Colonel Griffin entered the room at twelve o’clock precisely and bounded up onto a dining table to address his audience. He stood confidently, wearing the trace of a smile, looking around the hall in a relaxed manner, quite unlike the overbearing warrior-figure that many had dreaded. Chanita could tell from the reaction of those closest to her that the new arrival’s youthful good looks were already creating a strong impression. The mood in the hall had shifted even before the new Medical Director had opened his mouth.
The Colonel wasted no time getting to the point. ‘Hello, my name is Colonel Griffin, and I’m replacing Doctor Brookes as Medical Director with immediate effect. I know what you’re all thinking. Who the hell is this guy dropping in and taking over? Am I right?’
A murmur of agreement rumbled through the hall, and Chanita detected some anger in the crowd.
‘I see some of you staring at my uniform, and not liking what you see,’ he continued. ‘Well, underneath this uniform you’ll find a medic. I’m a doctor first, a soldier second. My job isn’t to tell you what to do. It’s to give you the tools and facilities you need to carry on doing the job you’re already doing. I’m here to empower you, so that you can get on with what you do best. Treat patients. Make people better. I’m going to be listening a lot more than talking, and you can come and see me any time. Bring me problems, suggestions, questions. I want to hear what everyone has to say, and I don’t want to get in the way.’
The doctor paused to scan the faces in the hall. ‘But there are going to be changes,’ he said. ‘The main change is that this hospital will become London’s dedicated centre for treating bite and scratch victims. All cases of the new syndrome, or anyone showing symptoms, will be brought here for treatment. Secondly, I will be imposing strict quarantine conditions. That means that no one will leave the hospital – patients or staff – until the current crisis is over. Let me repeat that, in case there are any doubts – starting today, no one will leave the building for any reason, until I declare an end to the quarantine.’
Now the anger in the crowd bubbled over. Doctors and nurses began shouting in protest.
The Colonel calmed the protests with his hands. ‘In view of this, only those staff who wish to volunteer their services will be asked to remain. Anyone who wishes to transfer to other hospitals will be free to leave. But those who agree to stay must comply with the quarantine rules. That means they will sleep, eat and work at the hospital until I deem it is safe for them to go home. I understand that this is a lot to ask, but I would like you to make your decision within the next hour, so that we can implement the necessary biosafety protocols as soon as possible.’
Chanita scanned the faces of the doctors and nurses around her. It was hard to say how they felt about the prospect of indefinite confinement within the hospital, but the anger and resentment she had detected earlier seemed to have dissipated.
The Colonel began to speak once more. ‘I’ve worked in civilian hospitals, just like this one, and in field hospitals in the middle of conflict zones. Believe me when I say that the way the current situation is developing, this hospital is going to be in the middle of a new battleground. Events like the recent rioting will be the new normal, and we need to be ready to deal with that. But don’t worry. To relieve pressure, all patients not suffering from bites or scratches will be transferred to other hospitals. Our focus here will be entirely on treating and caring for patients with the new condition. And to keep the hospital safe and secure, soldiers will be brought in to provide round-the-clock protection.’
Colonel Griffin softened his last pronouncement with a boyish grin and a flash of his blue eyes. ‘I’m going to stop talking now and let you get back to your work. Anyone who wants to leave, please be sure to be out of the hospital before the quarantine begins in one hour. Those who wish to stay, I’m happy to welcome you aboard.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Upper Terrace, Richmond upon Thames, West London, waning moon
Thousands of people were marching across Grandpa’s television screen, chanting and waving banners, and he scowled at them in annoyance.
Sarah did her best to soothe him. ‘Look at all those people, Grandpa,’ she said. ‘They’re marching in Trafalgar Square.’
It was a beautiful sight. The buildings around the perimeter of the Square shone brightly in the dim light of the winter afternoon, and an enormous Christmas tree stood at the centre of the Square, almost as tall as the stone pillar of Nelson’s Column. The carved features of the Admiral himself stared down at the people milling below, many of them carrying burning candles as if they might suddenly start singing Christmas carols.
‘Do you remember taking me and Melanie to Trafalgar Square when we were little girls?’ asked Sarah, hoping to stir some kind of memory in the old man. ‘You showed us the paintings in the National Gallery, and we ate sandwiches by the fountains next to Nelson’s Column.’
‘I remember,’ said Grandpa. ‘Melanie was always such a pretty little girl.’
‘Yes, she was,’ agreed Sarah. Everyone had always said so, for as long as she could remember. They never said the same about Sarah. They looked for other words. Clever. Polite. Well-behaved. Never pretty. Sarah would have given anything to be pretty like her sister, instead of polite and well-behaved or even clever, but nothing she did with her hair or her clothes made any difference. Sarah would never be a pretty girl.
‘Look at them,’ complained Grandpa from his bed. ‘Long-haired hooligans and trouble-makers, the lot of them. Don’t they know there’s a war on?’
‘It’s not a war, Grandpa,’ said Sarah patiently. ‘It’s a national emergency.’ That’s what the Prime Minister had said when asked, and that was still the official position, although it was beginning to feel rather like wartime with the overnight curfew in place and soldiers establishing checkpoints all around the city.
‘What are the soldiers doing, then?’ asked Grandpa. ‘There must be a war, if there are soldiers on the streets.’
‘The soldiers are there to keep order,’ explained Sarah. ‘That’s why the people are marching. They’re protesting against the soldiers and the midnight curfew. They’re going to defy the curfew and occupy the Square all night.’
‘They should learn to be more grateful,’ said Grandpa.
The TV was on permanently now in Grandpa’s room, and Sarah controlled the remote. She flipped between the various news channels, always seeking out some new nugget of information, some interview she hadn’t already watched a dozen times, some clue that the nightmare might be coming to an end. But at every bulletin, the news remained the same, or took a turn for the worse.
She flicked through a few channels now to see if she’d missed anything, but the protest in Trafalgar Square was the main item of interest. When she switched back to the live broadcast she saw that a group of young men and women had climbed atop the great bronze lions that flanked the base of Nelson’s Column. They unfurled banners that read End the curfew and Impeach the Prime Minister.
The camera zoomed in on the protesters. Guy Fawkes masks covered their faces, and they held flaming torches that spluttered brightly in the late afternoon shadow that had fallen across the Square. The protesters shook their fists and punched the air, shouting their slogans amidst the din of the crowd.
The TV switched to another camera angle, showing a line of police officers struggling to contain the protesters as they surged in a wave, pushing against riot shields and shouting into the faces of the officers. The police stood their ground, faces grim, arms linked to hold back the mass of the crowd.
‘I don’t think they’re going to be able to hold their position much longer,’ said the correspondent on the scene. ‘After the scenes of carnage on New Year’s Eve, the Police Commissioner has vowed to act with restraint and to permit peaceful demonstrations, but the marchers are taunting the police and trying to provoke them into action. There’s a significant hardcore of protesters here, seeking violent confrontation with the auth
orities.’
As Sarah watched, bottles and other missiles began to appear in the air above the masses in the Square. Some landed behind the police line, some crashed into riot shields. One hit a young woman in the face, and the camera switched eagerly to show the blood running from a gash in her forehead. The crowd was pushing violently now, struggling to force a gap in the police line and break through. Voices began to chant, ‘End the curfew,’ as the disorder grew.
‘Disgusting,’ said Grandpa from his bed. ‘They should shoot the lot of them.’
More bottles flew through the air, and this time they were joined by flaming torches too. A burning bottle struck the ground behind the police line and a sheet of flame swept across the flagstones, setting fire to the clothing of the nearest officers.
The police line broke in an instant and the crowd surged forward like water flooding a breached dam. Within a minute the Square had descended into chaos, with masked and hooded figures running everywhere, kicking and striking at the police from all directions. The rhythmic chanting of protest had switched to battle shouts and cries.
‘Oh no, look at the tree,’ said the reporter on the ground, and the image switched to the giant Christmas tree that stood in the middle of the Square. The tree must have been a hundred feet tall, decorated from top to bottom with bright ropes of light, and crowned with a star. A group of men stood at its base, pushing at the trunk. The tree tipped from side to side as the men heaved. With each sway, the bright star at its tip swung further. Eventually the tree leaned far over to the side and didn’t stop. The star crashed to the ground like a shooting star, bringing the mass of the tree with it, clearing a wide arc of people who just managed to jump clear in time. The lights of the tree went out with a loud pop and the Square grew abruptly darker.
Sarah looked on, transfixed. There was a beauty to the scene, an order amidst the mayhem. Viewed from afar the people were like ants, all individuality removed. They danced together in a complicated waltz, spontaneous patterns emerging from out of the pandemonium. The dancers shifted and the patterns broke up, only to be replaced by new and ever more complex structures. Bursts of light flickered on and off, like a coded message.
The camera zoomed in again and the illusion was shattered. At close quarters there was no dance, no pattern and no beauty; only anger, violence and bloodshed. The police had pulled back into a tight circle, closing ranks to protect each other, but some had stumbled and fallen. The crowd swept over the fallen officers, crushing them underfoot without pity or mercy. Those who remained on their feet struck at their opponents with batons and shields. The protesters fought back with baseball bats and other improvised weapons. Burning missiles flew through the air, spreading orange fireballs wherever they landed.
Afternoon shadow had given away to nightfall now, and the glow of burning fires and torches studded the Square like a candlelit vigil.
Suddenly a crackle of gunshots cut across the noise of the fighting. The voice of a reporter could be heard, yelling into his microphone. ‘Did you hear that? Can you hear it? I don’t know where it’s coming from.’
The scene switched to an overhead view from a moving helicopter. The camera swung widely, the light was poor, but there was no mistaking what was happening.
‘The army seems to be moving into the Square from all sides,’ said the anchorman back in the studio. ‘Soldiers are advancing from all directions. They’re firing into the air.’
A few warning shots had been fired, but as Sarah watched, the protesters rushed forward in response, hurling missiles at the soldiers, attacking them with a variety of weapons. The soldiers held their ground, but the crowd had become a mob. More petrol bombs exploded and suddenly the troops were firing again. This time their rifles were turned on the crowd. Guns fired indiscriminately as the soldiers fought for their lives. Protesters fell to the ground and lay still, apparently dead.
Abruptly the scene switched back to the studio and the shocked face of the anchorman. The reporter’s voice continued to relay the news from the scene. ‘The soldiers have come under attack and are moving forward in response, firing at close quarters. The number of casualties on both sides is growing by the second. I can’t believe this is happening.’
The scene switched again to show crowds of panicked bystanders rushing from the Square in panic.
‘Turn it off,’ said Grandpa. ‘I’m tired of this show. When can I have my usual shows back again?’
Sarah gripped his hand tightly. ‘I don’t know, Grandpa,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know if they’re ever coming back.’ She pressed the mute button on the remote control and they continued to watch in silence. It was easier that way.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Brixton Village, South London, waning moon
When Ben and Mr Stewart had finished their round of the area, they returned to Salma Ali’s house with the completed questionnaires. ‘This is what we managed to get,’ said Ben, handing the pile of papers back to Salma Ali. ‘Some people were out, and a few refused to cooperate.’
‘That’s to be expected,’ said Ms Ali. ‘I’ll try again myself with the difficult ones. I find that I can usually persuade people to do what I want without too much trouble.’
‘Good,’ said Ben. From what he’d seen of Salma Ali’s persuasive skills he didn’t doubt it for one moment.
‘Well,’ said Mr Stewart, ‘I’ll be off then. I’m on patrol again tonight.’
‘Thank you for your hard work, Mr Stewart,’ said Salma Ali. ‘Ben, would you mind staying on? I have something to say to you.’
‘Sure,’ said Ben. ‘But I need to get ready for the night patrol too.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Ms Ali, smiling. ‘I have something else in mind for you.’ She waited until Mr Stewart had left, then laid a delicate hand on Ben’s arm. ‘Please take a seat.’
Ben sat down awkwardly. Salma Ali was a very pretty woman, but if she was about to suggest anything of a personal nature, he wasn’t sure that he was ready for a new relationship. He still hadn’t got over the last woman he’d dated, and wasn’t sure if he ever would. Women like Melanie Margolis were few and far between. In fact, now he thought of it, there was no woman quite like Melanie.
Salma Ali seemed to have anticipated his thought process. ‘Don’t worry,’ she told him. ‘I’m not about to seduce you, despite the fact that you’re a very attractive man.’ She grinned impishly at him. ‘I can tell that you’re a little nervous around me. I’m used to that. Most men still aren’t comfortable with powerful women getting what they want. But I can assure you that I never allow my personal feelings to intrude into the workplace.’
‘Okay,’ said Ben, relieved. ‘What then?’
Salma Ali leaned back in her chair. ‘One of my little birds told me how you’d diffused an awkward situation today. A situation that could very easily have become violent, or so I’m told.’
Ben wondered who her little bird might be, and how many of them she had. ‘Mr Stewart and one of the residents had a disagreement about the questionnaires,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
‘And you expertly calmed both sides.’
‘I didn’t really do much,’ said Ben. ‘It turned out that I knew the girl who lived there, and she recognized me.’
‘The girl you so bravely rescued from the killer headmaster,’ continued Salma Ali. ‘And there’s no need for you to be modest. You’ve proved your worth on several occasions already. I can’t ignore your talents any longer.’
Ben started to say again that it had been nothing, but she held up her hand to stop him. ‘No false modesty, please. The fact is I need people like you, Ben. I need all kinds of people. Even goons like Mr Stewart have a part to play. But people like you are rare. There’s a lot to organize if we’re going to keep our residents safe in the coming days and weeks. Most people don’t know the half of it. The news isn’t reporting what’s going on behind the scenes. My contacts in the police and in local government are telling me what’s re
ally happening out there. It’s going to get a lot worse, Ben. A lot worse. We need to prepare for total war.’
‘Total war?’ said Ben, raising his eyebrows. ‘That’s an exaggeration, surely?’
Salma Ali shook her head. ‘Already the police have pulled out of most day-to-day policing. They’re no longer working to bring criminals to justice. They only have the resources to react to the worst of the violence. People are being locked up and held without trial, without even proper legal representation. The army is handling the most serious violence and disorder, but to do that the soldiers are putting up roadblocks, shutting down whole parts of the city. There’s been serious violence in Trafalgar Square this evening apparently. People are staying home from work and the economy’s already starting to crash. In a matter of days, food and other essential supplies will begin to run out. That’s why I asked you to gather the questionnaires today. We’ll need to coordinate with people like Mr Kowalski, to help maintain the supply of food, medicine and other essentials. To do that we need to move beyond just running night patrols, and start being pro-active. That’s a lot of work, some of it dangerous. We’ll be competing with other groups to get hold of the necessary supplies. I need a deputy to help me, Ben, and I want that to be you. What do you say?’
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Tarnished Spoon, South London, waning moon
No one would ever claim that The Tarnished Spoon was the finest pub in London, but it had suited Warg Daddy well enough over the years. Beer was beer, after all, and the Spoon’s landlord was always happy to take money from hairy bikers, even if they got a bit rowdy on a Friday night. He was happy to take money from anyone in fact. Money was money, there was no denying it.
On a hot summer’s night, the pub’s back yard was a pleasant place to sit and drink and watch the sun go down, but in January no one sat outside, especially on a night like tonight when the mist was rolling in from the river, and the wooden benches out back dripped with cold droplets of water. Still, it was a good place to wait, especially now that Warg Daddy had no use for beer. The only drink that passed his lips these days was the slick elixir of human blood.
Lycanthropic (Book 2): Wolf Moon (The Rise of the Werewolves) Page 15