Tremaine continued to look at the medallion in his hand and said, “There was a picture in one of her books on Skelmoris of this motif.”
“I think you must be mistaken,” said Saracen.
“No, I’m sure of it.”
“Right now we have two cases of bubonic plague to concern us. I’ve got a feeling they hold the key to this nightmare.”
“But this might be important,” Tremaine insisted. “One of these cases had this round his neck. It might be some kind of a lead. Why don’t you drop it off at Claire’s place on your way home and see what she says?
“All right.” conceded Saracen. He had no wish to see Claire but was too tired to argue. “But first I’m going to see MacQuillan.”
Tremaine dropped the medallion into disinfectant and swirled it around for a while before rinsing it under the tap and handing it to Saracen who slipped it into his pocket.
MacQuillan had his back to Saracen when he came into the room. Saracen coughed and he turned slowly to reveal the fact that he had a glass in his hand and, by the look in his eyes, had had quite a bit to drink already. Saracen looked at him quizzically.
“Drink?” said MacQuillan with a humourless smile. Saracen shook his head. “What did Porton Down say?” he asked.
MacQuillan looked at him for a long moment before saying, “The antiserum we’ve all been waiting for … it’s not coming.” He drank deeply from his glass.
“What the hell do you mean it’s not coming?” demanded Saracen in a hoarse whisper.
MacQuillan smiled bitterly and said. “There is no antiserum; there will be no antiserum. They say that the Skelmore strain is so poorly antigenic that it’s no use at all in antibody production. They can’t make an antiserum; they can’t make a vaccine. Finito.”
Saracen sank slowly into a chair. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
“In my experience he’s usually busy when you need him,” said MacQuillan.
Saracen ignored the comment. Drunken cynicism he could do without. “We’ll just have to ride the storm until it burns out then,” he said.
“It’s not going to ‘burn out’,” said MacQuillan quietly. “That bastard bug has won just as it always did.”
“If we get help from outside and keep our nerve we can still beat it,” said Saracen. “We can’t just give up hope.”
MacQuillan shook his head as if listening to a child tell him that the earth was flat. “There is no hope,” he said. “It’s over.”
Saracen sensed that there was more than cynicism behind MacQuillan’s last comment. “What do you mean?” he whispered.
MacQuillan drained his glass and refilled it. He said, “There will be no help from outside because none will be requested. The bug is immune to everything that medicine can offer. Its epidemiology is all wrong and we are helpless. Beasdale knows this so there will be a reversion to traditional methods.”
“What ‘traditional’ methods?” asked Saracen aggressively but the aggression was born of fear.
“Fire,” replied MacQuillan.
Saracen’s head reeled as he realised what MacQuillan was inferring. “You must be mad!” he accused. “Do you know what you are suggesting?”
“Beasdale will have his orders to carry out if things get out of control and that is now the case.”
“But you cannot seriously believe that he will destroy the town. Christ! This is England in 1990.”
MacQuillan’s silence told Saracen that he did not retract anything. He started to pace up and down the room, occasionally shaking his head in unwillingness to believe what he had heard. “It’s obscene!” he protested. “It’s immoral! It’s…”
“Practical,” said MacQuillan.
“But how can they just wipe out a whole town?”
“I told you. Fire.”
“Fire?”
“Oh I don’t mean soldiers running around putting torches to houses. I mean modern fire, scientific fire, liquid fire, all consuming chemical fire.”
“How do you know this?” demanded Saracen.
MacQuillan’s Scots accent had become more pronounced in drink. “Might I remind you, laddie, that I don’t work at Woolworths.”
“So you work at Porton Down, the defence establishment.”
“Defence! That’s a laugh. Have you noticed? Everyone is defending. No one ever offends so if no one is offending what the hell is all this defence for?” MacQuillan found his own philosophy hilarious.
“How do you know?” insisted Saracen.
“Contingency plans. There are contingency plans for this sort of situation. The strategy is to contain and destroy.”
“Contain and destroy,” repeated Saracen softly. “A whole town?”
“The principle stands.”
“Just how does a government explain the destruction of a whole town to the general public?”
“A tragic accident, some awful consequence of the emergency, a factory explosion, maybe even the gasworks going up through lack of proper maintenance.”
“They’d never believe it.”
“They’ll believe it if they want to,” said MacQuillan.
“What does that mean?”
“Any day now, mark my words, the authorities will start leaking the truth about the situation here in Skelmore. Stories of an incurable plague on his doorstep should put Joe Public in the right frame of mind to accept whatever happens next.”
“You’re a cynical bastard MacQuillan,” said Saracen.
“I’m a realist,” countered MacQuillan. “A blessing in disguise, they’ll say. The ways of the Lord are strange. Some kind of timely miracle. Thanksgiving services and now a look at the weather …”
“You’re drunk,” Saracen accused.
“I am,” agreed MacQuillan, “but that doesn’t alter the fact that Beasdale, this afternoon, reduced the administration staff to a minimum and sealed off the waterworks. No one now leaves or enters. Don’t bother trying to phone anyone either. STD has been suspended, it’s local calls only.”
Saracen had had enough; he got to his car and headed for Claire Tremaine’s flat.
“You look ghastly,” she said.
“I’m just tired,” said Saracen. “Alan thought you should see this.” He handed Claire the medallion.”
Claire took the object and held it closer to the table lamp beside her. “Where on earth did you get this?” she exclaimed and Saracen told her. A sudden look of concern filled her eyes and prompted Saracen to reassure her that the medallion had been disinfected. Claire got up and came back with a book. She showed him an illustration and said, “Same emblem.”
“But it’s what the emblem stands for!” continued Claire, her voice full of excitement. “It’s the crest of Skelmoris Abbey, the monastery we have been looking for!”
“Oh,” said Saracen, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. This wasn’t good enough for Claire who insisted, “Don’t you see? Don’t you understand how important this is?”
Saracen had to remind himself that Claire had no way of knowing what MacQuillan had predicted for Skelmore, no way of knowing the awful secret that made everything else unimportant to him. “Of course, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not thinking clearly.”
“Can you find out where the boy got this?” asked Claire, her eyes bright with enthusiasm.
“He has plague, Claire,” said Saracen. “He’s close to death.”
Claire pursed her lips in frustration. “Damnation, to be so near and yet so far,” she murmured. She became aware of the disapproving look on Saracen’s face and had the grace to be embarrassed. “I’m sorry, that was unforgivable,” she said. “I know you must think this silly and unimportant and you’re probably right but seeing that emblem …” She held up the medallion. “This is the most exciting moment of my career. It proves the existence of the Skelmoris Abbey beyond doubt.”
Saracen nodded. He respected professional enthusiasm but sometimes it was hard to take.
“Can you stay?” asked Claire softly.
Saracen shook his head. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“Then sleep here.”
Saracen started to protest but Claire was already undoing his shoelaces. He sat down on the couch and put his head back on the cushion. He felt his eyelids come together.