Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

Sam Evans came in the evening, bearing a magazine on trout fishing. He looked tired.

"How did you know I was interested in trout fishing, Sam?" I asked.

"I didn't. Are you?"

"Not especially. Wouldn't mind having a go, though."

"That's what I thought, so it's what I'm prescribing for you. How are you feeling?"

"Worried."

"I guessed you might be, so I've been doing some swatting."

"Just make me one little promise, please," I begged.

"What's that, Charlie?"

"To be honest with me."

He nodded. "OK. Well, the news is not too bad, although it could be better. The basic facts are that if she infected you it will take about eight weeks for you to make sufficient antibodies to be detected by a blood test. That's what we look for, antibodies."

"So I won't know for another eight weeks?"

"Afraid not. Plus another week for the test. However, the bright side is that there is no documented case anywhere in the world of AIDS being contracted through a bite. As you know from your work with DNA, there are blood cells in saliva, but the quantity of virus present is infinitesimal, and there is also an agent present that inactivates it.

That's the good news."

"However…"

"However… I've just examined her, Charlie. She's in the hospital wing at Filton Green."

"You have been busy."

"It's in a good cause. I can't say I'm happy about what I saw. The disease has affected her brain dementia although I suspect she was on the way before she caught it. You saw the lesions on her face; well, the inside of her mouth is just as bad. Her gums are ulcerated and bleeding. The truth is, Charlie, we know so little about it. Up to today I knew next to nothing. I'd be a liar if I said I thought you were in the clear."

I pursed my lips and focused on the big paper clip holding my notes at the foot of the bed. "So we sit tight and take the tests in eight weeks," I said.

"That's right. The risk is slim, extremely slim, but in my judgement it's there."

He told me that the incidence of HIV and AIDS was relatively low in Yorkshire, and I might receive a more educated assessment from a London doctor, but my brief experience with the counsellor had taught me that peddling optimism was part of the treatment. The biggest part. I trusted Sam.

There were other illnesses she could have passed on to me, some serious, but they faded into insignificance compared with the big A. As a precautionary measure a cocktail of exotic chemicals was injected into my bloodstream.

I asked the nurse for something to make me sleep, and it worked. It was only a pill, unfortunately. After breakfast I made it to the toilet without too much discomfort and removed the bandage from around my head. The ear didn't look too bad, so I put my clothes on and inched my way to the front entrance. I saw a sign pointing to Ward 4B, where Annabelle was, but didn't follow it. In the foyer is a bank of pay phones with the numbers of taxi firms prominently displayed. I rang one, and asked him to take me home. The two nurses were due for a disappointment when they came to make their examination. One of them was black, the other white. How appropriate, I'd thought at the time.

I locked my door, pulled the phone out and went to bed for nearly two days. Gilbert came round and gave me a telling-off and progress reports on my two murderers. Dewhurst was pulling round but not saying anything, Rhoda was sinking fast and doubtful for standing trial.

"He came out of jail and passed it on to her. Can you believe it?" I asked.

Gilbert shook his head.

"And she still loved him. He did that to her and she still loved him."

"It's affected her brain," he said. "Apparently it can do that, in a few cases. I don't think she was all there to begin with. And what about you? How do you intend spending your enforced rest?"

"I think I'll go away for a few days, as soon as I can get about OK.

Have a change of scenery."

"Good idea, but what about Annabelle?" ' Annabelle? She's making good progress. I rang about an hour ago." I didn't tell him that I hadn't asked to be put through to her.

"What about seeing her? I'll take you, if you want."

I sat and inspected my fingernails for a couple of minutes, before saying: "Gilbert, there's an outside chance that I've been infected. If 11 take eight, nine weeks before we know, one way or the other. I've..

I've decided not to see Annabelle again until it's all over."

He sat up, looking shocked.

I was quite calm. I said: "I'll never let it affect me like it did Rhoda. If I've got it, it's better we finish right now."

"Does she know?" he asked.

I shook my head. "When Sam came to see me I asked him to deliver a message. That the woman who shot her was in custody and I was safe, but I'd gone down with this flu bug that's going round, so I was staying away from her. It didn't sound so cheap at the time."

"You're right, it sounds cheap."

"Don't give me a hard time, Gilbert. I'm doing my best." After a silence I went on: "My dad died of canc eras you know. In the two years that he had it my mother never once said the word. She'd never admit that he had cancer. In her eyes there was a stigma attached to it that I couldn't understand. Cancer didn't happen to nice people. I don't understand now, but I'm closer. Annabelle nearly died because of me. AIDS is a sordid disease, Gilbert, and I'll never inflict any part of it on her."

He stood up to leave and I walked with him to the newly repaired door.

As he went out he turned and said: "You're a selfish bastard, Charlie."

I knew he was wrong it was the toughest decision I'd ever made.

At the motorway I made a snap decision and turned right. Two and a bit hours later I booked into the Balmoral Guest House at one of the smaller east coast resorts. It would be unfair to say which one. The chief amenity of the town was a golden beach, crisscrossed with groynes to stop the tide washing the sand away, and blessed with a half-mile sewage outlet to keep things sanitary. A First World War defensive position was preserved for the children to play on through the day and for their slightly older brothers and sisters to screw each other goggle-eyed in during the evenings, while their parents played bingo.

The morning tide washed the discarded condoms out to sea, where they choked the occasional passing cod.

Breakfasts were full English, but most mornings I settled for toast and cornflakes. Afterwards I wandered up and down the beach, keeping my left ear to the wall, although anyone who saw it probably assumed I was an injured rugby union player. I drank a lot of tea, seated at formica tables, and pecked at some respectable fish and chips. The Salvation Army band gave concerts from a bandstand in the middle of a grassy area. The girl with the collection box had blonde hair tied severely back and hidden beneath her hat. She reminded me of Grace Kelly in High Noon.

I spent a lot of time sitting on benches. It was the most popular pastime in town. One evening a girl of about fourteen with a Bardotesque pout came to sit alongside me. She was wearing an indecently short skirt and an unzipped biker jacket, revealing a T-shirt that looked as if it were concealing two bottles of Tia Maria.

When she asked me for a light I told her to go away. She called me a fucking wanker and went. Later I saw her getting into someone's car.

There wasn't a lot there for the kids to do.

They play bingo at the Balmoral in the evenings. I fell into the role of mystery guest and avoided everyone. I would have done so whatever the circumstances. People were enjoying themselves in a way that was incomprehensible to me, but I couldn't condemn them for that. Maybe I'm a snob. I sneaked past the laughing faces and went up to bed. The sheets were crisp and the pillows stuffed with feathers. If I'd had the odd pint I fell asleep reasonably well; any more and I lay awake, thinking about Annabelle.