Pestilence

Chapter Twelve

Saracen inspected the flats on the first floor while MacQuillan went on with the remaining apartments on the ground floor. The scene was much the same throughout the building, darkness, silence and death. Many of the dead were in bed like the first couple; they had obviously taken to their beds on feeling unwell and had not risen again. A few, like Timothy Archer, had died elsewhere. One man had collapsed over the bath. Saracen was looking at him when the electricity supply was restored. The bathroom light came on without warning and made him step back involuntarily at the spectre of vomited blood splashed over white enamel.

Archer had died in the arm chair he had been using when Saracen had come to see him. He had obviously tried to fight the effects of his illness with whisky and a bottle lay on its side where he had knocked it over in his death throes. The contents had formed a dark stain on the carpet. The smell reached Saracen through his respirator.

Saracen could see that Archer was holding something in his hand. He thought at first that it was a book but when he looked closer he could see that it was in fact a photograph, an old framed one. He freed it from Archer’s grip and recognised a younger, slimmer Timothy Archer and knew that the smiling girl on his arm, the girl who had brought a nightmare to Skelmore, must be his wife Myra. She looked young and carefree and… radiant was the word journalists used for brides. It would do; she looked radiant. He put the photograph back gently into Archer’s stiffening hand and rested it in his lap. For the Archers their retirement to Skelmore was over.

Saracen and MacQuillan stood silent and subdued outside the building while policemen in boiler suits and wellingtons sprayed them all over with disinfectant. When they finally emerged from their plastic prison Saracen took great gulps of the night air and accepted the mug of steaming tea that was thrust into his hands. His sense of smell was heightened through having had the respirator over his face for so long. He could smell the night, the grass, rain, after shave, tea, boot polish.

“I never thought I would live to see anything like that in this day and age,” said MacQuillan, rubbing the back of his neck where the respirator straps had chaffed. Saracen swirled a mouthful of tea round his gums and spat it out. “How the hell did it happen?” he asked.

“I don’t know. All of them infected at the same time and dead within hours of each other. It doesn’t make sense.”

“But it did happen.”

“It has to be down to the Archers,” said MacQuillan. “This is where they lived. Anything else would be stretching coincidence too far.”

“I agree but Myra Archer died three weeks ago and her husband never showed any signs of illness at all.”

MacQuillan thought for a moment then said, “Suppose, just suppose that Timothy Archer did have the disease but had been taking tetracycline for, say, bronchitis. We now know that the drug would have slowed down development of the disease so, in theory, it could have been him who was spreading it around.

Saracen looked doubtful. “It’s possible I suppose,” he conceded, “But I’m pretty sure he wasn’t taking any medication. Besides, how could he possibly infect everyone else in the building at exactly the same time?”

MacQuillan thought for a moment then said, “Maybe the residents held a meeting about something, which would bring them all together at the same time. If they had done that when Archer was at his most infective then it’s just possible they could all have contracted the disease at the same time.”

Saracen still looked doubtful but had to concede the possibility. He could even suggest a reason for the proposed residents’ meeting. He said, “The residents were unhappy about the heating in the apartments.”

“There you are then,” said MacQuillan, pleased that his suggestion had been made to sound more plausible.

“But that doesn’t explain why they all got such a massive infective dose that they all died within hours of contracting the disease,” said Saracen.

“No,” agreed MacQuillan. “It doesn’t.”

“Excuse me gentlemen,” said the Police Inspector. “About the bodies, we’ll have to remove them.”

“The place will have to be fumigated first and the bodies sealed in plastic sacks before they are moved anywhere,” said MacQuillan.

“And then there are the funeral arrangements…”

“Too many corpses,” said MacQuillan without enlarging on his assertion.

The inspector looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think I understand,” he said.

Saracen could sense that MacQuillan was on edge. He saw him turn on the inspector as if to snap at him and only restrain himself at the last moment. “There are too many,” he said hoarsely. They will all have to go together.”

“A mass grave you mean?” asked the policeman, obviously astounded at the suggestion.

“A mass cremation to be precise,” said MacQuillan.

“But the relatives…” protested the policeman.

“Our priority lies in getting rid of these corpses as quickly and as cleanly as possible,” said MacQuillan. “Nothing else matters.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” mumbled the policeman.

Saracen could still feel that MacQuillan’s nerves were taut. He stepped in to defuse the situation. He said, “Perhaps some kind of memorial service could be arranged.”

The inspector was pleased at the suggestion but MacQuillan said, “They can do what they like with their mumbo jumbo just so long as they burn these bodies first.” With that he disappeared into the caravan to collect his things.

“Cold bastard,” muttered the policeman.

“He’s under a lot of pressure,” said Saracen. It wasn’t MacQuillan’s coldness that was worrying him it was the look on his face when he had come out of the flats.

MacQuillan came out. He said, “I managed to contact Braithwaite. His people will deal with the fumigation; the army will remove the bodies.”

“The army?” exclaimed the policeman.

“You don’t have twenty eight hearses in Skelmore,” said MacQuillan with what Saracen thought was unnecessary brusqueness. “A squad of soldiers will bag the bodies and take them away in trucks.”

“I don’t know that we will have suitable plastic bags,” said the inspector.

“The army already have them,” said MacQuillan. “Body bags, as used in the Falklands.”

“Where will they store the bodies?” asked Saracen.

“There will be no storage. They will take them directly to the crematorium,” replied MacQuillan.

The inspector indicated his disapproval by taking a deep breath and turning his head away. The gesture annoyed MacQuillan and pushed him too far. He said, “Now understand this! This town is on the edge of disaster. You do not mess around with plague or if you do it kills you, your wife, your children and everyone else you ever knew. Believe it!”

Saracen was alarmed, not at what MacQuillan had said but because of the way he had said it. The man wasn’t just jumpy and on edge. He seemed genuinely afraid. The policeman backed down and slipped behind his professional self saying, “Very good sir. I’ll keep my men here until the army arrive.”

MacQuillan nodded and then said to Saracen, “There’s no point in you hanging around. Go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Saracen wanted whisky when he got in but he denied himself and switched on the electric kettle instead. He spooned instant coffee into an earthenware mug and let the spoon fall in with a clatter. He returned to the living room while the water boiled and flicked through his album collection, finally deciding on Schumann. He drank his coffee to the strains of Traumerei. Twenty eight dead people and that look on MacQuillan’s face. His stomach felt hollow. He got up and looked out of the window; it had started to rain again.

Within seconds of arriving at the morning meeting Saracen could sense that something was gravely wrong. Saithe looked drawn, Braithwaite looked as if he hadn’t slept all night and MacQuillan seemed nervously preoccupied. Saithe said, “In addition to the tragedy at Palmer’s Green there were eight other new cases during the night.”

Saracen was surprised at the news for he had left strict instructions that he should be called if any cases of suspected plague should arrive at the General.

Saithe continued and answered Saracen’s unasked question. “All the new cases were admitted to the County Hospital’s isolation unit. The County have agreed to accept all plague cases until the General’s new reception area is fully operational, some time later today.”

“Where did the new cases come from?” asked Saracen.

“All from the Maxton estate,” replied Saithe.

“Contacts of known cases?”

Saithe paused and took a deep breath before saying, “Four were but the other four were not.”

“Four more wild cards,” said Saracen thinking out loud. “What are the chances of getting to the new contacts?”

“In the circumstances…nil.”

“I don’t understand,” said Saracen, totally bewildered by Braithwaite’s air of hopelessness.

It was MacQuillan who replied. He said, “We’ve had a bit of bad news. Porton Down say that the vaccine we have been using is useless against the Skelmore strain.”

Braithwaite added, “I cannot in all conscience ask my staff to continue working without any protection at all.”

“Of course not,” murmured Saracen.

“So what happens now?” asked the hospital secretary to break the ensuing silence.

“We start general quarantine measures. We close all schools, all shops and businesses that are not essential and we tell people to stay indoors. We back it up with the police and the army if necessary.”

“Are Porton working on a new vaccine?” asked Saracen.

“Of course,” replied MacQuillan. “And an antiserum but it will take a little time.”

“Does Col. Beasdale know about all this?” Saracen asked Saithe.

“I told him earlier. I’m awaiting his reaction. Why don’t we all wait together?”

They did not have long to wait before Beasdale called over their special communications link to announce the new measures for the town. From noon Skelmore would be placed under conditions of generalised quarantine as advocated by his medical advisors. Schools, cinemas, businesses, non essential shops would be closed as from mid day. People would be requested to remain indoors although not ordered to do so at this stage. Public gatherings of any sort would be forbidden.

News of the new measures would be given on local radio at eleven thirty after which the radio station would be used exclusively for advice and information on the emergency. The public would be invited to telephone the station with questions which would be dealt with by a panel comprising an army officer, three civilian administrators and the medical superintendent of the County Hospital. “Are there any questions?”

“Have your men been told that their vaccination against plague was ineffectual?” asked Saracen.

“Not in so many words,” replied Beasdale. “But I will have to reverse my original decision about their wearing protective clothing. They will now wear it for all duties in the town. The public will be told that they are trying out the suits as part of an exercise.”

“Let’s hope they are dumb enough to believe it,” said MacQuillan.

“You don’t believe that they will?” asked Beasdale.

“Would you?” retorted MacQuillan.

“Perhaps not,” conceded Beasdale evenly. “But that’s the way it’s going to be.”

Saracen smiled at having discovered that the velvet glove was not empty.

“Now gentlemen,” continued Beasdale. “You have presented me with facts and figures. What I need now is an explanation. Twenty eight people all die together and eight new cases appear during the night. What’s going on?”

MacQuillan said, “The deaths at Palmer’s Green were… unexpected in an epidemiological sense in that they do not fit into the expected pattern of events. I think we have to treat it as a tragic, one-off occurrence. I would think that the Archers were almost certainly to blame but the exact mechanism of the infection is for the moment unknown and, for that matter, academic. Our main concern must lie in the fact that four of the new cases were not on our list of contacts. This means that we can expect yet more cases.”

“Is the situation out of control?” asked Beasdale directly.

“No,” replied MacQuillan.

“Is it under control?” asked Beasdale.

“No.”

“Then things are still in the balance?”

“Very much so.”

“Thank you gentlemen. Keep me informed and tell me when the General is ready to admit plague cases will you?”

“Of course,” said Saithe.

Saracen inspected the newly completed reception area at two o’clock. He was accompanied by Jenkins, the hospital secretary. It was clean and functional, thought Saracen and the whole area was bedecked with warning signs forbidding entry to the unauthorised. He examined the restored access to the stairs leading to the ward above and saw that Jenkins had been right. There was plenty of room for stretchers.

“It seems fine,” said Saracen.

“Then the General can go on line?” asked the secretary.

“We can go on line.” said Saracen.

When Jenkins had left Saracen phoned Moss at the County Hospital to tell him personally.

“About bloody time,” said Moss.

“Knew you’d be pleased,” said Saracen. “How are things going?”

“Three more this morning.”

“Known contacts?”

“Not on Braithwaite’s list.”

“Not good.”

“To say the least.”

“You’ve heard about the vaccine?”

Moss said that he had.

At four in the afternoon, with the town stunned into enforced idleness, Saracen received the first plague alert for the General. An ambulance was on its way with a forty-five year old male suspect. Saracen checked the name against Braithwaite’s list. It was not there. He swore under his breath.

Saracen donned his protective clothing and headed for the new reception area. One nurse accompanied him, also in full protective gear. They familiarised themselves with the details of the patients while they waited. The man was married with two children and worked for the Water and Drainage Department of the Council. He had no known contact with the Maxton Estate. The sound of a siren in the distance said his arrival was imminent. When the siren stopped Saracen put on his face mask. There was a hospital rule about turning off sirens within a quarter of a mile of the hospital.

The ambulance pulled up outside and its two volunteer attendants, clumsy in plastic suiting, unloaded their patient on to a trolley and brought him inside. The stood by while Saracen examined the man. It did not take long. Saracen’s fear that he might be presented with an atypical case and have trouble reaching a firm diagnosis did not materialise. The patient presented as a classical, text book pneumonic plague.

Saracen nodded to the attendants who, in contravention of normal working practice, had agreed to take all confirmed cases up to the isolation ward. This obviated the need for volunteer porters who would normally have done the job. In a way Saracen was glad that the patient was too ill to realise what was going on around him. Gowns and visors, gloves and scarlet danger signs would not have reassured him. By eight in the evening the General had admitted six patients to Ward Twenty, the County Hospital had taken in another two.

The next day was Friday and at nine thirty, when the medical committee met, there were fourteen patients in Ward Twenty and twenty two in the County’s isolation unit. Saracen phoned to find out how Jill was just before leaving for the meeting but Sister Lindeman, who answered, said that she had gone off duty and was probably asleep.

“Don’t you ever sleep Sister?” asked Saracen.

“When I have to Doctor.”

MacQuillan was rattled. “I don’t understand it, I just don’t understand it,” he complained. “So many people not on Braithwaite’s list. It’s as if there was a spread of random contacts all over the town that we know nothing at all about.”

“Where is Dr Braithwaite this morning?” asked Saithe, looking at his watch.

“I understand he is not too well,” said MacQuillan. Eyebrows were raised around the room prompting MacQuillan to add, “No, no, just been overworking I think.”

“We have to decide what to tell Col. Beasdale,” said Saithe. “There is no doubt that the situation has worsened.”

No one thought to disagree.

“With the volunteer force as it stands our capacity to cope stands at one hundred and ten patients between the County Hospital and ourselves. It seems certain that we will reach this figure within three days.” said Saithe.

“There is the turn-over factor of course,” said Saracen.

Jenkins started to ask what Saracen meant when Saithe interrupted him. “What Dr Saracen means is that nearly all of the patients admitted will be dead within three days. This helps keep the numbers down.”

“Are the dead going to be a problem?” asked Olive Riley, the senior nursing officer.

“If they are Matron it’s not ours,” said Saithe. “If the crematorium can’t cope I dare say Col. Beasdale has contingency plans.” Saithe repeated that they would have to agree on what to report to Col. Beasdale.

“Tell him that the situation is worse but not yet out of control,” said MacQuillan.

“Is everyone agreed on that?” asked Saithe. There were no dissenting voices.

“If only I knew where these damned wild cards are coming from,” muttered MacQuillan as he entered the latest details on his chart. He shook his head and Saracen noticed that his hands were trembling slightly as he wrote.

Saithe made his report to Beasdale and was asked for a prediction. “Impossible to say,” replied Saithe. “Things may get even worse before they get better.”

“How long before they start to get better?”

“I can’t say.”

“How is everything else Colonel?” asked MacQuillan to get Saithe off the hook, thought Saracen.

“There was a sudden increase in the number of people trying to leave Skelmore yesterday after the quarantine announcement. My men turned them back of course but things got a bit nasty for a time. We lost a lot of good will but I’m afraid that was unavoidable; people are getting scared. It’s a small town and word gets around fast. Tales of horrific deaths and mass funerals are now commonplace.”

“Perhaps the radio can be used to reassure them,” suggested the hospital secretary.

“Too much reassurance can be a bad thing,” said Beasdale. “Apart from the fact that the rumours are basically true an element of fear in the population works in our favour. Under these conditions people will police themselves. I don’t want to have to ban people from the streets; it’s impractical and we probably couldn’t enforce it anyway. Voluntary co-operation is our best hope and that’s where fear plays a part. But it’s a delicate balance, too little and we’ll have open defiance, too much and we’ll have blind panic.”

“The whole bloody town is doing a balancing act,” said MacQuillan gruffly.

“Let’s hope it maintains it,” said Beasdale.

Saithe’s theoretical limit of one hundred and ten patients was passed by seven o’clock that same evening. The volunteer ambulance crews finally broke under the strain of so many calls and Saithe had to request the assistance of the army shortly after eight. Saracen’s heart sank as he saw the first military vehicle enter the grounds of the General carrying plague victims, four people all from the same street on the Maxton estate.

The soldiers, like alien beings in their white plastic suits and face masks deposited their cargo and left without removing their masks to speak. Saracen watched them as they drove off, feeling like a castaway watching a ship pass by on the horizon. He gave an involuntary shiver and turned to his patients.

Tremaine was due to relieve Saracen at nine in plague reception. At a quarter to Saracen called Ward Twenty and asked to speak to Jill. Once more it was Sister Lindeman who answered but this time Jill was there; she sounded tired.

“How is everything?” asked Saracen.

“The ward’s full to overflowing but I suppose you know that already. Seventeen deaths since I came on duty and nothing we can do except make people as comfortable as possible while they wait their turn. God, it’s like living in a sea of blood and vomit.”

“Things will get better soon,” said Saracen softly. “The antiserum should be here at any time.”

“I hope so. I don’t think I can bear much…” Jill’s voice broke off and Saracen tried to comfort her but he had a lump in his throat. He asked about Lindeman.

“She’s an angel,” replied Jill. “She never seems to rest. She’s always with the patients, ‘insists that no one must die alone. Even if a patient is hopelessly delirious one of us must be there to hold their hand and it’s usually her. I don’t know how she doesn’t drop.”

“Try to persuade her to take more rest,” said Saracen.

“I have tried. It’s no use.”

“Take care.”

“You too.”

Tremaine took over in plague reception and said that he had called in on A amp;E on his way over.

“How was it?” asked Saracen.

“Quiet,” replied Tremaine. “Less people on the streets means fewer fights, fewer accidents. Apart from that people don’t want to come anywhere near the hospital these days.” Tremaine asked Saracen what the plague situation was like and listened in silence while Saracen briefed him. At the end he remained subdued and said quietly, “Do you know, until this moment I hadn’t considered the possibility that we might lose this fight. What would happen if things were to get out of control?”

Saracen had to confess to having had the same mental block. “I don’t know,” he said. “I simply have no idea.”

Tremaine relayed a message to Saracen from his sister. She suggested that he go round for dinner when he came off duty. It would save him having to cook for himself. Saracen nodded and went off to shower before leaving the hospital.

“You look tired,” said Claire when they had finished eating.

“We’re all tired,” said Saracen.

Claire played with her tea spoon and said, “I know you don’t think much of me James, that I’m a silly London bitch and all that, but I would like to help in any way I can.”

Saracen shook his head and said, “I don’t think badly of you. Half the time I don’t know what to think at all. I can make decisions at work but when it comes to my personal life I’m a mess.”

“Did your wife hurt you that badly?”

Saracen grimaced and said, “That sounded like a bad line from a play.”

“You analyse everything too much,” said Claire. “Every phrase, every word is scrutinised for ulterior motive. You should relax more. Take things as they come.”

Saracen looked doubtful but did not protest when Claire moved round behind him and began kneading her fingers into his shoulders. “You make it sound simple,” he said.

“It is if you would let it be.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“That’s why you don’t have any fun,’ laughed Claire.

Saracen had to concede there was some truth in what Claire was saying. It made him feel uncomfortable. “I’m too old for fun,” he said.

“Nonsense! I think I know what the matter with you is,” said Claire. “On the one hand you are afraid of falling in love in case you get hurt again like you did with what’s her name. On the other you’re afraid that you might not be able to fall in love again because of that same fear. That makes you very vulnerable James. You could end up marrying someone you don’t love and that would be like standing on the shore watching yourself drown.”

“If you say so,” said Saracen quietly.

“Now let’s get this clear,” said Claire. “You sure as hell do not love me but you want me as much as I want you so where’s the harm? Let’s make life a little more bearable in this hell hole.” Saracen still looked doubtful. Claire got up and walked over to the wall. She turned to lean against it and said, “Don’t worry. You don’t have to pretend to love me. You don’t have to say anything at all. No suburban foreplay is required. If you want me you can have me.”

Saracen swallowed hard as Claire with a sudden movement of her hand tore her blouse open. She smiled at the look of surprise on Saracen’s face and started to hoist her skirt above her thighs. “Call it rest and recreation if you want. If you want me come and take me…right now.”

Saracen had not felt so sexually aroused since his teenage years. He moved towards Claire and pinned her to the wall while he tore away her underclothes.

“That’s it…any way you want me.”

Saracen took Claire hard against the wall with a single mindedness that could not be diverted. He felt an alien desire to hurt her for exposing in him such weakness and the cries from her throat only spurred him to greater efforts but Claire’s passion rivalled his own and her finger nails dug deeply into his back as he came within her and buried his face in her hair.

“Don’t feel bad,” murmured Claire as though reading Saracen’s mind. “I want you to enjoy me. I want to make all your fantasies come true…every schoolboy dream you ever had.”

Saracen’s bleeper went off at three thirty when Jamieson called from A amp;E to report that a number of people had been admitted with gunshot wounds.

“What happened?” asked Saracen.

“They were trying to leave Skelmore and the army opened fire.”

Saracen cursed.

“I’ve never dealt with this kind of injury so I thought I’d better call you,” said Jamieson.

“I’m on my way,” said Saracen.

Resentment against the military was rife in A amp;E when Saracen arrived. “Fascist bastards!” snarled one man who had been hit in the thigh. “Good God, this is England!” protested another.

“They’re Russians if you ask me,” added a fat woman, nodding her head wisely. We’ve been invaded. That’s why they wear them fancy suits. It’s to disguise the fact that they’re Russians.”

Saracen did not attempt to interfere for antagonising an already incensed mob was going to be nothing but counter productive. Instead he and Jamieson got on with the business of cleaning and dressing wounds. He knew little of arms and ammunition but quickly saw that the wounds he was seeing had not been caused by high velocity bullets. In addition they seemed to be confined to the lower limbs of the victims, indicating that intention on the part of the soldiers.

“If it’s a bloody fight they want,” continued the man with the thigh wound, “that’s what they’ll bloody well get. Next time we won’t be empty handed. My brother in law owns the sports shop in Griffin Street. We’ll give them bloody guns! Two can play at that game. Fascist bastards.”

Saracen decided that things had gone far enough. He told the man to shut up and added, “You got what you asked for.”

The man was outraged. “I’m an Englishman,” he said, “I have a right to go where I please.” Murmurs of agreement ran round the room.

“The soldiers are Englishmen too,” said Saracen. “They were only carrying out their orders.”

“That’s what the SS said,” crowed the loud-mouth. There were more sounds of agreement and Saracen had to wait until the noise had died down before saying, “There’s a world of difference. If there wasn’t you wouldn’t be sitting here on your fat arse running off at the mouth.” The noise rose again.

“Here, what kind of a doctor are you anyway?” demanded the man.

“The kind who’s fed up listening to all this crap. This town has a big problem and it’s our problem. Spreading it to other towns and villages is going to help no one so here we stay. All of us! Get used to the idea. Nobody leaves Skelmore until it’s all over.” Saracen could sense that he had won over most of the crowd, perhaps all of them with the exception of the loud-mouth who continued to mutter threats under his breath.

The trouble was over for the moment but Saracen was worried. He wondered how widespread ill feeling was in the town. Local radio had taken to assuring people that the arrival of an antiserum was imminent and had appealed for calm during the interim but the interim was being sorely stretched. Please God the loud mouthed man was the exception rather than the rule and please God there would be some news from Porton in the morning.

Saracen arrived early for the staff meeting and found MacQuillan unshaven and in his shirt sleeves. He was preparing filing cards and moving name tags around on a chart in front of him. He threw down his pen when he saw Saracen arrive and rubbed his eyes saying, “It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. They don’t know each other, they don’t live beside each other, they don’t work together and they have no common friends and yet they all get plague. This whole bloody thing…” He made a sweeping gesture towards the chart. “is a complete waste of time.”

“Anything from Porton?”

“Nothing.”

“Damnation,” said Saracen. He told MacQuillan of the would-be escapers.

MacQuillan said, “I’ll call Porton again after the meeting.” The others started to arrive.

“First the figures,” said Saithe. “Despite thirty nine deaths during the night there are of this moment one hundred and twenty nine confirmed cases of plague in the wards.”

MacQuillan let out a long sigh and let his head rest on his chest. Saracen remained impassive but the numbers depressed him.

“Then the general quarantine order has made no difference,” said Jenkins the hospital secretary.

Saithe replied, “We don’t know that yet and we won’t for another four days.” In answer to Jenkins’ puzzled look he said, “The disease has an incubation period of up to six days. The cases that were admitted yesterday were people who had picked up the infection before the order came into force. That will be true of the cases today and those we see tomorrow. Only after that can we expect to see a fall.”

“But the numbers by then…”

“Quite so,” said Saithe, cutting Jenkins off. “I was rather hoping for some good news on the vaccine and antiserum front.” Saithe looked to MacQuillan who shook his head and said, “Nothing yet.”

“In that case,” said Saithe slowly, “I think we have to admit that things are slipping away from us. We have a serious space and staffing problem and things look like they are going to get worse.”

“We could open up ward 8A,” said Jenkins. “It’s been closed for re-decoration but in the circumstances…”

Saithe shook his head and said, “It’s not just a question of space. 8A is in the heart of the main hospital.”

“I’m sorry. I should have thought. I’m afraid there’s nothing else.”

“I know,” replied Saithe. “That’s why I propose recommending to Col Beasdale that we open up two of the local schools as temporary plague hospitals. There are two that stand in their own grounds and are therefore isolated from the rest of the community.”

“Makes sense,” said Saracen and MacQuillan agreed.

“But you will need staff,” said Olive Riley.

Saithe smiled and said, “I was coming to that Matron. We will need more nursing volunteers.”

“I am sure you will not find my nurses wanting,” said Olive Riley.

“I am sure we won’t,” agreed Saithe.

“What about equipment?” asked Jenkins.

“Frankly we don’t need much. Without antiserum there is little or nothing we can do for these people save let them die with a little more dignity and in a little less discomfort than might otherwise have been so.”

“I see,” said Jenkins.

“Can we agree on the schools?” asked Saithe. There was universal approval. Saithe called Beasdale to make his report. When he had finished speaking Beasdale asked, “Is Dr MacQuillan there?”

MacQuillan cleared his throat and said, “Yes, I’m here.”

“The antiserum, Doctor. Where is it?”

“I’m just about to call Porton.”

“Call me back when you have.” The line went dead and people exchanged surprised glances at Beasdale’s abruptness. Saithe said, “I think we are all interested in the outcome of that call. Shall we wait?”

MacQuillan left the room to call Porton and was back after less than a minute. “They will call me back this afternoon,” he said.

“Is that all?” asked Saithe.

“Yes.”

Saracen was as disappointed as everyone else but he was more than disappointed, he was afraid. He had just seen that look in MacQuillan’s eyes, the one he had first seen on Palmer’s Green.