Ken McClure - Wildcard

It was four in the morning when Steven got back to Manchester, but he sat down and wrote to his daughter straight away, telling her how much he missed her and how sorry he was that he couldn’t be there on Christmas Day. He would, however, phone her and was looking forward to hearing all her news about what Santa had brought her and the other two children. When his job was finished, he promised, he would spend lots more time with her and, come the summer, they would do lots of lovely things together. With Robin and Mary, they would build the biggest sandcastle anyone had ever seen on their favourite beach at Sandyhills and surround it with a moat that they could all paddle in.

His eyelids were becoming increasingly heavy but he forced himself to stay awake long enough to check for messages from Sci-Med on his laptop. There was one, saying that two new wildcard cases had been reported, one in Preston and the other in Exeter. Both names were on Greg Allan’s list and the authorities had been well prepared. John Macmillan sent his congratulations. Files on the two new patients were appended. Steven did not bother opening them. He just lay down, closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign that he’d hung on the door did its job and he slept straight through until eleven-thirty next morning. He felt better than he had done for many days and lay still for a while, thinking about Sci-Med’s last message and, in particular, John Macmillan’s congratulations. He had been keeping so busy — mainly to blot out things that he couldn’t afford to dwell on — that he had not been giving himself credit for having done the most important thing in any outbreak: identifying the source. He might not yet understand why the people on Allan’s list were the source, but that was academic when viewed against the fact that the outbreak was now under control. Wildcards were no longer wildcards. The authorities knew exactly who these people were and where they lived, and would be prepared and ready for new cases of the disease, which would be isolated before they infected anyone else. Steven got up and had a leisurely shower before dressing and starting to think about food. He was going to have a day off, he decided: he deserved it.

He didn’t want to take breakfast or lunch in the hotel, so he decided to walk for a while and eat where the fancy took him. The sky was clear and blue and, although the temperature was close to freezing, it was perfect weather for walking. He walked for close on an hour before deciding to have lunch in a pub which looked as if it might have a bit of character. Before going in he bought himself a newspaper to read while he waited for his meal.

He found, as he sipped a pint of Guinness, that the newspaper seemed to share his good mood. The number of new cases in the Manchester area had been dropping over the past few days and, although the public were urged to remain vigilant, there was a cautious hope that the worst was over. Health boards in other areas had been very successful in isolating new cases where and when they occurred, and a government statement had announced that the source of the outbreak had been identified and steps taken to eliminate it, although no details had been released. Steven smiled at the last bit.

His meal arrived and he remarked to the waitress that the place was very quiet; he was the only one having lunch, although two old regulars by the look of them were seated on stools at the bar.

‘Been like this for weeks,’ she said. ‘Worst Christmas season we’ve ever had.’

Steven nodded sympathetically. ‘Looks like it’s over, though,’ he said, gesturing to the newspaper.

‘About bloody time. If it hadn’t been for that stupid bitch of a doctor letting all those kids from the disco roam around all over the place at the beginning, this would all have been over ages ago. I mean, I ask you…’

Steven felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. Thankfully, his momentary surge of anger was almost instantly overwhelmed by a realisation that, whatever he said, this woman and countless other people would go on believing that the Manchester outbreak had been caused by Caroline’s mistake. This was what Spicer had done to her, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. His only comfort lay in the knowledge that Spicer himself would be going to prison for a long time. He wished him a particularly unpleasant time. In the meantime, his good mood had evaporated and taken his appetite with it. He put a ten-pound note under his untouched plate and left.

It took another couple of hours of aimless walking for Steven to calm down and realise that he was by now very hungry. He wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice when it came to eating-places in the area, but he came across a small teashop, where he made do with toast and cheese and no conversation.

Steven spoke to Macmillan in the early evening and was informed that Mary Xavier’s mitral valve had reached Porton safely. Work had already begun on analysing it, but he shouldn’t expect quick results. The material would have to be handled under category BL4 conditions, and safe meant slow.

‘Why don’t you take a couple of days off?’ suggested Macmillan. ‘We’ll call you on your mobile if anything breaks. Go up to Scotland and see your daughter.’

‘Not possible,’ said Steven. ‘I’ve been exposed to the virus. I can’t take the risk.’

‘Of course not,’ said Macmillan contritely. ‘That was stupid of me.’

‘But I think I will take a couple of days off. I’m sure I’ll find something to do.’

‘Good,’ said Macmillan. ‘On a different subject, I had a letter from the PM this morning. He sends his thanks, as do the others. Having to call a state of emergency would have been no joke.’

‘Suppose not,’ agreed Steven.

He had a drink downstairs in the bar while he thought about what to do the following day. Getting out of Manchester seemed a very good idea. He needed to be away from it all, even if for just a few hours, somewhere away from people, somewhere where he could see the sky and breathe fresh air. It occurred to him that he wasn’t that far from the Lake District. It was ages since he’d been back to that part of the country where he’d been brought up. He could drive up there first thing and have a day out, walking in the hills. The more he thought about it, the more he warmed to the idea. When he was a boy, being out in the Cumbrian mountains had always helped him get things in perspective. That was exactly what he needed right now, a sense of perspective, a sense of proportion.

Steven ordered another drink and moved away from the bar to sit down in a quiet corner and think about things in general. On the positive side, he had identified the source of the outbreak and had been thanked by the Prime Minister for doing it. His disdain for politicians could not entirely extinguish a feeling of satisfaction over this, but on the down side he was still a long way from explaining it and the unknown was always a cause for worry.

Caroline’s death had left an ache inside him that he couldn’t yet bear to face up to. He had been successful in pushing it to the back of his mind until the waitress had brought home the awful truth. Not only had Caroline lost her life to the virus, but she was going to be blamed wrongly by many for the outbreak. Victor Spicer had ruined her career and indirectly caused her death, and had also ensured that even history would vilify her. The realisation made Steven very angry. Caroline’s only crime had been to use common sense instead of following procedure like a mindless automaton.

It was no comfort to think that was the direction the whole country was going in. Somewhere along the line, common sense had been replaced by political correctness. The meek, in the form of the stupid and ill-informed, were now inheriting the earth a little earlier than planned. When he thought about the job Caroline and the others had done down at St Jude’s, Steven started to feel guilty. It was true that the outbreak was slackening but it wasn’t over. Caroline had gone, but Kate and the other nurses would still be doing their best for the sick while he sat there sipping gin and tonic. He now knew what he must do for the remainder of the evening.