster.

  ‘There we go,’ she says, positioning it over my heart. ‘I’ll nip next door and do your daughter’s.’

  The cubicle closes, sealing me in darkness. A violet beam of light moves over my eyes and rotates slowly around my body. Even though I do this every day and I’m positive I’m clear, I’m still relieved when there’s a beep and the door on the other side slides open. I walk into a beige room with black leather sofas that feels more like an office reception. After a couple of minutes, Sasha appears.