Wildcard (2 page)

Barclay nodded, biting his tongue as he seethed inwardly that she could run out of the stuff after serving only three rows.

Half a dozen small tins of tonic were duly delivered by a colleague, and the stewardess handed Barclay his drink. He took it without acknowledgement and hurriedly snapped open the tonic to splash a little into the gin. He downed it in two large gulps and put his head back on the seat to close his eyes for a moment. The burning sensation of the alcohol in his throat was helping, but he still felt unpleasantly hot and ached all over. The muscles in his arm hurt when he reached up to increase the airflow from the overhead vent, causing him to grimace and beads of sweat to break out on his forehead. He tugged angrily at his shirt collar and found that the button defied his attempt to undo it. This brought on another wave of frustration and he yanked at it so hard that the button shot off and hit the back of the seat in front before spinning off somewhere. But he had achieved his objective, and he didn’t bother looking for the button before putting his head back on the rest. The smartly dressed woman in the seat next to him concentrated unseeingly on her magazine and studiously pretended that she hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

Don’t make it flu, Barclay prayed silently as he closed his eyes again. Please don’t make it flu. If I don’t have my report on Sir Bruce bloody Collins’s desk by tomorrow teatime I can kiss my bloody career goodbye. From Foreign Office to dole office in the blink of an eye; now you see him, now you don’t. Sweet Jesus, Marion will just love that, her and her poxy stuck-up family.

Barclay rolled his head from side to side, fighting against growing nausea and dizziness. ‘Christ, give me a break,’ he murmured, as he persistently failed to find a comfortable position. Just a couple of days, dammit, and then I can take to my bed for a week – a bloody month, if necessary. He tried concentrating on what he was going to say in his report, mind over matter. Don’t bloody go, he concluded bitterly. No one in their right mind should go to that bloody hellhole called Ndanga. The whole damned country is run by a bunch of two-bit crooks who are more interested in opening Swiss bank accounts than in doing anything to help the people they pretend to represent. Foreign aid would turn into Mercedes cars and Armani suits before you could say Abracadabra.

That was what Barclay wanted to say, but of course he wouldn’t. It wasn’t the job of a junior official at the Foreign Office to formulate policy. That had already been decided for Ndanga. HM Government was extending the hand of friendship and good fellowship. It was offering aid, not for the usual reason that Ndanga had oil or vital minerals that we wanted but because it had an airstrip and associated facilities in a strategically important position. The Ministry of Defence had decided that HM forces might find that very useful if things were to get out of hand in countries to the south, as they seemed destined to in the not too distant future. A generous financial package had been agreed, and the Foreign Secretary himself would be going there in the next few weeks to give the new regime the UK seal of approval. Barclay had been sent out to Ndanga to smooth the way and make sure that the arrangements for the visit were progressing satisfactorily. Mustn’t have the Foreign Secretary running out of toilet paper in darkest Africa.

Barclay tugged open another button on his shirt as he felt a trickle of sweat run down his cheek.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ came the quiet, solicitous enquiry from the woman next to him.

Barclay turned his head to look at her but had difficulty focusing. She seemed to be framed in a halo of brightly coloured lights. ‘A bit of flu coming on, I think,’ he replied stoically.

‘Bad luck,’ said the woman, returning to her magazine, but almost visibly shrinking away from him, and putting her hand to her mouth, more as a psychological barrier than any practical one. ‘Perhaps you should ask the stewardess for an aspirin.’

Barclay nodded. ‘Maybe I will.’ He gave a symbolic glance over his shoulder and added tersely, ‘When she’s ready.’

Still struggling against the odds, he opened his briefcase with great effort and took out a sheaf of papers. He felt he had to jot down some points he wanted to stress in his report. ‘Security at Ndanga’s main airport is poor,’ he wrote. ‘Recommend that—’ He stopped writing as a large drop of blood fell from his nose and spread on the page. He was mesmerised by the sight of scarlet on white for a moment, before murmuring under his breath, ‘Shit, what bloody next?’

He brought out a tissue from his pocket and held it to his nose in time to catch the next drop. He kept the tissue there as he put his head back again on the rest. God, he felt ill. Pressure was building up inside his head and making his eyeballs hurt and now another sensation … dampness … He felt wet; his trousers were wet. He put his hand slowly between his legs and got confirmation. Oh my God, the humiliation of it all. Oh my God, not that – anything but that. The flush that came to his cheeks did nothing to help lower his already climbing temperature. But how could he have wet himself without knowing it? He pondered this through a haze of discomfort. He contracted his sphincter muscles and found that he still seemed to have power over them, so how could he have done? God! He was never going to live this down. He started making plans to limit his embarrassment. When they landed he would stay in his seat until all the other passengers had disembarked … Yes, that was what he’d do. With a bit of luck the cabin crew would not even remember who had been sitting in that seat.

His jumbled train of thought was again interrupted as the pain in his head became almost unbearable, but through it something registered about the wet feeling between his legs. It wasn’t just wet, it was … sticky. He withdrew his hand and half opened one eye to look at it. It was covered in blood.

The sight of Barclay’s bloody hand spurred the woman next to him into action. She gasped and her hand shot to the call button above her head: she pushed it repeatedly until two stewardesses came running.

‘His hand … It’s covered in blood,’ stammered the woman, trying to keep at as much distance as she could. ‘He said he’s getting flu, but look at him!’

Barclay was now unaware of what was going on around him. His soaring temperature had induced a delirium in which successive waves of pain and nausea swept in to torment him.

‘Can you hear me, sir?’ One of the stewardesses, Judy Mills, was bending over him. ‘Can you tell us what’s wrong?’

Barclay’s eyes rolled open in response to the voice in his ear. He opened his mouth but no words came out. Instead he voided the contents of his stomach in a projectile vomit over Judy, who recoiled in disgust, her professionalism deserting her momentarily as revulsion and anger vied for its place.

‘Can’t you move him somewhere?’ asked the woman in the inside seat.

‘The flight’s full, madam,’ replied the second stewardess, Carol Bain.

‘You’ll have to do something, for God’s sake. He’s covered in blood.’

The woman had a point. Barclay’s untended nosebleed had covered his lower face and shirt front.

‘See if you can stop the bleeding,’ said Judy, who had done her best to sponge the mess off the front of her uniform and had returned. Carol put Barclay’s head back on the headrest, carefully avoiding putting herself in the firing line. She held a wad of tissues over Barclay’s nose and made eye contact with Judy. ‘What now?’ she whispered.

‘Just keep him like that. I’ll see if there’s a doctor on board.’

Judy made her way to the front of the aircraft and shortly afterwards the captain asked that any doctor on board should make himself known to the cabin crew. Carol, still holding the tissues to Barclay’s face, relaxed as she heard the call bell ring at the back, and relief flooded through her. To hide this fact from the passengers, she looked down at the unconscious Barclay’s lap. Her smile faded as she saw that his trousers were soaked in blood. She knew instinctively that this hadn’t come from a nosebleed.

Judy walked down the aisle to meet a short, bald man being ushered from the rear of the aircraft by one of the other cabin crew. They all paused at the junction between front and rear cabins, where they had a little more privacy.

‘You’re a doctor?’

‘I’m Dr Geoffrey Palmer. What’s the problem?’

‘One of the passengers at the front has passed out. He has a nosebleed and he … was sick.’ She couldn’t avoid looking down at her skirt.

‘Joys of the job.’ Palmer smiled, guessing what had happened. ‘Probably just airsickness followed by fainting at the sight of his own blood. I’ll take a look at him, if you like.’

‘We’d be very grateful.’

Judy led the way up to the front of the aircraft, but her feeling that things might be returning to normal deserted her when she saw Carol’s face: she was close to panic.

‘What’s up?’ Judy whispered.

‘He’s bleeding heavily … down below.’ She emphasised the point with a downward nod.

‘Let’s have a look, then,’ said Palmer, who hadn’t heard the exchange and seemed keen to take command of the situation.

Both stewardesses moved a little way up the aisle to allow Palmer access to the unconscious man.

‘Gosh, you
are
in a mess, aren’t you, old son,’ said Palmer, taking in the state of Barclay’s shirt. ‘That’s the trouble with blood, it gets everywhere.’

He felt for a pulse and then pushed up one of Barclay’s eyelids with his thumb. His demeanour changed in an instant. His self-assurance evaporated as he straightened up and unconsciously wiped his hand on the lapel of his jacket.

‘Doctor, he’s bleeding down below somewhere,’ whispered Carol. ‘Look at his trousers.’

Palmer looked down at the dark spreading stain on the thankfully dark material. ‘Oh my God,’ he murmured, taking a step backwards.

This from a doctor did little to promote confidence in the stewardesses, who exchanged anxious glances.

‘What do you think, Doctor?’ asked Judy, more in trepidation than in anticipation.

‘We must wash,’ replied Palmer, his wide eyes fixed on Barclay.

Barclay’s head lolled to face the inside and the woman passenger gasped. ‘His eyes,’ she stammered. ‘Look at them! They’re bleeding! For God’s sake, do something.’

‘Christ, it’s the real thing,’ said Palmer, sounding like an automaton. ‘We must wash.’

Judy signalled to Carol with her eyes to stay with Barclay. She herself led Palmer away to the galley area at the front, and closed the curtain.

‘Just what is it, Doctor?’ she hissed. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘I think it’s haemorrhagic fever,’ replied Palmer, clearly shaken.

She looked at him. ‘That doesn’t mean anything. Can you be more specific?’

‘There are a number of them. It could be Ebola.’

‘Ebola? Oh my God.’

‘We have to wash ourselves and keep well away from him.’

‘But you’re a doctor. Aren’t you going to help him?’

‘I’m a radiologist, for Christ’s sake. What the hell do I know about Ebola? Apart from that, there’s nothing anyone can do,’ snapped Palmer. ‘Ask the captain to radio ahead. Tell him to report that we have a possible case of viral HF on board. I’m going to wash. I suggest you and your colleague do the same.’

Palmer disappeared into the lavatory, leaving Judy looking after him in bemusement. ‘Well, thanks a bundle,’ she muttered, before rejoining Carol at Barclay’s seat.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded one of the passengers in the row behind.

‘We have a sick passenger,’ replied Judy. ‘There’s no cause for alarm, sir.’

‘No kidding,’ came the acid reply. ‘Just what the hell’s wrong with him?’

‘That’s impossible to say at the moment, sir. But the doctor thinks it could be … malaria.’

‘Poor bugger,’ said the passenger. ‘That can be nasty.’

‘Is it infectious?’ asked his wife in a loud whisper.

‘No, love, it ain’t,’ came the reply. ‘At least, I don’t think so … Maybe we should ask the doctor.’

Palmer emerged from the lavatory and started down the aisle, still looking shaken. Judy seized the initiative and said, ‘Doctor, I was just saying to a concerned passenger here that you think our sick passenger may have malaria.’ The look in her eyes drilled home the message.

‘Malaria’s not infectious, is it, Doctor?’ asked the passenger.

‘No,’ replied Palmer a little uncertainly and then, more decisively, ‘No, it’s not.’

He squeezed past the stewardesses, keeping them between himself and Barclay as he made to return to his seat. The surrounding passengers seemed surprised.

‘Isn’t there something you can do for the poor guy?’ asked the one who had done all the talking.

‘No, er, nothing,’ replied Palmer. ‘They’ll be ready for him when we land.’ He continued down the aisle.

‘Whatever happened to mopping the fevered brow?’ said the passenger.

‘Changed days,’ said a woman.

‘I have to talk to the captain,’ Judy told Carol. ‘Are you still okay?’

Carol nodded and gave a wan smile. She still held a wad of tissues to Barclay’s face. The red stains on it reached up to her flimsy plastic gloves.

‘Are your gloves okay?’

‘I think so. Why?’

The look that passed between them explained all. ‘Keep checking them. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘Hi, Judy. How’s our casualty?’ asked the captain as the flight-deck door closed behind Judy.

She got down on her haunches between the two seats and said, ‘Our “doctor”’ – she endowed the word with distaste – ‘thinks it may be Ebola. He’s not an expert, he’s a radiologist, but he seemed pretty sure it was one of the “viral HFs”, he called them. He asks that you radio ahead and warn London.’

‘Shit, that’s all we need,’ said the captain, all trace of humour disappearing from his face. ‘They’re highly infectious from all accounts, aren’t they?’

‘Actually, no,’ interjected the first officer. ‘Everyone thinks they are, but in reality they’re not as bad as some less exotic diseases. They’re spread through contact with bodily fluids.’

‘Good to know, John. How come you know this?’

‘I went to a seminar on the spread of disease through air travel a couple of months ago. It scared me shitless, but I do remember them saying that about Ebola.’