The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  A slight breeze rustles the branches above us, loosening wet beads onto our heads. Sasha grimaces and gives her hair a shake. I smile. It’s been hard these past few weeks. On all of us. But it’s brought us closer. Perhaps that’s Lily’s legacy. The only one she could leave.

  ‘One of her friends is over there, by the wall,’ says Anne. I glance up, half expecting to see someone, but there’s only a wooden owl and a wicker wreath. It’s curious, the things people leave, these intimate glimpses into past lives. Gold-sprayed pine cones and metal dragonflies. Ceramic hedgehogs and sleeping cats. I wonder what Sasha will leave for me.

  ‘Lovely lady, Elaine. Wasn’t she, Pam?’ Anne continues. ‘It’s nice to think of the two of them, back together.’

  There’s something comforting about the way Anne talks, as if the dead are still here, we just can’t see them.

  I look at our select few, huddled around the grave: just my family and the two carers. To my relief, Mrs Downing hasn’t shown up. We had a fraught few weeks during the investigation. Mrs Downing’s efforts to protect her reputation nearly landed me in jail. I thought I was going to be charged with Cara’s murder. My lawyers convinced them to drop the case, citing self-defence. It doesn’t change the facts, though: I killed my only sister. I’ll have to live with that.

  I check my watch and glance at Mark. ‘Do you think we should wait?’

  ‘Up to you. There’s no rush, is there?’ He touches my cheek. ‘Give it a few more minutes. He may have got lost.’

  A buzzard’s mournful cry echoes above the clouds. My gaze returns to the pages I’m clutching. This reading took me a long time to choose. It’s not easy finding the right words for someone so close, who you knew so little.

  Mark nudges me and everyone looks round. A figure shuffles towards us, leaning heavily on a stick. Graham was the only one who responded to my carefully worded announcement. Despite my brief, he is dressed formally: the black wool coat and felt hat are from another era. As he hobbles closer, his face stretches into a grin.

  ‘Kate,’ he says. ‘You are your mother’s image.’ He lifts a bird-like claw. A waft of cologne drifts between us.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Graham.’ I tentatively raise my hand. Despite his infirmity, something about him puts me on edge.

  ‘I’m not late, am I?’ His grey eyes flash.

  ‘Not at all.’

  He takes his place in the circle, and a gradual hush descends. I try to ignore the skips in my chest and focus on the urn at my feet.

  ‘Thank you all for being here today. We chose this burial ground because, from what I understand, my mother was not a religious woman. As a botanist, she believed in the creed of science and the natural order of life. So it seemed fitting that she should come to rest here.’ My eyes wander to the hole. I take a breath. ‘During her career she accomplished many remarkable things, for conservation and humanity. But, as with many, the Crisis took its toll.’

  I look up. All eyes are on the grave apart from Graham’s; his are fixed upon me.

  ‘I have heard some wonderful stories about Lily, from those who cared for her.’ Anne gives an emphatic nod. ‘It is a great sadness to me that I did not know her better. But then I remind myself that at least we got the chance to meet again. To learn a little about each other.’ I swallow. ‘Although our time together was brief, there is comfort in that.’

  Those last moments. That flutter of her hand. Other than birth, that’s about as close to someone as you can get.

  ‘I have chosen a reading that some of you may know. It still resonates across the centuries.’ The pages quiver and I try to still my hands.

  ‘Fear no more the heat o’ the sun

  Nor the furious winter’s rages;

  Thou, thy worldly task hast done,

  Home and gone and ta’en thy wages;

  Golden lads and girls all must,

  As chimney sweepers, come to dust.’

  I hear whispering. It’s Graham. He’s reciting the verses with me.

  ‘Fear no more the frown o’ the great,

  Thou art past the tyrants’ stroke;

  Care no more to clothe and eat,

  To thee the reed is as the oak;

  The sceptre, learning, physic, must

  All follow this and come to dust.’

  There’s a muffled sob: I think it’s Anne. I block it out. I have to get through this.

  ‘Fear no more the lightning-flash,

  Nor all the dreaded thunder-stone;

  Fear not slander, censure rash;

  Thou hast finished joy and moan;

  All lovers young, all lovers must

  Consign to thee and come to dust.’

  I fold the paper and slide it into my pocket. Mark leans over and kisses my cheek.

  I kneel on the grass. The wet blades soak through my dress. I clasp the urn and unscrew the lid.

  Her ashes are silky and cool against my fingers. I scoop some into my palm.

  I release them. They fall, dusting the earth like snow.

  We stand in silence, watching each person take their turn. This ritual, with such intimacy, feels outdated. We’re not prepared to touch the hands of the living, but we’ll sink our fingers into the remains of the dead.

  When Graham hobbles forward, Mark offers an arm. Graham ignores it and lowers himself painstakingly down. He slips his hand into the urn. As he rubs the ash through his fingers he mutters something I can’t quite hear.

  I tip the rest of her ashes into the grave. A powdery cloud rises, which the breeze catches, taking a small part of her elsewhere. Mark shovels a thin layer of earth on top, and, together, we lift the wild cherry in. As we pack the soil around its roots, some cherries patter to the ground, like red tears. I squeeze my hands into the earth. I thought it wouldn’t hurt as much as Pen, but it’s a different kind of grief. For the days not had, the moments missed. The tenderness that couldn’t be shared.

  Sasha gives me a fierce hug. ‘You did great, Mum,’ she whispers. I hold on to her. Unable to let go.

  ‘You head off with your father,’ I say eventually. ‘I’ll follow in a little while.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I watch her walk across the burial ground with Mark. The two carers follow. Only Graham remains.

  ‘That reading you chose,’ he says. ‘Cymbeline. Perfect.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I wait for him to give his condolences and leave. He does neither. I notice some flecks of ash on my sleeve. I go to wipe them off and change my mind.

  ‘She loved you very much, you know. Your mother.’

  I stare at him. ‘You knew?’ A slow smile carves into his face. ‘I thought she kept it a secret?’

  ‘She did.’

  I frown.

  ‘Everyone has secrets, Kate. That’s a universal rule. Some people’s job is to discover them.’

  My jaw stiffens. He’s either some kind of hack or one of those disreputable search agents; that entry in the obits was a stupid idea. ‘So. You weren’t a colleague.’

  He purses his lips. ‘Not exactly.’

  I clench my hands. ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘Well, it would have been a little complicated to explain over the phone.’

  I scan the burial ground, but everyone’s gone. I hesitate. ‘Who do you really work for?’

  Veined eyelids hover over his eyes. ‘The government. Intelligence, to be precise. At least, I used to.’

  Intelligence? Jesus. I slip my hand into my pocket. If I hit ‘redial’, Mark should pick up.

  Graham glances at me. ‘Don’t worry, Kate, there’s not much I’m capable of these days.’ He sighs. ‘If I were you, I’d listen to what I have to say. We don’t have much time.’

  He dabs his forehead with an immaculate white handkerchief. And that’s when I clock it: the sheen of sweat, his gaunt pallor.

  ‘What is it?’ I say. ‘Cancer?’

  He grins. ‘Seen quite a few like me,
I suppose.’ His shiny veneers look obscene in his mouth. ‘Shall we head over to that bench?’

  He limps off, not bothering to see if I follow. I quickly message Mark. Graham eases himself down slowly, but I see him wince as he touches the seat.

  He folds both hands over his stick. ‘I assume you know about Brotanol. And Dr Bekker.’

  I run my tongue around my mouth. ‘What I’ve read and what I’ve heard are two very different stories.’

  He nods. ‘Indeed. Did your mother speak to you about it?’

  ‘Not really. We never got the chance.’ I pause. ‘Cara did, though.’

  He gazes past me, to the fields. ‘Ah yes, Cara.’ His lip curls. ‘We underestimated her.’

  I think of Cara, lying on the floor, and my anger sparks. I’m tempted to just walk away. Leave him to rot with his cancer.

  ‘Did Lily know? How toxic it was?’

  He taps his stick with one desiccated finger. ‘By the time she was briefed, decisions had already been made. There was nothing she could do.’

  ‘He knew, though, didn’t he?’

  Graham doesn’t respond.

  A blackbird hops down in front of us and starts foraging. It scurries from grave to grave, prodding the soil for grubs.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘what did Cara tell you?’

  I meet his gaze. ‘That our father was innocent. That he’d been set up and the whole thing was a lie.’

  His expression doesn’t waver. ‘You know, there never would have been a problem if your father hadn’t let his emotions get the better of him.’ He sighs. ‘“A sacrifice of the few to save the masses.” Even Bekker conceded the logic on that one. Where we differed was on what constituted “the few”.’

  I frown. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Bekker initially agreed to the trial. But when he found out how many hospitals were going to be used in South Africa he kicked up the most almighty stink. Threatened to leak it to the press and Lord only knows what else.’

  My eyes widen. ‘He tried to stop the drug being used?’ Was Cara telling the truth, then?

  The blackbird unearths a worm. The worm flails and writhes, trying to bury itself back in the ground. The bird spears it with one foot and pecks at it, tearing off one piece after another.

  Graham takes a breath. ‘We didn’t have the luxury of time. It was a question of national security. We needed to ramp up.’

  ‘But you knew how dangerous that drug was.’

  ‘Come on, Kate, you remember how dire things got. All those riots and fires. WHO had been predicting an antibiotic apocalypse for years! And, as the history books will tell you, things have a tendency to turn ugly when deaths rack up on that kind of scale. “Vive la Révolution” and all that…’ He leans closer and I smell an acrid cocktail of antiseptic and cologne. ‘Your father became a liability. One that had to be contained.’

  The saliva dries in my mouth. ‘So you did set it up. His involvement … The terrorist links…’

  ‘Well, it’s a lot easier if you can fixate the loathing of the masses on one common enemy. Preferably a human one.’

  All that’s left of the worm are a few bloody segments. The dismembered remains slide away across the grass.

  ‘Rumours were already circulating about bioterrorist plots, although nothing had been officially confirmed. The data was all over the place, so it didn’t take much to fan those flames. Lots of groups wanted to steal the glory, but we needed something plausible that could be controlled. A network of our own.’

  I blink at him. ‘What … what are you saying? Are you implying that … that EAA weren’t responsible?’

  Graham barks a laugh. ‘That bunch of hippies? They couldn’t organise their way out of a bus shelter.’

  My mind spirals. ‘But … what about the arenas? And the vectors? I was at one of those concerts, for God’s sake; I worked in a hospital. I saw them with my own eyes!’

  ‘Ah yes, the vectors. An artful packaging of a disaster waiting to happen.’ He lifts his eyes to mine. ‘Of course there were carriers. But they weren’t orchestrated by EAA. Or by anyone else, for that matter. EAA was, put simply, a marketing exercise. The perfect scapegoat for the woeful failures of a system that allowed the Crisis to unfold.’

  I see the concert hall and Lucy’s face. The panic in the hospitals and the headlines. And I think of Lily on her deathbed, apologising over and over. Saying his name.

  ‘You’re wondering why your mother testified against him, aren’t you?’ Graham rakes his stick along the gravel. ‘So now we come to the nub of it.’

  I stare at the cherry tree I just planted. Dark thoughts crowd in, each vying for attention.

  ‘I’d never understood why such a handsome woman hadn’t ever married or settled down. She’d taken the occasional lover, but nothing serious; she could have had her pick.’ He pauses. ‘We already knew Bekker had certain political leanings from his apartheid days. It took a bit more work to uncover the rest. Which was when I discovered that he and your mother knew each other much better than we’d realised.’

  I think of the press articles, the conference photo. That Mona Lisa smile.

  ‘Then I hit the jackpot.’ Graham’s eyes flash. ‘You.’

  I edge away from him. It feels as if I am sinking. Down, beneath the grass, with all the others. Into the soft, wet graves.

  ‘Imagine how much fun the papers would have had,’ Graham continues. ‘“Love Child of Killer-Drug Duo Discovered”. “Unmasked: Secret Daughter of a Terrorist”. Not the best introduction to your birth parents, is it? You see, unlike your father, Mary applied her head over her heart. She understood what she had to do. I saw first-hand what it cost her.’

  The pieces rearrange themselves and finally I see it. My mother, having to choose between her lover and her child. Choosing me, after all.

  I dig my nails into the bench. I want to grab him by his saggy throat and squeeze.

  ‘Why are you telling me this now? Is it some sort of confession? A shedding of guilt before the end?’

  He gazes at me, but his eyes are distant. ‘Believe it or not, I actually became quite fond of your mother. She loathed me, of course.’ He sighs. ‘I thought you should know what lengths she went to, to keep you safe. As she never got the chance to tell you herself.’

  I jump up. ‘You’ve got some nerve. She died because of you! They all did. My father, his wife. Even Cara. Where does it end?’

  Graham looks at me as if I’m a child. ‘Death comes to us all sooner or later, Kate. You know that better than most.’ He swallows. ‘You’ve a right to be angry; I’m not here to defend myself. But at least now you know the truth.’ He mops his brow. ‘And on that note, I really must be going.’ He pockets his handkerchief and starts to lever himself up.

  ‘What’s to stop me taking all this to the press? Finish what my father started? I’m sure the papers would love to hear your story.’

  He steadies himself against the bench. ‘Absolutely nothing. But if they want to interview me, they’d better be quick. I’m booked into the Peace Clinic tomorrow.’

  He tips his hat. I glimpse a lattice of thin grey strands. ‘Goodbye, Kate. I’m sorry about your mother. She was an exceptional woman. But I’m glad I finally got to meet you.’

  I watch him hobble down the path: a hunched black spectre. It’s a relief when he turns the corner and disappears.

  I walk to the cherry tree and run my hand over its leaves. ‘He was wrong about you,’ I whisper. ‘They all were. Everything you did came from the heart.’

  CHAPTER 52

  New Hope Dawns in War against Infection: Trials of Bacterial ‘Gene-Shredder’ Show Promise

  With no signs of the antibiotic restrictions being lifted or shelf lives improving, new gene-editing technology may bring the long-awaited boost to healthcare we need. Volunteers from five hospitals for the elderly have signed up to trials for a radical new procedure being developed by bioscience start-up, Prosper. Specific DNA strands are targeted
in disease-causing bacteria, which contain critical genes required by the pathogen to function.

  ‘There’s a certain irony here,’ comments CEO of Prosper, Dr Rich Hendren. ‘By using these tools, we’ve effectively turned the bacteria’s own defence mechanism against them. The beauty of this treatment is that we avoid the opportunity for bacteria to develop resistance because we target multiple genes in one go.’

  Initial results look promising. Three months after being treated for an extensively drug-resistant infection, seventy-five percent of the volunteers are still alive.

  KATE

  Sunlight streams through the window, illuminating floating columns of dust. The room looks bigger now the furniture has gone. Ready for its next tenant. Lily spent years in this room, but now only the ghosts of her things remain, commemorated by bright silhouettes on the wallpaper, the odd dent in the carpet. At least her flowers are still here. Daisies, lavender, roses. I’m not so sure about the blue ones. She would have told me.

  I sit with my back to the wall and rest the wooden box on my knees. I drum the lid with my fingers, afraid to open it. There was so little of her in everything else we went through. Clothes, pictures, books. The odd piece of jewellery. But there’s evidence in here, I know. My lawyer told me.

  The door swings open and Anne sticks her head round. ‘Goodness, what are you doing down there, Kate? Let me bring you a chair.’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly.’ I smile. ‘I like floors.’

  Her eyes drop to the box. ‘You’ve got it, then. Lord only knows why they sent it back here.’

  ‘I know. Still, it’s a chance to see her room again. One last time.’

  Anne’s lips tighten. ‘Doesn’t seem right, Lily not being here. I keep expecting to see her in her chair.’ She tugs at her apron and sighs. ‘I still can’t believe everything that went on. You think you know people…’

  They found the puncture wound on Lily’s left arm. The coroner said that was why the sepsis came on so fast. It’s still not entirely clear how Cara duped the monitoring systems. So now Mrs Downing has her own investigation to contend with.

  Anne lifts her eyes to mine. ‘Even now, I can’t stop thinking about it. I should have listened. Lily tried to talk to me, you know, but I—’