by Sam Nash
“But Connie won’t be. They will be monitoring her as much as Dan and Grampy since the crash.” Mary began tidying the shopping away, folding up the carrier bags absent-mindedly.
“We could catch the tube to Richmond Hill in the morning, see if she has returned there?” Parth opened the minibar fridge, took a can of Coke, then plonked himself down on his bed.
“Too risky. I can get a message to Dan. We can arrange a safe meeting place in the morning to discuss our options.” She collected the TV remote from the bedside table and switched the screen on. Typing in the memorised numbers, Mary tuned into the news channel.
The hourly headlines. “Full inquiry ordered into midwifery malpractice in areas stricken with neo-natal death. Scotland’s suicide rate falls amid successful water treatment trials. Pharmaceutical giant, Phlaxo, reaffirms its generous commitment to fund third-world vaccines.” The presenter welcomed viewers to the programme then passed the dialogue over to a video clip of white doctors in surgical masks, injecting long lines of dusty black children with a green liquid. Beside them, trusting mothers, smiling and thanking the overseas workers for their efforts in their native tongue.
The following item was a repeated segment from a debate on the Sunday Morning Politics Show. An edited section led by the Minister for Health. A tall man with a supercilious smile and the tufted hair of a child, held the other participants in thrall. “And furthermore, we intend to address the rising mental health crisis, with a manifesto that pledges access to talking therapies via a mandatory mental health insurance. The contributions of which, will be paid by employers as well as employees.” A few approving looks of compliance emanated from his opposing parties.
“In addition to this, we have…pardon me…we will commission and subsidise, the most advanced medical treatments to be made available to all, with no incremental increase in prescription fees. We will have a happy, healthy workforce going forward. Let this be a time when we say goodbye to mental illness, goodbye to depression, stress and anxiety. Goodbye to the invisible suffering of our fellow man, woman and child, and welcome in a new era of good mental health.” The studio of selected conservatives packed onto audience seats trembled with the stirring commotion from the supportive members. “This will be our first order of business the moment Parliament reconvenes following summer recess…”
Mary threw down the remote. “That’s it then. One quick majority vote and they have forged the path to medicate the entire country.”
“So it would seem.” Even Parth’s former ebullience quelled to a tired murmur. “We have no evidence to give to the media about this new compound, so they would never believe us.”
“You heard the headlines, Parth. Most of what they broadcast is spun to make the government look blameless. Even if we could somehow get proof, the minister would slap it with an injunction.” Mary stood up, refraining from breathing while her torso was in motion. The air in the room was oppressive. She lifted her hair away from her damp neck and wandered to the window. Dropping her locks and bracing her ribcage, Mary raised the sash frame, allowing the street noise and smells into the room. It made no difference to the humid atmosphere.
Parth picked the remote up from the floor and hit the mute button. “Do we know anyone who works with the Defence Science and Technology Lab?”
“No, I don’t think so. Besides, you of all people, know what security is like on defence contracts. The best we can do is to make sure that the people close to us know not to drink water from the tap.”
Stymied and disconsolate, they settled down on their respective beds to watch old movies till it was time to get ready for their meal. The film was briefly interrupted by a telepathic message from Dan, informing Mary that Connie was okay, and that they were together in London.
Parth let Mary bathe first. She poured some of the complimentary bath oil into the lukewarm running water, and watched it foam up like meringue. Stripping off the clothes borrowed from Connie, Mary slid into the rolled top bath and let the bubbles tingle her nose. The bruising on her side bloomed in rich tones of maroon and charcoal, but the warmth eased the long-held tension in her muscles. Dunking her head beneath the surface, she tipped the luxury shampoo into a cupped hand and smeared it over her wet head.
The shower rose temperature was difficult to adjust. Rinsing the soap from her hair brought a flush to her face. It was then she wondered how penetrative the Prime Minister’s new compound was on the skin. Was she absorbing the chemical into her tissues as she lay there? She pulled the plug and dried herself quickly, wrapping the huge towel around her body and stepping out of the bathroom momentarily to grab a bottle of spring water from the minibar. A quick minty brush around her teeth, a swill from the bottle and she was ready to dress.
Mary left the spring water next to Parth’s new toothbrush and gathered up her dirty clothes. Hmm. No suitcase and no way to get them back to Connie. I’ll just leave then on the chair. Maybe that pernicious brat on reception can have them parcelled up and posted.
From Parth’s shopping trip, Mary put on smart linen trousers, a simple cotton blouse and flat leather sandals. Not a bad choice for a bloke. He even got the size of my underwear right. A memory of Parth’s betrayal coiled around her heart and squeezed tight. Stop it. He will never change. She chided herself, but the proximity to him in the hotel room roused old feelings from a happier time.
At seven o’clock, Mary collected her satchel and together they walked down the stairs to reception.
“Good evening, Mr and Mrs Smith. Would you like to deposit your key while you dine?” The receptionist chuckled, before looking at a young porter by her side. He glanced up at Mary and Parth, then down again at the computer screen, before exploding into laughter himself.
Parth sauntered towards them, removing the key from his pocket and clanking it down on the desk. “Something funny?”
“Not at all, sir. It is an honour to have the Woman of Miracles staying here. Will she be making her own wine this evening or perhaps she would like to publicly attack the Queen this time?”
“What are you talking about?”
The girl swivelled the screen around. Mary and Parth drew close and peered at the monitor. The title, Truth Quest, scrolled before their eyes, revealing a photoshopped image of Jones in the header with his shaved brow and his arms folded across his chest. Beneath him, the sub-heading: Miracle Woman accuses the PM of poisoning the water supply. A rectangle of blurred people lay underneath, with a play arrow in the centre.
Parth nodded to the porter, who leaned across to the computer mouse and clicked the arrow. There were some muffled noises and then a thumb passed across the lens of the smartphone. An image of Mary loomed in to shake giant hands with Jones. The café table shook for a few seconds, before settling. As the lens autofocussed, they heard and saw her; Mary’s entire conversation, recorded and broadcast unedited, for that added authenticity. On Parth’s insistence, the video was played twice through before the receptionist enquired whether they would like to see the linked YouTube video of Mary’s miracles as well. They declined, and then paid handsomely for silence and confidentiality.
Three times they had fallen prey to video surveillance. Twice without their knowledge, and one out of misplaced trust. How much of their lives were captured for all to see, in malign ones and zeros?
In the diner’s lounge, Mary peeked into her bag. The roll of Connie’s cash was diminishing fast. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, Parth. Perhaps we should order something simple to be sent to the room instead.” The video recordings dogged her vision every time she closed her eyes. How many people had seen them now? And all of them mocking her. The minister could not have planned it any better. Hugo and Jones between them, had destroyed her reputation.
“Look around you, Mary. Do you really think the people in this restaurant would spend their vacation trawling through videos on YouTube or reading conspiracy websites?” They glanced around. Not a single couple under their own age, graced the room
. “We will celebrate your birthday in style, and then get some sleep. Let’s meet up with Dan and Connie as early as possible, before the visiting hoards are about.”
A waiter arrived at their lounge seats to escort them to their table. Tall, leather clad dining chairs swamped her tiny frame. The waiter flicked a linen napkin across her lap and left them to deliberate. Mary studied the menu, convinced that she was being watched. It was as though an apparition was stroking the side of her face, but when she looked up, it evaporated.
“What do you fancy, darling?” There it was again - darling. Did he really believe that his gift and another declaration of love would absolve him from all his crimes against her?
“Please don’t call me that.”
“No, of course. Sorry.” His brow knitted, turning his intensity to the laminated card tucked into the folio. “They have a stuffed mushroom dish. You used to love that.”
Her stomach churned. “No, I don’t think I could eat much.” The waiter arrived and took their order. As he left their table, he turned and announced to the room that the chef was experimenting with new flavours. He invited everyone to share in a complimentary starter; an amuse bouche, that blended the fresh tastes of the sea with the fire of the orient.
Several waiting staff swarmed in, their arms stacked with little dishes which were placed before every diner in the restaurant. A mildly dishevelled waitress, approached their table, dropping the plates down without finesse. “Must be a trainee.” Parth whispered, leaning forward and laughing.
Mary watched the young woman walk away and disappear into the kitchens. “That could explain the Doc Marten boots she was wearing.”
With a bon appetite, and a rather apathetic round of applause, the clientele resumed its clanging of cutlery and mumbles of approval. Mary looked at the charred scallop sitting in a green mush. Particles of atomised salt and ammonia wafted up into her nasal cavity making her retch. Grimacing, she pushed the plate away. Parth tucked into his with gusto, slurping the single oyster coated in fried chilli shavings, down in one. “Shall I eat yours too?”
Mary nodded, shoving the dish over to his side of the table. “I don’t know how you can. Looks like snot to me and smells even worse.” Parth dabbed the briny juice from his lips with his napkin and ordered a bottle of wine to accompany the next course.
A light sorrel soup was set before Mary, with a tiny jug of fresh cream by the side. Warm brioche rolls and butter curls lay on a separate plate to her left. This was more like it. A little black pepper and a whorl of thick cow juice, and Mary was enraptured.
Parth tucked into his partridge and duck terrine, helping himself to additional potatoes roasted in rendered lard, and washing it down with gulps of burgundy. He glanced up at an amused Mary. Swallowing his mouthful, he laid his knife and fork down on the edges of the plate. “It’s the first proper meal I have had since I moved out.”
Mary did not find that hard to believe. His hair was more than twice the length than when they were together, and his jaw now supported a thick covering of glossy bristles in his quest to avoid the razor. It did not suit him. Parth took a more measured sip of wine, and then touched his fingers to his lips, frowning. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead dipped his head to swallow. His Adam’s apple bobbed repeatedly. Parth coughed, trying to clear his throat, panic rising through his dilated pupils.
“Parth?” Mary dropped her cutlery. “Parth, are you choking?”
His hands flew up to his neck, his breathing erratic and laboured. Elbows crashing to the table, he knocked his plate clean onto the floor. Mary shoved her chair outwards with the backs of her legs and stood up. “Somebody help us, please!” She rushed to his side and held his face in her hands. “What is it? What do I do?”
With ragged breaths, and a disturbing garbled noise in his throat, Parth flopped an uncoordinated arm at the dishes on the floor. His hand jerked in spasms at the food sprawled over half his new shoes. The head waiter dashed to their table, gawping ineptly.
Mary screamed at him. “Call an ambulance, NOW!”
Parth slipped from his chair onto the tiles. Mary rushed to cushion his head against the fall. “I don’t know what to do…”
His breaths rasped through painful constrictions, then stopped.
“Oh, God…Oh, God….” Mary thumped his chest, then gently slapped his face. “Parth…. he’s stopped breathing.”
Chapter Fifteen
Mary lowered Parth’s head and neck to the floor before resting her ear against his chest. His heart was still beating. She tipped his forehead back, holding onto his chin and inspected the inside of his mouth. His airways were clear. “I don’t understand…”
Whatever the cause, she had to get oxygen inside his lungs, even if it was her second-hand air. Pinching the soft cartilage of his nose, Mary took a massive breath and blew it into her husband’s mouth. A quick gasp to the side and another breath into Parth’s lungs. His chest inflated, then fell. “Come on, Parth. You cannot die on me now.”
Another breath, another chest inflation. She paused, in the hope that he would begin breathing once again for himself. No response. Two more breaths, a further wait. Nothing. The silent diners sat, their forks and knives raised and motionless in their clammy hands, willing the Indian chap on the floor to live.
“Come on, Parth…breathe.” She blew into his lungs once more, then lifted her dizzying head. A man in a suit and tie, hurried between the tables carrying a green case. “Step away please, ma’am. I’m the First Responder. Ambulance is on its way.”
The suited man took immediate control of Parth’s airways, manually pushing air into unresponsive lungs with a large plastic balloon pump. Mary kept her cool just long enough to describe the stages of his decline, before the surge of emotion eddied to the surface. A kind American tourist, passed her a condensed pack of tissues from her handbag, signalling for Mary to keep them.
When the ambulance arrived, paramedics intubated and wired up monitors, before loading Parth onto a steel gurney. The first responder nipped into the kitchens and noted down ingredients from the dishes Parth had eaten. On his return, he tore the list from a notepad, handed the sheet to the ambulance driver, and then turned to Mary.
“Does he have any food allergies at all? Shellfish perhaps?”
“No, never.” She twisted the soiled tissue between her fingers, her helplessness manifesting in an idle fidget. Tears fell down her cheeks in torrents, but the hysterical panic that initiated them had ceased. The professionalism of the medical crew gave her a few seconds of calm. “It can’t have been the shellfish. Everyone in the restaurant ate them, except for me. Wouldn’t they all be ill?”
The responder did not reply. Mary grabbed her satchel from the back of her dining chair and followed the gurney out into Baker Street. She thanked the suited figure for his help, hunkered down in the ambulance next to the paramedic and strapped in.
Parth lay still. His skin waxy and damp. The white plastic clip on the end of his finger, sent a continuous loop of data to the small screen mounted on the side of the ambulance. His oxygen saturation levels were dropping, despite the paramedic’s efforts to push air into his body. Why is this happening? He didn’t choke, his airways were clear. The ambulance blues and twos screamed in through the open vents in the humid cabin.
Mary evaluated the paramedic’s expression. This was serious. No chit-chat. No consoling words of comfort. No assurances that Parth would be okay, just a puckered brow, concentrating on the rhythmic squeeze of the aerating balloon.
Her hands clamped against her mouth, Mary began rocking involuntarily on the seat. The heat of brimming tears swelled her reddening lids. Her eyeballs stung with growing fear that there would be no time left for censure, nor punishment, nor reconciliation. All the angst and bickering they had shared in the past few weeks dissolved into a molten mass of dread, balled up in her chest.
A second of clarity passed through her. Perhaps she could synchronise with his mind and ask Parth
the cause of his distress? It was worth a try. Leaning back against the walls of the ambulance, Mary shut her eyes and tried to steady her mind. The journey was far from smooth, but she managed to blot out the noise and traffic fumes, channelling her attention into the centre of Parth’s brain.
Expecting to find his usual temperate reason and certainty, Mary’s consciousness was confronted by a mass of discordant frequencies and chaotic thoughts. Nothing seemed to be functioning as it should. Try as she might, Mary could not harmonise with his scrambled waves. She pulled away, disengaging her thoughts from his and opening her eyes. There was no way to get through to him. No way to help. The oxygen saturation monitor sounded an alarm. It had dropped once again to dangerous levels.
The paramedic reached up and pressed a button, silencing the alarm. “We are almost there, miss. They’ll get him straight on a ventilator.” They drove past the enormous red brick and limestone frontage of the hospital and headed for the Accident and Emergency entrance ramp. Mary leaned forward to spy a team of people wearing scrubs awaiting their arrival. The second the ambulance stopped moving, the slick routines of care givers, opened the rear doors, removed Parth and his gurney and began the information exchange with the paramedic.
Mary unbuckled her lap belt and stood. By the time she had navigated the ambulance steps, Parth and his team of medics had gone. Slightly bewildered, she allowed herself to be ushered into the reception area by the driver, where the administrator fired a barrage of questions at her.
“Patient name?”
“Parth A…Smith… he took my name when we married.” Mary offered.
The lady typing into the keyboard, neither heard nor cared. “Date of birth?”
“Oh, um, twenty-eighth of September.”
The woman behind the desk scowled at Mary. “Year?”
“Sorry, yes. Nineteen eighty-one. He’s thirty-five.” Mary leaned on the desk and received a slow burning glare for her trouble. She moved back.