Resurrection

EIGHTEEN

The team took advantage of the postponement to meet at seven in the evening and assess the overall situation. It was bad; no one pretended otherwise but there were still some positive aspects to take heart from, as Finlay pointed out. The heads of newspapers, both local and national and of radio and television stations had had to be informed of the true situation prior to the containment operation and yet there had been no leak.

Radio and television did report the outbreak in their evening programmes but obviously without information from above. They labelled it a ‘mystery virus currently affecting an Edinburgh housing estate’. The cause was currently said to be under laboratory investigation. Local newspapers, adding ‘width’ to the story, had obligingly contributed neighbourhood red herrings citing variously, an old gas works, a nearby sewage treatment plant and a local chemical waste disposal firm as being possible candidates for blame.

‘First things first,’ said Finlay. ‘From tomorrow we’re going to need more space. I’m going to open up the second ward at the Western.’

‘Have you thought beyond that?’ asked Hector Wright.

‘I have,’ replied Finlay. ‘I’ve asked Mr Rankin to look into the prospects of using the currently unoccupied Wester Drylaw Primary School should it prove necessary. I feel this would be preferable to using hospitals outside the immediate area.’

Wright nodded his agreement.

‘The school will be available if you need it,’ said Rankin. ‘There were no objections. I’ve asked that furniture be moved out tomorrow just in case and I’ve warned central supplies about an imminent request for fifty beds.’

‘Good,’ said Finlay. ‘What’s the position with contacts, Mary?’

‘Better than we feared. Most are staying put as requested, in fact, they’re rather enjoying being run after by social services. We’ve had one or two awkward customers who are adamant that no one is going to tell them what they can and cannot do but generally, it’s been fine. It can’t last of course. Social services will be stretched to the very limit by the end of tomorrow — maybe the next day if we’re lucky.’

‘By which time, the vaccine will be here,’ said Finlay. He held up crossed fingers on both hands. ‘Vaccination clinics will provide a diversion for everyone.’

‘But will the vaccine help people who’ve already been exposed to the disease?’ asked Cameron Tulloch.

‘Yes,’ replied Hector Wright. ‘Vaccinating people during the incubation period can help a lot although it itself takes about seven days to become fully effective. The bottom line is, the sooner after exposure it’s given, the better.’

‘I’ve been asked to point out that the lab feels it’s being stretched to the limit,’ said Mary Martin. ‘The technicians have been working flat out and things can only get worse. Maybe we could enlist the assistance of other labs or maybe bring in extra staff from somewhere?’

‘I suggest we stop the lab work entirely,’ countered Wright bluntly. ‘There’s no need to send specimens to the lab from every patient and contact we come across. To all intents and purposes, we’re in the middle of an epidemic; we know what’s wrong with people. It isn’t necessary any more to have the lab confirm it.’

‘Or even desirable,’ added Dewar, thinking that the less infected material there was moving around the city the better.

Finlay looked tentatively around the table. ‘I think we might really consider that option,’ he said cautiously.

‘We have a duty of care to these people,’ insisted Mary Martin ‘They are entitled to be treated just like any other patients with regard to a full range of lab tests and status monitoring.’ Her cheeks were flushed with annoyance at what Wright had said, or more correctly at the way he’d said it.

Wright didn’t relent. ‘For God’s sake woman, it’s smallpox we’re dealing with. Once it’s broken out, it’s not exactly difficult to diagnose. A blind man on a foggy night could do it. We don’t need lab confirmation and believe me, confirmation is the only thing a lab can give us. There’s nothing medical science can do for these people once they’ve succumbed to the disease. No monitoring or strain typing or drug sensitivity testing. Nothing. The disease will run it’s course and that’s all there is to it. Medical staff are largely redundant too. Nursing care is the thing that matters to the patients; it’s the only thing that can make a difference. Old fashioned TLC, tender loving care is the one thing that can swing a borderline case. Forget about modern medicine; it has no role to play. If they were brought in today, Florence Nightingale’s nurses from the Crimean war could do the job just as well. If we’re asking for the whole gamut of modern lab tests on these people, we’re giving our minds a treat. All we’re really doing is creating more work for lab technicians, so much so that we’re thinking of spreading it out to other labs. If we’re honest with ourselves, it doesn’t make sense.’

‘I still think we should do things by the book,’ said Mary Martin, digging in her heels. ’Medical routine is important. It helps maintain discipline and order. That will be essential if we’re to keep control of the situation.

Wright took a deep breath and stared down at the table in silence. For him, it was the supreme effort in self control.

Dewar knew that Wright had made an excellent point. It was just unfortunate that he didn’t have the diplomatic skills necessary to make it without offending anyone. He wouldn’t be getting a Christmas card from Mary Martin.

Finlay did his best to pour oil on troubled waters. ‘I think exceptional circumstances may call for exceptional measures,’ he said. ‘Let’s stop sending samples to the lab and make the diagnosis on clinical grounds alone.

It was Mary Martin’s turn to look down at the table in silence.

‘Is there anything else we should consider?’ asked Finlay, anxious that a bad moment should pass.

‘Corpse disposal,’ said Wright, now with the bit between his teeth. ‘We’ll have to burn them. This means alerting the crematoria as soon as the announcement is made. They’ll have to start making special provision.’

Mary Martin screwed up her face in an expression of distaste. Others visibly winced.

‘I think it’s a bit early to be thinking along these lines,’ said Finlay, now anxious to protect Mary Martin’s sensibilities after siding with Wright on the last issue. ‘I’m sure that’ll be a matter for the families concerned, if and when it comes to it.’

‘There’s no “if and when it comes to it”,’ insisted Wright. ‘We’ve got forty-odd cases already, that means twenty-odd deaths in the pipeline. We can’t have smallpox-ridden corpses lying around while relatives ponder over what kind of box they’re going to have. We’ve got to get rid of the bodies as quickly and cleanly as possible. That means quick cremation.’

‘For God’s sake, we’re human beings,’ stormed Mary Martin, finally losing her composure. ‘We have to consider the feelings of the families, their wishes, their religious beliefs. Have you no sense of common decency?’

When he saw Finlay nodding his agreement, Dewar decided it was time to wade in on Wright’s side.

‘I know it sounds awful but I think Hector’s right,’ he said softly. ‘What we’re up against here has no conscience or weakness. Viruses have no sense of decency or fair play. However much it goes against the grain, we’ll have to be equally ruthless if we’re to stand any chance of winning the war. I know it’s going to be difficult but we must steel ourselves to do what all of us at any other time might feel unthinkable. It’s not a case of being callous or unfeeling, it’s just the way it is. We can’t give the virus an inch.’

‘Just how would I go about explaining this to the relatives?’ asked Finlay.

‘You present them with a fait accompli,’ said Dewar, who’d anticipated the question. ‘We have the bodies removed and cremated as soon as they die; we don’t tell the relatives until it’s all over.’

‘Ye gods,’ said Finlay quietly.

‘I hope we’re talking about some worst possible scenario here,’ said Cameron Tulloch. ‘We’ll have people painting crosses on their door next and throwing out their dead on to hand carts.’

Wright looked at him without smiling. He said, ‘The situation right now in Muirhouse is exactly as it would have been in seventeenth century Edinburgh. The only thing that can make a difference to the outcome is the vaccine and, in case you haven’t noticed, we don’t have any.’

Everyone considered this in silence for a few moments.

‘But we will have,’ said Finlay, wanting to end the pause and trying to bring a positive note to the proceedings.

The others smiled but the meeting broke up with people feeling very subdued. Dewar felt he wanted to be alone for a bit so he took himself off for a walk by the shore. It had been raining recently, leaving everything sparkling wet under the street lights. The air smelt of seaweed but not unpleasantly, just enough to remind him he was close to the sea. For him, that had always been a good place to be and an excellent place to think.

He crossed the road and rested one foot on the wall to look down at the placid, slightly oily water as it undulated ever so slightly with the swell, distorting otherwise perfect reflections. He picked up a stone and threw it in. The spreading rings had an unmistakable symbolism.

He started to think about why he was there and what he was really there to do. In the current state of uncertainty, he felt it would be all too easy to submerge himself in the fight against the epidemic. After all, he was a trained doctor and there would be plenty for him to do even if it was only, as Wright had pointed out, administering basic patient care. But this really wasn’t why he was here. It was still his job to find out how and why this nightmare had come about. He hadn’t been giving that much of his attention.

He acknowledged a tendency in himself to dismiss the question now as being academic. Someone had reconstructed live smallpox in the institute and it had escaped. It was too late to do anything about it. Filling in details about how and why this had happened must be secondary to preventing the spread of the disease at all costs. But, he reminded himself uncomfortably, he had proved none of it. He was still proceeding on an assumption.

There was still no proof that the virus had come from the institute. It just seemed so overwhelmingly likely, so much so that he didn’t have any alternative ideas. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that Michael Kelly could have contracted the disease from a source other than the Institute of Molecular Sciences. Officially,

there simply weren’t any other sources. In addition to that, the events in Steven Malloy’s lab conspired to make this the favoured explanation. This was even further fuelled by Wright’s explanation for the rapid progress of the disease in Kelly. He had come into contact with a massive infecting dose of virus, the amount you’d be exposed to if you contaminated yourself with a pure culture of the virus, the sort of thing you could only find in a laboratory.

If only he’d had the chance to question Kelly at the outset but Kelly, the potential star witness in all of this, was too far gone when he’d arrived in the city and now he was dead. Hannan, his partner in crime, was going downhill too. If he died before coming up with something useful, that would just leave the two women, Denise Banyon and Sharon Hannan to throw light on the real chain of events.

Sharon had been co-operative. She’d told him all she knew but it simply hadn’t been enough. There was a slight chance that she might still remember something but that seemed doubtful. That just left Denise Banyon who didn’t trust him an inch. If he couldn’t get anything more from Sharon Hannan, he would be faced with having to gain her confidence somehow. Maybe if she and Sharon were allowed to associate now it might help matters now. Perhaps even if he talked to them together, Sharon’s presence might mellow Denise?

His walk was over; he started back. He would call Steven Malloy, find out of he’d had any thoughts. If not, he would go straight over to the Western and talk to Tommy Hannan, then he’d tackle the two women.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Malloy. ‘I really have been doing my best to find some institute connection and I agree, on the face of it there must be one, but it must be so tortuous that I’m not going to find it. I’ve drawn a complete blank. There’s just no evidence that Kelly was ever at the institute in any capacity, legal or otherwise. There’s also still no evidence that live smallpox was ever created here either.’

Dewar sighed but was not really surprised. He said he’d be in touch. The words, “no evidence” as applied to Kelly, stayed with him as he drove over to the hospital, this time in a pool car supplied by the Scottish Office. When considered dispassionately, that could mean one of two things. Either there was evidence but Malloy hadn’t found it yet or there never could be any evidence because Kelly really never had been there

If the latter were true but the institute was still the source of the virus, then he must have come into contact with a pure culture of the virus somewhere outside the institute. That was the simple conclusion. He was back to wondering about Kelly possibly having known Ali Hammadi or Pierre Le Grice. He’d been down that road before but maybe Kelly had been employed as some kind of go-between somewhere along the line? But then, who would use a drug addict with all that that implied in terms of unpredictability and unreliability, on any kind of an errand involving a deadly virus. He was back to square one.

George Finlay wasn’t in the Wellcome Unit; he was up in the ward they were using. Dewar spoke to the woman doctor left in charge; he’d seen her on his last visit but hadn’t spoken to her.

‘Anne McGowan,’ she smiled as she shook his hand.

‘How are things?’

‘It’s going to get worse before it gets better. ‘We’re full; the ward upstairs has been filling up and there are still more coming in. Dr Finlay is supervising the commissioning of the second ward. Anyway, what can I do for you?’

‘I need to speak to Tommy Hannan.’

‘I don’t think you’ll get much sense. He’s been deteriorating rapidly since he came in.’

Dewar grimaced and said, ‘I should have interviewed him when he was first admitted but he seemed at an early stage of the disease and I thought it would be more productive if I let him settle in first, get over the disorientation of being admitted, that sort of thing.’

‘I could say, I’d never seen anything like it, but that wouldn’t mean much. None of us have seen smallpox before. What I really mean is that it wasn’t like the text books say it should be. The disease in Tommy Hannan’s case developed much faster than it should.’

‘As fast as Kelly?’ asked Dewar, suddenly excited and seeing a very good question to ask.

Anne McGowan thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I think so,’ she said. ‘The other cases have been more text book in terms of development time. Only Hannan and Kelly had the rapid form.’

This was progress, thought Dewar. If the ‘rapid form’, as the doctor called it, was really down to a much higher infecting dose, as Wright had proposed, then Hannan had not caught the disease from Kelly. He too must have been in contact with a pure culture. That was worth knowing. It meant that Hannan, in theory, might be able to tell him everything that Kelly might have.

‘What about Hannan’s wife, Sharon?’ he asked. ‘Is she still okay?’

‘She’s been complaining of feeling unwell. She’s developed flu-like symptoms. I think she may be coming down with it.’

‘Damn,’ said Dewar quietly. ‘And Denise Banyon?’

‘Still well and still as obnoxious as ever.’

Dewar smiled but he recognised it would no longer be possible to put Sharon and Denise together if Sharon were coming down with the disease. He’d have to see them individually if he couldn’t get any sense from Hannan.

‘I think I’d like to see Tommy Hannan anyway,’ he said.

‘If you get suited up, you’ll find him in number 6. I’ll tell the nurses to expect you.’

Dewar put on his protective clothing, checking all the points listed on the wall of the changing room before venturing into the airlock leading through to the corridor leading to the isolation suites. It was quiet, the only sound coming from the hum of the electric air filters. He knocked and entered suite 6.

He was shocked at the appearance of Hannan. The slight papular rash he’d had on his face when he’d first seen him had progressed incredibly quickly into full pustular smallpox. His breathing sounded rasping and laboured; the mucosa of his throat was obviously affected. The sound made Dewar ponder on just how much faith he and the people working here and up in the ward were putting in the vaccine that protected them. The breath that Hannan was expelling with so much difficulty would be loaded with tiny moisture droplets containing thousands of live virus particles.

‘Tommy, can you hear me?’ he asked.

Hannan stopped staring at the ceiling and turned his head slightly, as if it were painful to do so. ‘Who? …’ he croaked.

‘Adam Dewar. I brought you in. Remember? With Sharon in the ambulance?’

Hannan closed his eyes and gave a slight nod and a croak.

‘Tommy, I need to know how you got this disease. Will you help me? I have to ask you some questions.’

No response.

‘It’s important, Tommy.’

‘Bastard,’ croaked Hannan.

Dewar wondered about the abuse then realised it wasn’t directed at him. ‘Who, Tommy? Who’s a bastard?’

‘Mike … took …stuff from this guy … Bastard!’

Dewar hadn’t realised that Hannan still though his condition was down to bad drugs. The hospital obviously hadn’t sought to disillusion him as yet.

‘Tommy, your illness is a disease. It’s got nothing to do with drugs. Do you understand?’

‘Bastard … when I get … out of here … I’m gonna cut. that bas …

A rasping sigh came from Hannan’s throat and his head rolled on the pillow. For a moment Dewar thought he was dead but he could still hear his breathing like a saw cutting soft wood. He was exhausted; he had lapsed into the margins that lay between sleep and unconsciousness. Dewar stood there watching him for a few moments before he heard the nurse come in. He nodded and moved away, wondering if he would get another chance to talk to Hannan. It was something he wouldn’t bet on.

As he straightened up, he noticed the light in the room catch the tiny drops of moisture on his visor. For the first time in a long time he felt a pang of genuine fear. It only lasted a moment or so but to feel his throat tighten and his stomach go hollow while goose-bumps rose on his neck was something that made him feel slightly ashamed before he started to rationalise it. Maybe it was no bad thing to be afraid of the virus. If nothing else, it meant you had respect for it. More importantly, it made damn sure you wouldn’t underestimate it.

Dewar returned to the changing room and went through the routine of primary disinfection of his protective suiting and visor before taking a shower. He had decided to tackle Denise Banyon again.

Denise was slumped in a chair, watching television as she had been the last time he’d seen her. This time she was watching something involving wailing police sirens. She greeted his entrance with, ‘I thought I told you to fuck off.’

‘I hoped we might clear up the misunderstanding and start over,’ said Dewar calmly.

‘There’s no fucking misunderstanding, pal. Just get your arse out of here.’

‘Denise, I desperately need your help. I have to know how Mike caught the disease.’

‘Mike’s dead.’

‘I know and I’m sorry but I still have to know how he got it. It could save many other lives.’

Denise sneered at the notion. ‘Not that old one. Other lives my arse, you just want to know where he got the stuff. Well, you’re not getting it from me. Right? Now, for the last time, fuck off!’

‘For Christ’s sake woman, I don’t want to know anything about drugs! Can’t you get that through your thick head? Mike died of smallpox not bad drugs!’

Dewar immediately regretted having lost his temper. He saw the look of triumph appear on Denise’s face. ‘Dearie me,’ she sneered. ‘Whatever happened to Mr Nice Guy?’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s true.’

‘Bollocks! You lot are always so full of shite. You think I don’t know what you’re really thinking but I do. You think the likes of me and Mike are rubbish, little pieces of shit for you to smarm up to when it suits you, just until you get what you want. Treat her like a lady and she’ll think Prince Charming’s arrived on his bloody horse. The silly cow’ll tell you everything, shop her mates, drop them in it, drop her drawers for you too if you fancy a bit of rough. Dead easy. Well, you’ve picked the wrong one here, pal. Now for the last time, … FUCK OFF!’ The look of loathing in Denise’s eyes made Dewar accept defeat and leave the room.

The drive back to the Scottish Office was a time for facing facts. The wipers cleared away light rain as he recognised he wasn’t going to get any more out of Hannan or Denise Banyon — Hannan because he’d be too ill or even dead by the morrow and Denise because she was absolutely determined not to tell him anything. He doubted that Sharon Hannan would have any more to add to what she’d already said so that meant he had all the information he was going to get. It wasn’t much.

Two drug-addicted petty criminals had come into contact with a live culture of smallpox virus. God knows how. Both men had ascribed their illness to bad drugs. Neither man had any known connection with the Institute of Molecular Sciences or any of the staff there. It definitely wasn’t much.

Dewar phoned Karen when he got back.

‘You don’t sound too happy,’ she said.

‘I’ve got nothing to be happy about. Things are going from bad to worse up here.’

‘I caught the news,’ said Karen. ‘Your “mystery illness” seems to be getting a hold.’

‘It looks like it,’ agreed Dewar.

‘I had a vaccination today,’ said Karen.

‘What for?’ asked Dewar, sounding alarmed.

‘We had an internal request for Public Health Service volunteers to come to Edinburgh. I volunteered.’

‘Jesus,’ said Dewar.

‘That’s it? That’s all you have to say?’

‘God, I don’t know what to say … I’m proud, I’m pleased … I’m scared stiff and I wish to God you hadn’t done it.’

‘Well, I have. ‘I’ll be up the day after tomorrow. I’ll stay at Mum’s until they tell me where I’ll be most useful. My briefing also said you lot were going for physical containment of the disease?’

‘We don’t have an alternative. Starts tomorrow before daybreak.’

‘The sort of thing that could go very wrong,’ said Karen.

‘We won’t know until we try it.’

‘I’ll be thinking of you.’

‘Karen, I love you.’

‘I love you too. Take care. I’ll see you soon.’

Dewar put down the phone and walked over to the window. It was raining heavily now. There was no wind; it was falling like stair rods.

DAY SIX

The rain persisted throughout the night and was still falling heavily when the police, wearing their yellow, wet weather gear, put up the first of the barriers at three am and started stopping traffic. At the same time, 24 hour news channels and all night radio gave out first news of the smallpox outbreak, thereafter at fifteen minute intervals.

As the barrier system was completed, buses were stopped from entering Muirhouse and turned round to return to the city. Their passengers, mainly shift workers returning home, were allowed to continue home on foot after being told to tune into their radios and televisions as soon as they got in. At six am, police cars equipped with loud speakers started touring the streets, giving out details of the containment order and advising people to tune in to local radio stations for more information. The radio stations carried the Scottish Office press release, announcing that the mystery illness affecting people in Muirhouse had been identified as Smallpox. To ensure that the disease did not spread people would not be allowed to leave Muirhouse for the next week or so. This was regretted but the authorities felt sure that citizens would understand. Vaccine for everyone was on its way but in the meantime everyone should remain indoors as much as possible and keep tuned to their radios and televisions for up-dates on the situation.

The Scottish Office had set up special phonelines for people with particular problems. The numbers would be given out in later broadcasts but people were urged to use them as little as possible to prevent jamming. and to co-operate fully with the medical and social work teams working in the area. If everyone displayed good sense, as the authorities were confident they would, the outbreak would be contained quickly and life would be back to normal in no time.

The special phonelines were jammed from eight o’clock onwards. Crowds of people gathered at police barriers to argue their case for being allowed to go to work. The police remained polite but firm using their extensive pre-duty briefing to deal with the more common points. No one was going to be sacked because they didn’t turn up for work because of the order. Those who maintained they had sick relatives to visit and care for were instructed to give details to the social work teams who would see that the situation was covered for them. The awkward questions like, Why isn’t the vaccine here right now? were fielded with, ‘The medical people know what they’re doing.’

Crowds built up throughout the morning and there was apprehension at police headquarters when it was thought that the duty officers might not be able to hold the barrier lines but the heavy rain which had streamed down their waterproofs from the word go, seeking out weaknesses and sneaking in through collars and zips proved to be their greatest ally. The crowds might have been even bigger had the weather been better and the people who were arguing tended to drift off after a couple of hours of getting soaked to the skin. By mid afternoon, the crisis time had passed and people were staying indoors.