Ken McClure - Resurrection

The team was joined this morning by Major Tim Hardy, the officer commanding the troops from Redford Barracks. Although it had been left to the team to decide when troops should be called in, they had been briefed at the outset of the outbreak and their ‘terms of engagement’ decided by Scottish Office ministers. Hardy reported that his orders were to hold the line using minimum force at all times. His men were to remain strictly outside the affected area, leaving matters of civilian law and order to the police. He looked towards Tulloch who avoided his gaze.

‘What exactly is the position this morning?’ Finlay asked Tulloch, who was now gratefully nursing a mug of black coffee, using it to warm his hands as well as his insides.

‘We’ve had to concede control of about one third of the containment area.’

There was a stunned silence in the room. Tulloch continued, ‘There came a point when I though it best, in the interests of keeping casualties to a minimum, that my men retreat and set up lines of containment outside the epicentre of the trouble..’

Finlay asked, ‘Are you saying that we now have a containment area within the containment area?’

‘If you want to put it that way.’

‘You’re saying we now have a no-go area within Muirhouse?’ said Dewar.

Tulloch nodded. ‘You’d think the bastards had been planning this for years,’ he said bitterly.

Mary Martin looked puzzled. She seemed to have difficulty formulating her question. ‘Am I being stupid or are you saying that with things as they are, none of us can reach the population inside this area?’ she asked, making a sweeping gesture over part of the map on the table.

‘I’m saying that my officers cannot guarantee the safety of anyone entering this part of the estate. In fact we’d have to advise strongly against it.’

‘So the yobs are running the show,’ stated Mary.

Tulloch looked down at the table.

‘And the contacts? How do my people reach them? And the social service teams? And the vaccine when it arrives. How do we set up vaccination centres in an area controlled by a mob? What exactly do we do now, Superintendent?’

Tulloch took a deep breath. ‘I fully understand your concern but regaining control of the area would mean a full frontal assault involving hundreds of officers in full riot gear. Flushing out the opposition on home ground would almost certainly be very costly in terms of police and possibly innocent civilian casualties.’

‘It has to be done,’ said Wright. ‘The people in there must be vaccinated as soon as it becomes available.’

‘Perhaps the army?’ suggested Mary Martin tentatively.’

‘Only as a last resort,’ said Finlay. ‘The Scottish Office wasn’t that keen on bringing troops in to man the barriers this morning but the situation was such that we just had to. But I think that’s as far as it goes unless something really awful happens.’

‘Couldn’t you send in snatch squads to arrest the ring-leaders?’ George Finlay asked Tulloch. ‘If you know who they are, that is?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Tulloch. ‘They’re known all right. The same trash are running things just like they seem to run everything else in that God-forsaken place from drug dealing to money lending but proving it is always quite another matter. Asking people to stand up in court and testify against them is like asking the tide to go out on Royston beach. As for sending in a snatch squad, we’re talking about the heart of drug-land here. Steel-reinforced doors and blocked stairways, broken lifts and prams suddenly appearing across your path, teenage mothers yelping about police brutality. Pieces of concrete falling from the flats and more knives than you’d find in the Swiss Army.’

‘My God, as if we didn’t have enough to contend with,’ said Finlay. ‘A riot on top of an epidemic.’

‘The vaccine’s not here yet,’ said Dewar. ‘So we’ve probably got another day to wait. I suggest we leave the police, the politicians and the military to work on the problem of regaining control. When the vaccine finally comes — probably this evening we can decide then what we do next.’

There were no dissenting voices.

‘By the way, Major, are your men armed?’

‘Plastic bullets and only then as a last resort.’

As they rose from the table, George Finlay came over to Dewar and said, ‘I almost forgot, Sharon Hannan was asking for you. She seemed agitated about something. Maybe you could come over to the hospital? Have a word with her?’

‘Of course,’ replied Dewar, suddenly excited at the prospect of hearing something useful from her. Maybe this was the break he’d been hoping for. Maybe she’d remembered something important. ‘How is she?’

‘The rash appeared this morning; she definitely has smallpox; she’s putting on a brave face but she’s really quite ill.’

Dewar drove over to the Western General, slowing down at the Crew Toll roundabout just to the north of the hospital to look at a gaggle of military vehicles and police panda cars parked across the main road on the eastern perimeter of Muirhouse. There was something sinister about seeing soldiers with automatic weapons hanging from their shoulders on the streets of the city. Something inside him said their weapons should be up on their shoulders and they should be in dress uniform, marching behind a band on their way to some ceremonial duty at the palace or up on the castle esplanade, entertaining tourists. That’s what soldiers did in the city. Seeing them stand beside a striped lifting bar, spanning the width of the road looked like old newsreel footage from Northern Ireland.

Beyond the barrier, the road was absolutely empty of people or traffic, a dark ribbon of tarmac leading to the concrete skyline of Muirhouse with a pall of smoke still hanging over it from last night.

Dewar turned away and drove up to the hospital where he found parking a lot easier than last time. All clinic and day patients, whether surgical and medical had had their appointments cancelled. Any patient who could possibly go home had been discharged. All non essential surgery had been re-scheduled for some unstated time in the future. Plastic hips and knees would have to wait. Benign cysts would stay where they were for the moment. The hospital was purely for emergencies only

Dewar changed quickly; he was anxious to hear what Sharon had to say. The room was in semi-darkness when he entered. One of the nurses had told him this was because Sharon’s eyes were hurting. He shuddered as he remembered Michael Kelly’s eyes when he’d first seen him.

‘Hello Sharon, I hear you’re not so well,’ said Dewar gently as he sat down at her bedside.

Sharon had been facing the wall; the rash was clearly visible on her cheek. She turned her head, smiling slightly at the voice she recognised but the smile faded when she saw Dewar’s visor. She seemed to recoil slightly and stare at it as if its use were some kind of betrayal. But it was what the nurses wore, thought Dewar. All the same, he didn’t want anything alarming or alienating her. He needed to keep her trust if she were to tell him anything. He took his visor off and said, ‘This damned thing is far too hot. How are you feeling?’

There was no denying the rise in his pulse rate once the visor had gone. He felt exposed and vulnerable. Once again he was trusting his life to a vaccination. The thought made the site on his arm itch slightly, but maybe that was imagination, the power of suggestion as Harry Hill might have put it, he thought stupidly. He wasn’t big on bravado but he felt it was necessary in this case. He hoped he looked calm because it didn’t feel like that on the inside.

‘I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus,’ complained Sharon weakly. ‘I hurt all over.’