The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  ‘Anne, please, this isn’t your fault. It went way back. I’m not sure any of us could have stopped it.’

  We lapse into silence. I’m thinking about Cara. About how much of a victim she was, too.

  Anne takes a breath. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself either, Kate.’ I look up. ‘I’m talking about Natalie. Or whatever her real name was.’ She sighs. ‘It wasn’t your fault, what happened. How were you to know?’ Anne shakes her head. ‘None of us had any idea what she was capable of.’

  Anne means well. But the truth is, if I had acted differently, at least one death might have been prevented. Those were dark days, after my arrest. I knew I was innocent, but I still didn’t have the full picture. After hours of questions, I began to doubt myself. And Lily.

  Anne squeezes my shoulder. ‘Can I at least bring you a drink?’

  ‘Got any gin?’

  She smiles. ‘I’m not sure our nutritional regime stretches to that. Will tea do?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I wait for the door to close and smooth my thumbs over the wood. What other secrets does Lily have in store?

  I lift the lid. A faint scent stirs, like some kind of spice. Nestled inside is a bundle of envelopes and papers squeezed together with an elastic band. I release them; they flutter into my lap like felled birds.

  I sift through until I spot a yellow, crinkled newspaper cutting.

  Kill Not Cure

  Hundreds of TB patients suffer agonising deaths after taking unlicensed, experimental drug.

  The Brotanol children. Bones stick out of pinched faces beneath the sunken hollows of their eyes. This is the picture that triggered a public outcry. I think of Graham and my heart pounds. All those years, she carried that guilt.

  I fold the cutting and put it back. Amidst the pile I notice a small, bulging envelope with a single letter on the front: K. Inside is a tiny plastic wristband. The band’s been cut but the white button-lock still holds the two pieces together. A strip of pink paper is encased in the middle with words in blue biro:

  Baby of Mary Sommers

  I curl the ends together to make a circle. It’s hard to imagine my wrist ever fitting something so small. And it comes again, that yearning, like a small, burrowing creature. For the mother I didn’t know. For the baby I was. A mourning for what might have been.

  I sort through more papers. I discover a photograph, sandwiched between two envelopes: one of those old-fashioned prints that must have been developed from film.

  A man lies naked on a bed, eyes closed, sheets tangled around his legs. One arm is outstretched, sprawled across an empty pillow. I note the tanned, muscular body, the high cheekbones, the shock of fair hair. Behind him, a table-lamp throws shadows over the room.

  I imagine her watching him, waiting until he’d fallen asleep. Slipping out from under the sheets and tip-toeing across the floor.

  He looks so peaceful. My father.

  On the back, in faint pencil, is the name of a game park that sounds familiar. And a date.

  The picture was taken the year before I was born.

  CHAPTER 53

  KATE

  The dawn chill makes the hairs on my arms stand up as we rattle along the road. The jeep throws arcs of light across the scrub, transforming grey silhouettes into bushes. Fiery streaks emerge in a cobalt sky, surpassing the crescent moon. I inhale the musky scents of unknown creatures as the first tentative notes of birdsong start to trill.

  ‘I could get used to this,’ I say. ‘Where’s everyone else? We haven’t seen one other car.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re taking the morning off, having a lie-in.’ Sasha grins. ‘Had a few too many beers. Like someone else we know.’

  My daughter never ceases to surprise me. At home, I have to virtually drag her out of bed, but here, a 5.30 start poses no problem. But then it’s not every day you see a lion stride out in front of you or a troop of baboons cross the road. We have been so lucky. I can understand why Lily fell in love with this place.

  ‘Shall we take this left loop?’ Sasha points at the map. ‘I don’t think we’ve done that one yet. There’s a water pan in about five K’s.’

  I glance at her and nod. Over the last week her porcelain skin has darkened to a light olive. It suits her. I like seeing her without make-up: I can glimpse the young girl she used to be.

  We turn onto a gravel road, sending a pair of hornbills chattering up into the air. A gold spiral dances around the car. It’s the sun, reflecting off Lily’s bracelet.

  I hope you’re happy I came.

  We slow to admire three vultures, hunched like chilly old men in a dead tree.

  ‘Shouldn’t be far now,’ says Sasha, squinting up the road. ‘So take it easy.’

  ‘OK.’

  A herd of impala look up from the grass and freeze, gazing at us with impossibly pretty eyes. As we get closer, they bounce off behind the bushes, their dainty legs kicking out behind them.

  I round the next corner and slam my foot on the brake; gravel spins out from the wheels.

  ‘What the…?’

  Right in front of us, twenty metres up ahead, is a rhino. Its plated body spans the entire width of the road. The animal starts to its feet and turns, displaying two magnificent horns. I grip Sasha’s arm as she just about suppresses a squeal: this is our first one. In our haste to grab the camera, we almost miss the smaller shape hiding behind.

  ‘Mum, look!’ whispers Sasha. ‘A baby!’

  I feel a rush of adrenaline. I’m not sure if it’s fear or excitement, or both. I signal Sasha to stop scrabbling. The mother trots forward a few steps and her baby presses in underneath.

  ‘OK,’ I say, my mouth all sticky. ‘Time to retreat.’

  I put the car into reverse and crawl back, metre by metre, eyes glued to the windscreen. The mother stands her ground. Her conical ears are constantly swivelling, pinpointing exactly where we are. When we reach what I hope is an acceptable distance, I slow to a stop; the engine idles at the ready. She gives a couple of snorts that makes my heart leap but she doesn’t come any closer.

  ‘Switch it off,’ whispers Sasha.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The engine. Switch it off.’

  I glare at her. ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘The noise is probably what’s freaking her out. Rhinos have poor eyesight but very acute hearing.’ Sasha appears to have assumed the role of game ranger. ‘As long as we keep our distance, I reckon we’re fine.’

  ‘Try telling that to the insurance company when she totals this jeep!’

  ‘Shhh!’ Sasha scowls at me. ‘Mum, will you just go with it? You’re in Africa now. You don’t possess the high ground on hazards.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ I exhale. ‘But we’re out of here the moment she stirs.’

  I turn off the engine and the sounds of Africa flood in. Two exotic birds I don’t recognise make strange hoops and trills. A dung beetle buzzes past, its body tipped precariously like a plane about to crash. A baboon’s bark makes both Sasha and me jump. The rhino continues her vigil, whipping at flies with her tail. The baby peeks its head out from between its mother’s legs, curious to see us too. Its horns are tiny: two little stumps like teeth, either side of its nose.

  Eventually the mother relaxes and wanders over to the grass. The two of them begin to graze. I take silent gulps of air while Sasha leans out of the window, clicking away. Every so often, the mother lifts her head to check on us, and my hand flies to the ignition. Each time she resumes her feed. The baby never leaves her side.

  We sit there, together, watching, until they amble off into the bush.

  Despite their size, within seconds, both mother and baby have disappeared.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are many people to whom I owe thanks for helping me get this book into the hands of readers. As a debut writer, the journey is as much about persistence as it is about skill, and for that you need the unwavering love and support of family and friends. I had that. You know who you are.<
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  I must thank my agent, Harry Illingworth, at DHH, who was the first agent who really ‘got’ the book and took a bet on me, patiently answering my rookie questions. And I also want to thank the wonderful team at Orenda Books, particularly Karen Sullivan, whose super-human energy and passion breathed new ideas into the novel, and to whom I am permanently indebted for bringing this book to life.

  This journey started with an innocent subscription to a creative-writing group: the Chippie Writers, led by a wise playwright: Alan Pollock. His encouragement and that of the other writers was pivotal, and I will always be grateful.

  Special mention must go to my alpha reader: Bill Hudson. His thoughtful edits and ruthless murdering of inadequate characters has been, and continues to be, priceless. Thank you. I must also thank Rob Way for his assiduous help with all the medical bits, Nessa for the South Africa checks, Jo Copestick and Clare Litt for their publishing insights and support, and my industry mentor, Jonathan Eyers, who not only gave me excellent technical advice, but also hope, during bleaker moments. The Bridport Prize judges also warrant my thanks. The shortlisting of The Waiting Rooms strengthened my belief in the novel and helped me along the path to representation.

  My final and sincere thanks go to my long-suffering husband, Dave, and to my daughters, Nuala and Aaron. It’s really down to them, in the end. Only a family can keep persuading you you’re doing the right thing, when it makes no logical sense whatsoever. Thank you. This book would never have been written without you.

  THE INSPIRATION BEHIND

  The Waiting Rooms

  When I tell people I’ve written a novel about an antibiotic crisis, I get some funny looks. Why the hell has she done that, I see them thinking, can’t she write about romance or serial killers: something a little more jolly? Well, I can’t. Sorry. For me, it has to be dark issues or dark science: the things that keep me up at night. Things that I hope keep you up, too.

  I had the idea for The Waiting Rooms after I read some scary facts about antibiotic resistance. Those facts became the foundation of my pre-Crisis chapters and you can read more of them on my website. I did a lot of research. Believe me: the slide towards an antibiotic crisis is real. What happens next: the size and scope of the crisis, the diseases that flourish, and the choices society and governments make, is not. Yet. Those details were mine.

  Which brings me on to the premise of the book: no one over seventy is allowed antibiotics, in a last-ditch attempt to keep resistance at bay. A little extreme, you may think. But consider this: antibiotic use by age group is a U-shaped graph. The highest number of prescriptions to stave off infections go to the young and the old. In the UK, the over-seventy-fives account for a quarter of all antibiotic prescriptions. The over-sixty-fives account for a third.

  The global population is ageing. Virtually every country in the world is experiencing growth in the number and proportion of its elderly, with the over-sixty-fives growing faster than all other age groups. The global population of the over-eighties is expected to more than triple between 2015 and 2050; in some Latin American and Asian countries it will quadruple. By 2050, one in four people in the US and Europe will be over 65. But how well is our society coping with this change?

  A recent report by the Royal Society for Public Health claims that ageism is the most commonly experienced form of prejudice and discrimination in the UK and Europe. Compounding this, we have social-care systems and health services already in crisis, and needs are only going to increase.

  Put all this together and you have the perfect storm.

  For those readers who are interested in scaring themselves further about these and other issues in the book, I’ve assembled more facts and links on my website.

  But a warning.

  The deeper you delve, the less speculative and more probable the world of The Waiting Rooms becomes.

  Enjoy.

  www.evesmithauthor.com

  @evecsmith

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Eve Smith writes speculative fiction, mainly about the things that scare her. She attributes her love of all things dark and dystopian to a childhood watching Tales of the Unexpected and black-and-white Edgar Allen Poe double bills. In this world of questionable facts, stats and news, she believes storytelling is more important than ever to engage people in real life issues.

  Set twenty years after an antibiotic crisis, her debut novel The Waiting Rooms was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize First Novel Award. Her flash fiction has been shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award and highly commended for The Brighton Prize.

  When she’s not writing she’s racing across fields after her dog, trying to organise herself and her family, or off exploring somewhere new.

  Follow Eve on Twitter @evecsmith and on her website: evesmithauthor.com

  COPYRIGHT

  Orenda Books

  16 Carson Road

  West Dulwich

  London SE21 8HU

  www.orendabooks.co.uk

  First published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books, 2020

  Copyright © Eve Smith, 2020

  Eve Smith has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–1–913193–26–3

  eISBN 978–1–913193–27–0