by Eve Smith
‘There you are, Lily.’ Anne hands me a thick slice bursting with buttercream. As I reach up to take it I feel a twinge in my arm: that flu jab’s still sore. Anne serves up the rest of the cake on floral paper napkins while Natalie passes round beakers of tea. The residents tuck in with appreciative mumbles, fingering the sponge. Beaded necklaces bob up and down on craggy throats like boats on a restless sea.
I force myself to take a bite. Jam explodes on my tongue. They’ve used the proper stuff, made with real strawberries; I’ll bet Anne had to twist Cook’s arm for that. The carers make an effort, they always do, but this is a ritual we’ve outgrown. There’s nothing to celebrate about this occasion.
Diane hobbles towards me, one desiccated hand clasped around her stick. She’s something of a legend here: twelve years post cut-off.
‘Don’t think about it,’ she says, nodding at the candles. ‘That’s the key. Enjoy each day God gives you. Or you’ll drive yourself mad.’
As if on cue Harriet bursts into a warbling rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’. She turns to me and claps her hands.
‘Isn’t this magical? Can I have a balloon? Please? Just one?’
‘Help yourself,’ I say. ‘Take as many as you like.’
Pam glares at me and escorts Harriet out. Her mewling protests echo down the corridor.
The others take their leave, one by one. Some wish me a happy birthday; others avoid my gaze, unsure, as if I’ve already contracted an illness that might be catching. I remain in my seat. I’m sticking to the communal rooms, no matter what Graham says. I can’t afford to take any chances.
‘Well then, birthday girl,’ says Anne, sweeping scatters of crumbs into her hand. ‘How did you like your cake?’
I pull my face into a smile. ‘Delicious. Real strawberries.’ I tut and shake my head. ‘What would Mrs Downing say?’
Anne snatches up a couple of napkins, bloodied with jam. ‘What the eye doesn’t see…’ She bends over and gives the table a furious wipe.
‘Actually, Anne, I wanted to ask you something.’ I scan the room. We’re the only two left. ‘You haven’t seen a letter, have you? Addressed to me? Only I seem to have misplaced it.’
She peers round. ‘Oh dear. Where did you have it last?’
‘In my room.’ I clasp my fingers together. ‘The cleaners wouldn’t throw something like that away, would they?’
She frowns. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’ She deposits a fistful of beakers on the trolley. ‘Are you sure you didn’t put it down somewhere? Have you checked all your little hidey holes?’
‘Anne, I’ve looked everywhere.’
‘Well, try not to fret, I’m sure it’ll turn up.’ She pats me on the arm. ‘Like that card from Elaine, do you remember? Where did we eventually find it? Oh yes, tucked down the back of your chair.’
I carve my nail along the seam of the cushion. That was different, I think.
Anne eyes the door. She digs her hand into her pocket and whisks out a small box wrapped in shiny-blue paper. ‘For you.’ She smiles. ‘Just a little something.’
They’re not supposed to give us presents; it could be misconstrued. But Anne always gets me something. ‘Anne, really. You shouldn’t waste your money on me.’
‘Get away with you.’ She flaps her hand. ‘Birthdays are important.’
I tug the bow, and the paper falls away, revealing a pink box with some shop’s name printed in black italics. That’s Anne for you: considerate to the last; she doesn’t use sticking tape because she knows I struggle. I ease the lid open. Nestled in white tissue paper is a small silver brooch in the shape of a rose.
‘Oh, it’s beautiful.’ I hold it up to the light. Silver petals shimmer on a twisting stem, the safety clasp tucked underneath. My throat tightens. ‘Thank you. It even looks like a Boscobel.’
She beams. ‘As soon as I saw it, I said to myself, “That’s the one.” Do you want me to put it on for you?’
‘Please.’
‘Shall I pin it just below your collar?’
‘Perfect.’
She pulls the clasp round, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Keep still now.’ She bends forward and I catch a burst of flowery scent.
Pam comes storming up behind her. ‘Where’s the meds list?’
Anne turns, just for a second.
‘Ouch!’ I flinch away from her.
Anne gasps. ‘Oh Lily, did I catch you?’
A bead of blood swells under my shirt. I cannot speak.
Anne grabs a clean napkin. ‘I’m so sorry. Don’t worry, it’s just a little nick.’ She presses the paper against my skin and a red circle soaks into the flowers.
I think of Natalie’s husband. It’s all I can do not to howl.
Anne swallows. ‘Pam, go and get the antiseptic, will you?’ She’s using that extra-calm voice: the one she has for emergencies.
Pam stares at the box and the wrapping paper then back at Anne. ‘All this fuss,’ she mutters, shaking her head. ‘I told you it would get you into trouble one of these days.’ She hurries off towards the kitchen, and I see Anne’s lips tighten.
‘Please, try not to worry, Lily,’ she says, a film of sweat glistening on her forehead. ‘The brooch is silver. That’s one of the reasons I chose it.’
The paper flowers have disappeared, submerged in a bloody pool. I remind myself that silver is antiseptic and the pin looked clean. That it’s a gift, a lovely birthday gift.
Pam slopes in with a first-aid kit. Anne snatches it off her without a word and rips an antiseptic wipe out of its wrapper. She dabs away until all the blood has gone and sticks on a plaster. ‘There you are. Good as new.’ I manage a tepid smile. Anne’s eyes meet mine and she reddens. ‘Sorry, Lily. I didn’t want to give you cause to fret. Today of all days.’
‘It’s OK, Anne. Really.’ I must sound convincing because her face relaxes a little.
‘Right then,’ she exhales. ‘Where were we? Oh, yes: cards. Back in a jiffy.’
As soon as Anne’s out of sight, I slip my fingers under my shirt and gently probe the plaster. It doesn’t hurt. I press a little harder. There’s a faint throb but no more blood appears. I notice a small, rusty stain on my shirt that looks like a teardrop.
Anne returns and deposits five cards on my tray. ‘This one’s from all of us,’ she says, handing me a large oblong envelope. On the front of the card is a painting of an English cottage garden not dissimilar to Auden’s. ‘Everyone’s signed it.’
I read the birthday greetings as Anne hovers behind. ‘Thanks, Anne,’ I say. ‘You’ve all gone to so much trouble.’
‘Well, I know this day can be difficult. We wanted to make it nice for you.’ She squeezes my arm. ‘People care, you know, Lily. Not all of them show it, but, well, we’re very fond of you.’ She gathers up the wrapping paper and places the brooch discreetly in its box. ‘Anyway, I’d better get off before I cause even more trouble. Don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on that.’ She nods at my plaster. ‘I’ll leave you to read the others in peace.’
I try to ignore the little flutters of panic in my chest and pick up the first envelope. The looping letters give her away: it’s from Diane; she sends me one every year. It’s a picture of a spring hare; I’m pretty sure she gave me the same card last year. I recognise Mrs Downing’s military print on the next one. For some reason she always sends her own card, as if she can’t bring herself to mingle with the other staff, even on paper. I push it aside and pick up the next one. My heart thuds. I know that neat, disciplined hand.
On the front is a white, star-shaped flower with six delicate petals and arching leaves. It’s a star of Bethlehem: a member of the lily family.
Dear Lily,
I hope you have a lovely day.
Very much looking forward to seeing you.
Kate, Mark & Sasha
I trace my finger over her words. Did Kate understand the significance of the flower? The star of Bethlehem symbolises forgiveness and reconciliation. Or
is that just wishful thinking?
I stroke my plaster. Six days till she comes. One hundred and forty-four hours. I just need to hold on till then.
I’m about to push myself up, when I notice the last envelope. The address is typed: black, Times New Roman. The hairs on my neck stand up. Twelve point.
A picture has been cut out and glued on the front. It’s the same creature as before, only this one is lying on its side, in a pool of blood. With a gaping wound where its horns should be.
My fingers refuse to move, but the card falls open anyway. A little whimper escapes my lips. The letters have been cut out and stuck on too.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARY.
THIS ONE WILL BE YOUR LAST.
CHAPTER 42
Crisis
‘Incontrovertible Evidence’ Bioterrorist Group Responsible, Says MI5, as Global Death Toll Reaches 200 Million
The UK’s intelligence chief announced today that there was ‘incontrovertible evidence’ that the terrorist organisation Equality Above All (EAA), was responsible for triggering the TB pandemic. ‘EAA planned and executed a deadly series of bioterrorist attacks over a period of months, deliberately infecting huge numbers of people in concert venues around the world with a drug-resistant strain of TB.’
In his statement, the prime minister commented: ‘This is the worst terrorist attack in modern history. Two hundred million innocent lives have been lost because of the despicable actions of one organisation. The United Kingdom and our allies, will not rest until these monsters are brought to justice.’
MARY
I activate the security shield on the polytunnel and step outside. A dank grey mist smothers the science park, all the chillier after such fertile, moist warmth. The steel-and-glass buildings have been consumed by a dense bank of clouds; the lake at the perimeter is barely visible. I scan the gravel path, the rampant lawns, the straggling ornamental beds, slowly succumbing to weeds. All is still.
I tighten my mask and am about to make a dash for the car when I sense movement, down by the water. I stiffen. Through the mist I can just make out the squat bodies of two ducks, paddling nervously through the reeds. A rare sight these days. Most creatures have been eaten or culled. Wild fowl. Badgers, foxes, deer. Now they’ve started on the pets. It’s not enough for our own species to expire, we have to take the rest of the animal kingdom with us. At least the plants are flourishing.
I watch the ducks until they swim out of sight, and hurry along the path. As I turn left, I spot a black Mercedes I don’t recognise in the carpark: the only vehicle apart from mine. It wasn’t there when I arrived. I pick up my pace, fishing for my keys.
One tinted rear window whines down. ‘Dr Sommers?’
I freeze. Eyes the colour of dirty paintbrush water peer out above a high-grade mask. I glance up at the office windows: a pointless exercise, no one’s there.
I swallow. ‘Yes?’
‘Could I have a word?’
‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’
‘Not yet.’ He flashes his ID. I take one step closer. Commander Graham Parfrey. My eyes are drawn to the badge’s crest: a golden-winged lion sporting a fish tail with the words Regnum Defende underneath. My stomach thuds.
‘Please, Dr Sommers. No need to be alarmed.’ He says it with the professional nonchalance of a heart surgeon. ‘We just need your assistance with something.’ He opens his door. ‘It won’t take long.’
I look wistfully at my car. I have a powerful urge to make a bolt for it. ‘Sorry, what is this about…?’
He pats the seat. ‘I think it’s safer to have this conversation inside, don’t you?’
My tongue grates along my teeth. I grip my bag and climb into the back. The car reeks of leather and disinfectant. As soon as I shut the door, there’s a gentle hissing sound.
‘Just the purifier.’ He nods at me. ‘Give it a couple of minutes.’
I thought the filters they gave me were high spec; these make mine look positively Stone Age. As we accelerate over the first roundabout I try to glimpse who’s in front, but a tinted partition renders them invisible. Three more roundabouts until the main road.
The man removes his mask. Sharp cheekbones transect a hollow face. ‘Feel free,’ he says. Reluctantly, I oblige.
‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Dr Sommers. Your work is absolutely vital.’ He smooths his hands over his knees. His fingers are slender and hairless. More like a woman’s. ‘We have high hopes.’
High hopes. That sounds just like Piet. I haven’t heard from him in over a week.
He taps the seat. ‘I’m told it won’t be long now until the second batch is despatched.’ My stomach flutters as the same old doubts wheel round. He knows all about it. Of course he does.
I take a breath. ‘That’s a lot of pills we’re sending over for two hospitals. Do they really need that many?’
‘Well, it’s hard to predict. As I’m sure you’re aware, things out there are pretty serious. The hospitals are totally overwhelmed. As they are here.’
Pretty serious. We British just love our understatement. The population has been decimated.
‘The lab propagation looks promising,’ he continues. ‘Which is just as well, given the challenges you’ve experienced with traditional cultivation.’
I clench my fingers. He hasn’t got me here to discuss growing techniques. ‘In vitro propagation isn’t really my department. That’s Dr Bekker’s.’
‘Of course.’ He flashes a smile, resplendent with veneers.
We pull out onto the main road. Three cars are abandoned on the verge. As we pass a bright-orange Mini I glimpse a woman’s body, slumped over the wheel.
He looks on, impervious. ‘And how is the talented Dr Bekker?’
I feel a spike of irritation. ‘Busy, I expect. Like the rest of us. Sorry, what exactly was it you wanted?’
He inspects a nail. ‘How long have you known Piet Bekker, Mary?’ His question is casual, as if he’s just making conversation. ‘Do you mind if I call you Mary?’
I shift in my seat. ‘I prefer Dr Sommers.’ I feel the weight of his eyes on me. ‘We first met when I was in South Africa. Over twenty years ago. I worked for his company for a couple of years. Then I left the country, and we lost contact. Until the Crisis.’
He nods. ‘Did he ever speak to you about his … political opinions?’
An icy finger creeps up my spine. ‘It was South Africa in the nineties. Everyone spoke about their political opinions.’
He smiles, humouring me. ‘And what were his?’
I frown. ‘Well, obviously, Piet – Dr Bekker, I mean – was anti-apartheid.’ I swallow. ‘He believed in equality. He wanted the violence to end.’
‘Equality?’ There’s a sudden urgency to his voice that triggers an alarm bell. ‘Were you aware that Dr Bekker’s father was a staunch supporter of de Klerk?’
Old money: that figures. A memory of Piet’s house surfaces. I keep my tone neutral. ‘From what I understand, Piet and his father were two very different people.’
His lips purse. ‘And what about Dr Bekker’s views on the West? He had one or two opinions there, didn’t he? Particularly about the pharmaceutical industry. “Unscrupulous inaction”; he was rather fond of that phrase as I recall.’
‘Well, I can’t say I blame him. Apart from HIV, Africa was largely left to fend for itself. So yes, sometimes he’d get … frustrated.’
‘Would you say he was anti-West?’
‘Not at all. He disliked the ‘club mentality’: the West looking after its own. Worshipping at the altar of profit. That doesn’t make him anti-West. Just human.’
The car slows. We must be at the first checkpoint. An army vehicle rumbles past. I rummage for my permit.
He stays my arm. ‘That won’t be necessary.’ The soldiers stand aside and we accelerate past the barriers. My pulse quickens: this must really be serious.
‘Look, Commander Par—’
He waves his hand. ‘Please, cal
l me Graham.’
‘Has something happened? You should be asking Dr Bekker these questions, not me.’
‘That’s the thing, Mary. We can’t.’ He leans forward; there’s a cloying whiff of cologne. ‘We’re not sure where Dr Bekker is right now.’ One eyebrow arches. ‘No one is.’
A cold sweat breaks out under my shirt. ‘How long has he been missing?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘Piet wouldn’t just abandon the trial. It means the world to him. What if he’s sick?’
The intelligence officer looks at me. ‘We’re pretty sure Dr Bekker wants to be missing.’ My eyes widen. ‘When did you last hear from him?’
I hesitate. ‘About a week ago.’ I frown. ‘Sorry, what do you mean, he wants to be miss—’
‘Are you aware if Dr Bekker ever had any … affiliations with certain organisations? Political ones, I mean?’ I shake my head. ‘Bekker obviously sounded off to you about things. Would you say that his views over the years have become more … extreme?’
I stare at him. What is this? I feel as if I’m playing a part in a play, but no one’s given me the script.
‘Has he ever hinted at anything … seditious? “Payback”: that sort of thing?’ He leans closer. ‘Think, Mary. Tell me anything, even if it seems unimportant.’
I blink at him as my brain tries to catch up. I can sense this man’s impatience building.
He changes tack. ‘You’ve presumably heard of an organisation called Equality Above All?’
The hair pricks up on my arms. ‘Of course.’ I inhale sharply. ‘You don’t think they’ve done something to him?’
The officer looks down at his hands and back at me. ‘Quite the contrary. I know this may come as a shock, Mary. But it’s our belief that Bekker may have been working with them.’
The blood roars in my ears. ‘What? No. Absolutely no way. You actually think…? No, that’s madness.’