by Meg Mundell
Hauled away roughly, his arms pinned to his sides, Cleary kicked and struggled in vain. His captors dumped him in a wash cube and turned the cold water on full blast. A masked figure sprayed him with decon foam, the chemicals stinging his eyes. They left him there, soaking wet and sobbing, for what seemed like hours. Then someone pulled him to his feet, dried him roughly with a towel and fitted a mask over his face.
He had no memory of making his way up to the foredeck. No idea how long he stood here, hands clamped to the rail, damp clothes clinging to his skin, the wind chilling his flesh right through like refrigerated meat, as the sky grew light and the sea transformed from black to brilliant blue. Hypnotised by that great mass of water heaving away in every treacherous direction, swallowing up distance and time.
Vaguely aware of a human presence, a warm hand thawing his frozen one. An oversized coat wrapped around him.
Then he spotted it: a distant object, white against the sapphire waves. At first he thought it was a sail, but it sat strangely for a ship. It had a solemn air, like a mountain poking its snow-capped peak above the swells.
He raised his arm and pointed out to sea. Turned in wonder to the woman crouched beside him, her dark hair whipping around her head like tentacles. She followed his finger, her eyes widening as she saw it too: an iceberg.
People gathered to watch it drifting past. Huddled together for warmth, Cleary and the woman stood transfixed as the huge chunk of ice rode the swells with a tired sort of majesty, as if in no hurry to reach its destination. Its exact size was hard to gauge, but it looked as big as an office block. Its blue-white bulk had finely sheared edges and swooping curves, like a mound of meringue sculpted by a sharp knife. Broken off from its moorings, it wandered the ocean like a lost thing.
They tracked the iceberg as it slowly shrank into the distance. When it had gone the crew seemed subdued. The wind had died down, and the seabirds had settled in the rigging. Like some alien king, a floating omen from another realm, the iceberg had left stillness in its wake.
Numb with exhaustion, Cleary turned to the woman and raised his arms in an automatic gesture. As she lifted him, he wrapped his limbs around her and burrowed his freezing face into her neck. Carrying him across the lurching deck, she stopped to speak to someone. As they moved off again, Cleary looked back over the woman’s shoulder.
There, watching them depart, stood Blackbeard. Cleary hid his eyes and held on tight.
The woman carried him around corners and down stairs, and laid him on a bed. She posed a mute question – pointing at him, then tapping her chest and lifting both hands, eyebrows raised – but the gestures meant nothing, were not part of the language he and his mother shared.
So cold, his bones chilled to the core. The woman felt his forehead, checked his pulse, brought him a heatpack and a cup of hot soup. Then sanned her hands and gestured for him to remove his clothes. Briskly she rubbed his skin down with a scented cream that drew the warmth back into his blood. As the chill receded Cleary closed his eyes. Gave himself up to the spreading heat, the safe pressure of her hands.
Thawed out, he scoffed a chocolate bar as the woman watched. No smile, but her eyes were kind. He recognised her now: the long dark hair and upright walk, pale and skinny, but strong looking. These past few days, watching from his hiding spot, he’d seen her come and go, the door that led to the sick room admitting her as if by magic. A hazier memory, too: back at the depot, the woman’s mouth moving as people swayed and clapped all around her. A faint patter and hum reaching his ears.
Now she placed her cheek against her hands: Time to sleep. She tucked the blanket over Cleary, lay down beside him, killed the light and turned away. Her body fell still immediately, like she’d dropped straight off a ledge into the depths of sleep.
Sobs broke out of him, deep involuntary shudders. At once the woman rolled over and held him close in the dark. She was thinner than his ma, and smelt different – almost boyish; shampoo and pepper, mixed with a smoky chemical scent.
A buzz began to emanate from her body: words patterned into music, her fingers tapping out a gentle rhythm on Cleary’s chest, over his heart. She was singing to him. Lulled by the hum of her voice – a felt vibration, faintly audible, like the purring of a cat – he soon sank into sleep, her solid warmth beside him.
~
That afternoon Cleary woke alone. In his shoe was a note: he should go back to the family dorm, it said, stay close to his parents. And keep his mask on. Take care, she’d signed off. No name.
He made straight for his ma’s bunk, hoping to find her there – unsteady and pale, but out of danger, on the mend. Instead he found a big yellow ‘X’ taped across the sealed bed. Biohazard, read the black letters. Do not cross.
He could not bear to stay here in the family dorm – Fiona’s forced smiles fooling no-one, the other parents snatching nervous glances, hustling their kids away, Declan not even allowed to talk to him. Cleary shoved some things into a rucksack and set off.
At his knock the schoolroom door cracked open. School was cancelled, but he’d seen Teach hovering, his hair and clothes rumpled, as if he’d been napping in there. Teach pulled on a pair of gloves, made Cleary do the same, then sanned two pens and started scribbling in Cleary’s notebook.
The info was not new: his ma was sick, she had to rest. She was in safe hands, the doctors were looking after her, but the bug was contagious. Cleary must stay away. Teach was sorry – sorry he didn’t have more info, or better news.
New rules, Teach wrote next. Cleary recognised the plague drill from back home: mask on, san your hands. Don’t touch your eyes, nose, mouth. Don’t get too close to other people. Wave the screens, no contact. Avoid touching doorknobs, handrails, taps. Guard your water bottle, be careful at mealtimes: fresh gloves, clean cutlery, mask back on the second you finish eating. Wear gloves in the loo and bin them after. Cover any cuts and scratches. And if you notice anyone looking unwell – coughing or sneezing, sweating, vomiting – stay well away, and tell one of the crew immediately. Did he understand all that?
Be brave, Cleary, wrote Teach. You’re not alone. But Cleary knew this wasn’t true. He had never felt so alone in his whole life.
There was one person he felt safe with. One person who had access to his mother.
Cleary took up the pen: Can you take me to the singing lady?
Skinny, long black hair? wrote Teach. He frowned, as if she was bad news. Then he nodded. He’d walk Cleary to her dorm but he couldn’t promise anything. Then a warning: She looks after the sick people, Cleary. Keep your distance, it’s not safe.
Lining the women’s dorm were rows of identical bunks, all numbered, but no clue to which was hers. A glimpse of light or movement through a gap in a curtain, a stray sock abandoned on the floor, but nothing to mark out a specific human presence. Waking up today he’d been so fuzzy-headed, he hadn’t thought to leave a trail of sticking plasters.
Cleary settled against the wall to wait. Hours passed. Women entered and left, but none of them were her. He ate the snacks Teach had given him, but didn’t dare leave his post to pee.
All night he kept vigil inside the doorway, praying that the woman would come back.
BILLIE
Addled from lack of sleep, she surfaced from the hellhole of the sick room into a hazy half-light. Wondered for a second: was it dawn or dusk? Her shifts were all over the place. Black coffee: she caught a sharp whiff as a guard screwed the top off his thermos. Morning, then. Her stomach was hollow, calling for breakfast.
It still clung to her: the sick-room horror, the stink of shit and sweat and fear. The ship medics regularly left her in charge now, and her co-workers were struggling: overwhelmed and inexperienced, shaken by the onslaught, all that suffering up close.
Billie trudged back to her dorm with a stash of warm bread rolls. Unzipping her bunkbed, she felt a light touch on her arm. She spun around.
The boy’s eyes were puffy, his features smudged by fatigue. Had he waited here all night for her? For several long seconds they stood, swaying in unison, like weeds in a breeze. Then Billie lifted the bag of food, mimed eating: an invitation. They sat cross-legged on her bunk to devour the rolls, then shook the crumbs out and curled up together without a word.
Halfway through last night’s shift, she’d worked out whose child he was. One of her patients: Cate. Struggling to lift her fever-racked body out of bed, straining towards the sick-room door, the woman had kept repeating a name: ‘Cleary … Cleary … Where’s my boy? My little one? Cleary …’ A single mum, so Kellahan had said.
Now the child beside her was asleep, his breathing deep and regular. Billie hadn’t chosen this; back home she’d worked the adult wards, had no experience with kids. After the previous night’s shift she’d been having a quiet smoke when an officer marched up to her.
‘Move that deaf kid inside,’ the man had ordered, pointing to a small figure on the foredeck. ‘I don’t give a fuck how you do it, just get him below and keep him there.’
‘Not my job,’ she’d said, too dog-tired to watch her mouth. ‘Find someone else.’
‘Your job,’ spat the officer, ‘is whatever I say it is. Get the little bastard under cover, or there’s a cell dryside with your name on it.’
Arguing had been pointless. This man could dock wages for non-compliance. Crew saw the nurses as scabs – fearful of contamination, unwilling to do the dirty work themselves, but still jealous of the pay.
The boy had stood frozen at the rail, a pale ghost locked in a solitary stare-down with the open sea. The temperature was close to zero and he wasn’t even wearing a coat. His hands were tinged blue and she’d detected a tremor in those thin shoulders. Hypothermia couldn’t be far off.
Peeling off one glove, she’d covered his icy hand with her own. Felt warmth seep from her flesh into his, a slow exchange of body-heat.
Holding the boy close as the iceberg drifted past them, an old memory had surfaced: her little brother, soaking wet and whimpering, dumped by a wave on Achmelvich Beach. Billie hugging him: Shush now, dinny greet …
As she’d carried the child below decks, Marshall had appeared, demanded to know what she was doing. ‘Following orders,’ she’d said, pushing past him. But those orders hadn’t extended to playing mother.
Now, lying in her bunk, listening to the boy’s steady breathing, she realised she couldn’t turn him away. He’d chosen her, and that was the end of it. Nestling close to the small stranger, Billie shut her eyes and waited for sleep to come.
~
Protocol banned talk of death in front of patients. The night they lost their fifth person, Billie and the head doctor transferred the body to the antechamber off the sick room, where the body bag lay in wait. Carried the man out unceremoniously, as if he was asleep, so as not to raise alarm.
They swabbed down the body bag, then watched two cleaners lug it out the door. The dead man’s name was Toby. Father of two, from Luton. Tattooed across his upper arm, in elegant scrolled font, the names of his wife and children.
‘What are the chances this thing’s airborne?’ Kellahan asked as a doffer helped remove their gear. Stationed overseas these past few years, the doctor had limited pandemic experience.
‘You know I can’t answer that,’ replied Billie. ‘We have to assume the worst.’
The doctor held out his arms as their doffer removed the makeshift gown. ‘Guesswork has no place in medicine, I know. But what’s your best guess?’
Billie peeled off her gloves. ‘From the pattern so far, I’d say body fluids,’ she said. ‘But no way I’m going in there without a respirator.’
Kellahan swore under his breath. ‘Four respirators. No lab, no autoclave. No viral profile. We’re low on basics – IV fluids, pain meds. And these bloody rubbish bags for aprons.’ They’d been forced to improvise the PPE: shower caps, safety goggles, flimsy coveralls and smelly rubber boots requisitioned from the crew.
Billie stepped into a tray of decon, began levering off her boots. ‘I’d like some decent wellies, at least. These ones stink of sailors’ feet.’
They busied themselves with the intricacies of the doffing process, not quite automatic yet for either of them, not in this slapped-together setting.
‘If that airdrop’s not approved soon …’ Kellahan trailed off.
‘You can shower first,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t peek.’
~
When the government airdrop finally landed, Billie felt an almost physical rush of relief on tearing open the boxes. Pure treasure: fresh meds; proper PPE in various sizes – respirators and masks, overalls and gowns, long gloves and shoe covers. But no news on what this sickness was. The drone was not permitted to take biosamples back.
Included was a fresh consignment of body bags: two dozen black cadaver pouches, with a long zip and a label to write the person’s name. She unpacked the new gear with Kellahan and Owen. The deputy was a young Welshman with a fragile ego. Fresh out of locum training at a tiny rural practice, he had no hospital experience.
‘All this decon fluid,’ said Owen, kicking a crate. ‘Where are we meant to store it?’
‘We’ll need it,’ said Billie. ‘We’re not being vigilant enough. We need to tighten our fomite protocols.’ Owen gave her a blank look.
‘I don’t think that’s the main problem,’ he said in a haughty voice.
She regarded him coolly. ‘You do know what fomites are, right? Dirty surfaces, chief. Med school 101.’
‘Okay,’ Kellahan broke in. ‘Let’s stay focused here.’
Who knew how long the virus could survive on any surface? The bug was an unknown quantity. It sent her cold, the whispers that the outbreak might have been a deliberate act – the idea that, thanks to some unfathomable brand of malice, she had to watch people slipping through her hands, their dignity stripped away, shitting and ranting down that treacherous slope to nothingness.
It couldn’t be true. But how could this have happened? The biofilters had been guaranteed foolproof, and deadly pathogens didn’t just drop out of the sky. She’d discussed this privately with Kellahan, but only in passing. Hands full, they had no time for anything beyond the urgent and immediate. No energy to dwell on the unthinkable.
‘We’re on our own,’ Cutler had said in a rare bout of frankness. ‘There’ll be an inquiry in quarantine, once we reach land – for those of us still alive at that point. Until then we have to manage this ourselves, as best we can.’
The relief of the new gear was short-lived: the deaths continued. The night they lost their sixth patient, Billie and the head doctor sat slumped in the limbo-land of the decon room.
‘I won’t be hung out to dry for this,’ said Kellahan, out of nowhere. ‘Right from the start I told them our backup protocols were borderline, too low-tech to cope if anything went wrong. They cited the zero-risk rating, told me system oversight wasn’t my job. They had in-house advisers for that.’
The first flash of anger she’d witnessed from him. Too weary for tact, she replied carelessly: ‘Hope you got that quote archived.’
Kellahan peered at her over his glasses. ‘They’ll try to shift the blame. You wait. And it won’t just be me.’
‘How could they possibly blame us?’ Her voice rising.
‘They’re a crooked lot, this corporation,’ he said. ‘Bunch of hard knocks. We’ll need to back each other: you, me, Owen. Once we get there – if we get there – you two can forget your bickering. We’ll need to present a united front.’
TOM
Strung out and shaky, I rapped on the deputy medic’s door. I’d already tried Doctor Kellahan, the more personable option, but my knock had gone unanswered.
The cabin door swung open on a scowling Owen Price, dressing-gown revealing a bony chest. H
air rumpled, sour expression. It was late afternoon, but I’d obviously woken him. He regarded me in sullen silence.
‘Owen,’ I began, ‘I’m so sorry.’ A thousand apologies, and so on. I explained my predicament: anxiety amplified by current crisis, medications filched by unknown opportunist, buzzing thoughts and rampant insomnia, and now the shakes, which were a clear sign of withdrawal. I held out one trembling hand to demonstrate, recited the list of medications I normally took on a daily basis.
‘It’s all on my file,’ I assured him. ‘My meds regime, diagnosis, doses.’
‘Meds are locked down,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not rostered on till six.’ Acne speckled his jaw; he looked young for a doctor. He drew back, as if to end the conversation.
‘Thing is,’ I gabbled, ‘I’ve got the jitters pretty bad. Is there any chance—’
‘Meet me outside the clinic,’ he snapped. ‘Just before six, I won’t wait.’ And he shut the door in my face.
Listless and weak, I retreated to the empty classroom. I locked the door, shut the blinds, dimmed the lights and collapsed on the sofa. Tried to distract myself with pleasant daydreams: called to mind Stewart’s lovely face, the crush of his arms wrapped tight around my chest.
But my brain kept flitting away, thoughts scattering like mercury. The room felt hot and stuffy and a headache had begun pulsing in my skull. With a peculiar detachment, I noticed my teeth were chattering.
My thoughts began to take strange turns. Puzzled by the sensation of movement, I struggled to remind myself where I was: on a ship, riding the ocean swells. Eyes closed, I saw deep-sea creatures drifting in the black: noxious jellyfish, their stingers aglow; monster fish with huge blank eyes and undershot jaws. Toxic creatures, leaking death.
I was shivering, chills racing over my skin. Waves of heat, then freezing cold. Skull shaken like a snowdome. Music reached me, faint at first. I thought I heard children’s voices, sweet and high, singing a faraway song. A melody I recognised.