Ken McClure - Resurrection

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.