MacQuillan adjusted his spectacles and said, “As always in these cases the crux of the matter lies in the source of the outbreak. In this case we know the source; it was the Archer woman and she brought it in with her from Africa. That being the case I see no need to quarantine the town.”
“There we have it then,” said Braithwaite, pleased that MacQuillan had backed him up.
“I take it that the relevant African medical authorities were informed about Myra Archer?” asked Saracen.
“Of course,” replied Braithwaite, content to leave it at that but Saracen persisted. “Have you heard back from them yet?”
“No, but then I really don’t expect to,” said Braithwaite with more than a trace of irritation. “The simple fact is that the disease is endemic in areas of that continent. I suggest you read the World Health Organisation’s report on the subject Doctor.”
“I don’t doubt it,” replied Saracen. “But I would like to know if any case of plague has been notified in the area relevant to Myra Archer in the past few months.”
“Africa isn’t England Doctor,” snapped Braithwaite. “People come and go, live and die without the state ever being aware of it let alone writing it all down. Official records are scanty if they exist at all.”
The meeting fell into thoughtful silence until Saithe said, “Is anyone other than Dr Saracen in favour of taking steps to isolate the town?”
No one spoke.
“Very well then,” said Saithe, “We carry on as we have been doing for the time being.”
Saracen phoned Moss at the County Hospital as soon as he got back to A amp;E. He wanted to find out why he had not attended the meeting.
“The anti-plague vaccine arrived this morning,” said Moss. “I thought it more important to start vaccinating the staff. Anything interesting come up?”
Saracen told Moss of the Porton findings.
“So the lab was right,” said Moss. “The bug is resistant to tetracycline.”
“Worse than that. MacQuillan says that its altered cell wall makes it immune to just about everything.”
“All things bright and beautiful…” intoned Moss.
Saracen had a chilling thought. He said, “I wonder if Porton checked the bug’s antigenic structure.”
“What do you mean?”
“If our bug has a different cell wall it may not be susceptible to antibodies produced against different strains.” said Saracen thoughtfully.
“Christ! You mean the vaccine we have may not be any good against the Skelmore strain?” said Moss.
“Just a thought,” said Saracen.
“That would be all we need,” groaned Moss.
“I better check with MacQuillan,” said Saracen. “Can you give me the batch number of the vaccine you are using?”
“Hang on.”
Saracen waited for Moss to return to the phone and used the time to uncap his pen and flick over his desk pad to a new page. He was absent mindedly drawing a clover leaf in the top right hand corner when Moss came back on the line. “It’s WHO 83 YP 761. Got it?” Saracen confirmed that he had and said that he would contact MacQuillan immediately.
As he was about to dial MacQuillan’s number Saracen saw Jill Rawlings pass the glass door panel. She was walking along the corridor with another nurse. Saracen opened the door and called her back. “Do you have a moment?” he asked.
“Of course,” replied Jill, indicating to her companion that she should carry on without her.
“I haven’t seen you for ages. I’m sorry,” said Saracen, closing the door.
“Don’t be. I know how things are but I’m here if you need me.”
“I need you,” said Saracen.
Jill seemed taken aback. She said, “Well Doctor, it took something for James Saracen to say that didn’t it.”
“Maybe,” conceded Saracen. “Can I see you tonight?”
“I’m on duty until eight thirty. I’m free after that.”
“Good, perhaps we can go out to dinner and…”
Jill put a finger on his lips. “No,” she said. “You were on call last night in A amp;E.”
“Yes but…”
“And the night before?”
“I’m fine, really I am,” insisted Saracen.
Jill would have none of it. “Stay home,” she said. “I’ll come round when I’ve finished and we’ll eat in, then we’ll relax with a drink and then we’ll make love and then, my dear Doctor, you will go to sleep. Understood?”
Saracen looked down at Jill’s smiling eyes and said, “You are a very special lady.”
“See you later,” said Jill backing out the door.
Saracen called MacQuillan and told him of his worries about the vaccine. “Could you ask Porton to check it?” he asked. “I’ve got the serial number of the batch.”
“The check is already being done,” said MacQuillan. “Our people thought of it as soon as they discovered the altered cell wall.”
“I should have realised,” said Saracen, feeling foolish.
“I’ll let you know when I hear the result,” said MacQuillan.
“There is one other thing,” said Saracen tentatively.
“Yes?”
“If the vaccine should turn out to be ineffectual, what then?”
“A new antiserum and vaccine would have to be prepared from the Skelmore strain.” replied MacQuillan.
“As simple as that?”
“Yes. It would take a little time of course but preparing a bacterial vaccine is no great problem. We can be grateful that plague is caused by a bacterium and not a virus. Viral vaccine are a different ball game.”
“You said antiserum as well as vaccine?”
“Now that we have a problem with antibiotics we can inoculate animals with the Skelmore strain and then use their serum to treat cases with. There’s always a risk of serum sickness of course, even anaphylaxis but it’s a lot better than nothing.”
“Quite.”
Saracen left A amp;E at six and despite a threatening sky decided to leave his car and walk home for he felt the need for fresh air. Jill would not arrive much before nine so there was no reason to hurry. He took a detour through Coronation Park and sat for a while beneath the trees feeling depressed. There was no specific reason for the feeling; he just had a sense of foreboding; it was almost as dark as the sky. Perhaps it was the weather, he reasoned, heavy, still air, trees absolutely motionless as if holding their breath while they waited for something to happen. The sky grew even darker; the clouds were almost black and the failing light made the grass seem a much richer green than usual. What few people there were in the park at that time started to scurry away as the first large drops of rain speckled the path.
Saracen was soaked to the skin by the time he got back to the apartment but showed no irritation for he had taken no steps to avoid it. True his first impulse had been to run for cover when the rain had started but tiredness in his limbs and the general feeling of depression had changed his mind. He had opted instead to walk through the rain, knowing that a warm bath and a change of clothes were to come. In the event he discovered that the timer on the water heater in the flat had failed to trigger and there was no hot water. He switched it on manually and towelled himself dry while he waited in front of the gas fire for it to heat up. After twenty minutes or so he settled for a lukewarm bath with a large whisky propped up on the soap bar.
At eight thirty Jill phoned; she seemed distraught. “It’s Mary Travers,” she said. “She collapsed on the ward.”
“What’s the matter?”
“They don’t know yet but I want to stay with her till they find out.”
“Of course,” said Saracen. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll still come round later if that’s all right?”
“Whenever,” said Saracen.
Saracen turned on the television and flicked through the channels until a programme about the Amazon River caught his attention but after a few minutes drowsiness began to compete with his interest and the soporific hiss of the fire colluded with the slow monotone of the narrator to induce in him an overwhelming desire to sleep.