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THE FIRST THING I DID when I got round to the surgery was lie on a raised metal bed while Dr Tomlinson took two hundred millilitres of my blood. It was the first time I’d seen him in a lab coat. It made him look a lot more like the sort of person who might make scientific history and I felt correspondingly pacified.
“I think I may be on to something,” he said, watching the syringe slowly fill. “I didn’t want to build your hopes up this morning, but obviously, if there is something in your immune system that’s resistant to the disease, it may be possible to isolate it. Then we can replicate it and administer it to the others. Sounds simple when you put it like that. Two sentences for a thousand steps.”
“I have to leave at six. Ashanta’s putting on a party.”
“Still, a journey of a thousand steps starts with a single one. It’s what the Americans call ‘a long shot’, but obviously everything’s a long shot now.”
“You’re invited, by the way.”
He transferred the blood to a sterile jar and binned the needle. “Thank you. However, time’s of the essence. I can’t justifiably leave my post.”
“Would you like me to stay here with you? I can make an excuse.”
“No need, really.”
“It’s just that, if things continue the way they are, we may not have much time left together.”
“Would you like to be with her now? You’re quite welcome to leave.”
“She sent me away. She’s making canapés with Rita Patel.”
He chuckled. “How typically English. Carry On Up the Khyber. You know, where they all sit eating dinner while the natives pound the house with gunfire.”
“I haven’t seen it.”
He put the sample in the fridge and closed the door. “It’s very funny. There’s a set of DVDs in the lounge. Every Carry On ever made, courtesy of me.”
“Maybe I’ll watch it when everyone’s transformed and I’m on my own,” I said despondently.
“As your GP, I require it. You’ll probably need a bit of cheering up.”
I have to admit, I liked Dr Tomlinson a lot now. Admired him too. Nothing ever seemed to get him down. He gave me a lab coat and for the rest of that day, he ordered me around – mainly menial tasks arising from the fact that he couldn’t be in two places at once – and never once raised his voice.
He had a CD player in the corner, but only one CD – Favourite Songs from the Greatest Musicals of All Time. Thus, we worked to the rhythm of Getting to Know You, I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair and Follow the Yellow Brick Road. Most of it was fairly innocuous, but Climb Every Mountain reminded me of my brief spell under hypnosis and Over the Rainbow seemed too much a description of our current predicament – some unseen world subsisting beyond an array of fabulous colours. I don’t know what Dr Tomlinson thought about the transformation. I suspect he agreed with Celia Soper that it was a passageway to good, but wanted to keep his conscience sweet by doing everything in his power to find a cure. By six, I was exhausted but a little more cheerful.
When I got back to our cabin, Ashanta was still out. I poured myself a glass of water, shaved and went in the shower. Twenty minutes later she came in, in a hurry. I was lying on the bed in my boxers.
“How did it go?” I asked.
She kissed me on the cheek and kicked her shoes off. “Are you ready?”
“I’ve only got to put my clothes on.”
“Good boy. Unzip please.” She turned her back on me so I could undo her blouse then went straight through into the shower. “Whatever happens tonight, I had a spiffing time this afternoon. Rodrigo’s gay, by the way, so no need to worry about him. He’s ever such good fun, though. And boy, does he know his pastries.”
“What about Rita Patel?”
I heard her switch the showerhead on. “Rita? She did her best, but she’s hard work.”
“Depressed, you mean?”
“She keeps asking why we have to go to the Trench. Duh, like I know. I told her you’d suggested it, Celia Soper was a strong seconder and no one else had any better ideas. That’s the truth, isn’t it? It’s not like we can head for land.”
“Celia Soper thinks we’re being beckoned there.”
“Could well be. Nothing surprises me any more.”
She said this in a bored tone of voice, like she had a party to think about and she didn’t want to be distracted. I knew she wouldn’t be happy with me going for a walk so I sat on the bed and read the first twenty pages of Death By Poison again.
She came out of the shower, whipped her hair into submission with a cushion brush and applied her make-up whilst humming Rehab. “The music was the most difficult bit. We kept thinking of Mr Wiles. Obviously you can’t have Crown Imperial at a party, but we thought perhaps James Blunt because he was in the army, and Brian May because he played at the Queen’s Jubilee?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t organise his entire life around the Royal Family.”
“I just want everyone to have a good time.”
At seven-ten I put my suit on, Ashanta changed into her gown and heels and we set off, she holding three inches of her dress up to stop it trailing on the ground. The sky was crimson and the sun, behind a single soot-black cloud on the horizon, broke into yellow rays like search lamps.
As we got closer to the casino, it felt almost like everything was back to normal. Pop music played, neon lights announced its location. It was as if we hadn’t ditched two hundred people in Port Stanley on a day that already seemed years in the past. When we went downstairs the absence of greeters and arriving and departing gamblers was more disconcerting.
Now that it was virtually empty, I was surprised how massive the casino was. There was a table in the middle laden with food and drinks. James Blunt sang ballads and Rodrigo stood behind the Blackjack table ready to start the fun. Rita Patel and Paul Endersby were already here. She came up and kissed Ashanta on the cheek like they were twin sisters reunited after a world war. They went off in conversation, leaving Endersby and I alone. He wore an evening suit and a black bow tie. He thrust his hands in his pockets.
“Apparently we’re not allowed to start eating till the big hand touches the six,” he said.
“It looks very nice.”
“They must have worked hard.”
“Rodrigo’s an expert on pastries, I was told.”
“Really? Mind you, it doesn’t surprise me.”
I should probably have said ‘Why not’, but it seemed a bit brusque, so we entered a short period of silence, the first of many that evening. I expected him to make an excuse to put some distance between us, but he didn’t. He looked at his shoes.
“Do you think we’re allowed a cocktail?” I said.
He woke up. “I’m happy to experiment. What are you having?”
“Giant Rooster on a Metal Egg.”
“Do you know the ingredients? If they’ve got any Advocaat I might treat myself to a Bald Hedgehog. I guess we’ll have to make our own, though.”
You’d think mixing cocktails might have presented itself as an opportunity for bonding. Endersby seemed to realise it, though, so he changed his mind about the Bald Hedgehog and had a beer. He made a point of ignoring me while I navigated the tortuous intricacies of a Giant Rooster on a Metal Egg. By the time I’d finished measuring and stirring and shaking, it was quarter to eight and he looked bored rigid. By now, most of the other guests had arrived. Colin Wiles and Derek Goulding stood tapping their feet to You’re Beautiful and Mason walked around the buffet table as if he owned it. Dr Tomlinson had sent a note to Ashanta, via Mason, containing his apologies. Only Celia Soper remained unaccounted for.
At seven-thirty on the dot, everyone apart from Endersby and I loaded plates with potato salad and pasties or samosas. Ashanta put Rainbow Ffolly Sallies Fforth on and we said things like, ‘What have you got in your glass’, ‘Weather’s a bit unpredictable’ and ‘This is a phenomenal piece of pastry’. By eight, everyone had spoken to everyone, eaten their fill and was ready for bed. The games were still a good half an hour away and Rodrigo was looking at the floor like he wanted to soak into it.
Then death arrived. We only noticed when Rita Patel dropped her plate. We turned to follow her sight line and there, standing on the steps, was a hunched figure with the face of a skull. I must admit, I too got a fright. Then it cackled, and we all recognised the voice of Celia Soper. She undid the elastic bands over her ears and pulled the mask off and cackled again and carried on down the steps.
Rita Patel ran out of the casino in a state of emotion. Endersby put his beer on the roulette table and went after her. He stopped by Celia Soper on his way out.
“You stupid, cruel old bitch,” he said. “Haven’t you got better things to do?”
She grinned as if he’d simply redoubled her amusement. As soon as he left, Goulding gave a loud screech. He put his hands on the bar and lifted his legs off the floor. By now, I think we’d all lost track of what was happening, whether this was related to what Celia had done, what Rita had done, what Endersby had said or (d) none of the above.
Mason alone seemed in control. He abandoned his canapés and ran over, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Get the doctor!”
Suddenly, all my self-composure returned and my spine sent electric shocks to every part of my body. I ran out of the casino into the night air and didn’t stop until I reached the surgery. Dr Tomlinson was hunched over a microscope, adjusting the focus. He clocked my face and seemed to realise what I was there for.
“It’s Mr Goulding,” I said breathlessly. “Seizure. In the casino.”
He pulled his jacket on and followed me at a brisk walk. “Do you know if they’re bringing him to this way – to me?”
“No idea. If so, I don’t think they can have got far.”
We met them on the steps to the deck, Goulding in the centre and Mason and Endersby - who’d obviously returned at short notice – on either side. Goulding’s red face and bulging eyes made him look like he was having a coronary. His limbs were locked at the joints and he gibbered and shrieked. Behind him, Rita Patel had her arms round Ashanta and they looked terrified. Celia Soper stood with her arms dangling and her skull mask re-positioned over her face. Halfway across the casino floor, Rodrigo and Wiles were acting like they hadn’t noticed anything amiss, God knows why.
Dr Tomlinson and I got behind Goulding, and half-lifted him up the steps onto the deck. Mason produced a bucketful of water from beside the entrance – perhaps it had been put there for just such an emergency, I don’t know - and emptied it over Goulding’s head. There was a blinding flash, but no noise. It seemed to loosen him up and we gained speed, lifting him off the ground now. However, it also turned his muffled gibbering to cries of distress and made his sudden jerkiness even more difficult to manage.
We reached the surgery like this and bore him into the innermost lab. Mason and Endersby tilted him back onto his feet, but held him firm to prevent him collapsing or careering out of control. I’ve no idea which would have been more likely.
“Keep him in a standing position,” Dr Tomlinson said. “Take all his clothes off.”
Wiles and Rodrigo arrived, obviously having changed their minds about the benefits of inscrutability. They held him firm while we stripped him and he struggled. I don’t know how much he really knew or cared about what we were doing. Sometimes when you’re in a state of torment, you fix your mind on overcoming it, and everything else pales into insignificance. But he looked as if he was petrified.
To his credit, he hadn’t lost control of his bowels. But once he was naked, I could hardly believe what I was seeing. The grey-silvery spots, of which I’d previously only seen a few, mainly on myself and Ashanta, were like a great rash, covering half his body in patches.
“It’s a lot further gone than when I looked at it this time yesterday,” Dr Tomlinson muttered, as if apologising.
I suppose I should have been overcome with revulsion, but all I felt was compassion and indignation. Here was the man who’d been condemned by C&B to spend his last years as a prisoner on the Aurora, and this was how his story ended. Yet what was he? An amateur academic, that was all. All he’d wanted was to write books about ships.
He stopped giving off cries. He was plainly weeping, his body slumped and humiliated. I’d have been weeping in his position.
Dr Tomlinson took his shoulders. “Derek, can you hear me?” he said softly.
Goulding raised his head and looked dimly into the middle-distance.
“It’s going to be all right,” Dr Tomlinson said. “I promise you, it’ll be all right, Derek.”
This was more than I felt he had the right to say, but I guess they were in the same boat and there was a sort of understanding between them. Goulding did something with his head that looked like a nod.
“I’m going to go over and open the chamber door,” Dr Tomlinson went on, “and you’re going to get inside, and you’re going to feel better. Is that understood? I’ve got your best interests at heart, you know that, don’t you, Derek? It’s going to be all right, yes?”
Once again, Goulding did his nod. He dropped a pair of tears onto the floor and started to move forward, stiffening again. Mason and Endersby jumped to support him. Dr Tomlinson cleared the length of the lab in three or four strides and opened a door in the wall – one I’d not noticed before.
I looked closer and realised it was camouflaged. In fact, it blended into the wall so completely it looked like part of it. I couldn’t help feeling I’d seen something of its like before. Behind it, stood a recess with a ladder attached to the far wall, and what looked like a child’s swing on two chains in the middle. We manoeuvred Goulding until he was sitting on it, and Dr Tomlinson attached his wrists to the chains with ropes.
“These are just to stop you falling,” he said. “Hold on tight. I’ll talk you down to the bottom. You can remove them when you get there.”
Goulding nodded. The tears were coursing down his face now and he looked more bitterly humiliated than I’ve ever seen anyone look before. We closed the door on him and Dr Tomlinson shooed everyone except me out. No one protested. They all looked pale.
“Sit down, Hugo,” he said. “I want you to witness this. All of it. See what we’re up against. You may have to do it for me soon. Take some notes if possible.”
He indicated a pad and pen. I took them and sat down next to him. He switched on the monitor and microphone I’d seen him use when he’d been taking to Midshipman Collins earlier.
“Keep watching,” he told me.
The monitor showed Goulding, slumped in the swing. The slow procession of rungs on the ladder behind him showed he was descending. At first, I thought the screen must be malfunctioning because it began to flash violently. But then it became obvious it was Goulding himself that was flashing – or rather the grey patches on his body.
“This is normal as they get closer to the water at the bottom,” Dr Tomlinson said. “It’s not usually this intense, though. I really think he must be on the verge of transforming. God knows what he’s been going through these past few days. ‘Denial’ doesn’t begin to do it justice. Derek, undo the ropes when you get to the bottom and get in the water. Derek, can you hear me?”
The swing stopped descending and Goulding began to undo the ropes painstakingly, like he was the victim of third-degree burns. The last I ever saw of him, he allowed himself to fall, then the screen suffered a white-out.
Dr Tomlinson was sweating but smiling. “He’s going to be okay. Sorry, there wasn’t much for you to take notes on. This is the button that opens the lock-system to the ocean. Press it yourself, then follow me.”
I did as instructed. Dr Tomlinson was already on his way out. We hurried onto the deck and went to the guard rail. For a few moments, it was too dark to see anything other than a few lines of spume, but then there was an explosion of colour underwater, so bright and varied that if I hadn’t known what was happening, I would have thought we’d struck a mine. It carried on out to the ocean at speed, then surfaced, and the creatures – fish, maybe, but as large as dolphins – broke the surface and lit up the entire sky as if it was day. My eyes stung for a second, like when you’ve looked at a strip of burning magnesium too long. Then the colour descended and was gone.
“I like to tell myself they’re celebrating,” Dr Tomlinson said, before adding gloomily, “although, as a scientist, I realise that’s only the most charitable interpretation of what might be happening.”
I was in shock and only the frantic need to put Goulding’s interests before mine had so far prevented me realising it. I shook. I couldn’t speak.
“I usually wear goggles nowadays,” Dr Tomlinson said. “Are you okay? No, of course you’re not. Come inside and lie down. Hot tea, lots of sugar.”
I followed him like a zombie and lay down in the surgery while he put the kettle on. I was still trying to come to terms with what I’d seen, when the door opened violently and Ashanta stood there in her evening gown, gripping a travel bag. Her face was streaked with make-up and her hair was dishevelled. When she spoke, it was with barely concealed rage.
“Captain Mason tells me you’re immune. So I’m going to die, and you’re going to live. When exactly were you planning on telling me?”
I sat up. “I – I tried to tell you this afternoon.”
“You can’t have tried very hard because I don’t remember a thing! How long have you known?”
“I only found out this morning.”
“Really? Because that’s not what John says. I don’t know what you imagine marriage is, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s irrelevant now. Whatever your real view is – and I happen to think it’s probably pretty laughable, by the way - we’re going to be separated anyway.” She turned to go. “I’ve arranged a different cabin for myself. There are plenty of vacancies. From now on, I want you to keep out of my way, okay? For both of our sakes. Goodbye, Hugo. Have a pleasant rest of your life.”
