The van stopped in Battersea, just south of the river.
A place where men who dreamed of apartments with glass balconies overlooking the waters of the Thames had competed with others who pictured white-tiled shopping estates and soft-seated cinema complexes, who had in turn fallen foul of the environmentalists who in turn had waged bitter war on the local council officers who saw in this empty patch of nothing a golden opportunity to build their latest recycling centre. Between all these competing forces, the net result had been nothing. Nothing had been done, and nothing had changed.
A hoarding of blue plywood fenced off a stretch of the river from joggers, dog walkers and tourists. To the west, Battersea Power Station was a monument to architectural insecurity; on the far bank, young trees sat beneath new lights framed by towering apartments for wealthy young couples who knew that there was yet more wealth to come. Trains spat blue-white sparks into the night as they rattled across the bridge to Victoria; empty freight containers huddled beneath silent cranes whose wires hadn’t shifted more than a few inches in a strong wind for many years. The water of the river was silent against the embankment, the padlocks were rusted; the wind was beaten off by the plywood walls.
Only one light glowed, shining tungsten-yellow behind the half-open door of an ancient white freight container with the words OFFICE SUPPLIES EXPRESS stencilled on the side.
Ms Somchit parked the van with its rear doors facing this light, then she, Edna and Kevin manoeuvred Rhys towards it. His eyes were closed, his body a sack to be dragged by its dangling parts. Sammy hopped from foot to foot muttering, “Come on, come on, put some backbone into it!” while the three of them sweated and strained.
Sharon opened the door to the glowing container as they approached and heard a voice exclaim, “You know, I was in the middle of making a cake?”
She looked inside.
A metal wheeled stretcher, a bright bulb hanging from the ceiling, a white locked filing cabinet, a white locked cupboard. A high wooden stool and, perched on top of it like a proud parrot on its stand, a woman. Her skin was tea-coloured after a respectable dose of milk; her hair was black, cut to a short bob; her legs dangled from a smart black skirt, and as she swung them to and fro her sturdy-heeled black shoes flapped and flopped against her heels. Only a white coat with a row of coloured biros in its pocket suggested that this woman might be what she was–a doctor.
Rhys was manhandled onto the stretcher trolley. The woman tutted, shooed his sweating companions away, leaned over and said, “Now, who’s been playing silly buggers with a wendigo?”
Kevin raised one gloved and bloody hand. “Excuse me,” he ventured, “but I have been in like, contact with all sorts of bodily fluids this evening and none of them have been screened and I was wondering if you could like, test me?”
“Test you? For what?” asked the doctor.
“Um… everything?”
The doctor lowered her head and looked up into Kevin’s eyes. “Sweetie,” she said, “I don’t want to sound dismissive or anything here, but you’re the walking dead. Deal with it.” She paused, and added, “Wow! That was a bit dismissive wasn’t it? I surprised myself–was anyone else surprised by that?”
Sharon felt a tug on her sleeve. “Oi,” said Sammy. “Soggy-brains. Wanna talk?”