Following procedures, I incinerated everything – my hair, our clothes, everything, and then took a shower myself, letting the warm water run through my traumatised hair.
Five minutes later, I was back, enveloped in a towel.
Outside, Hawking was deserted. Dieter would have had them all out of the hangar like greased lightning. I could see a ring of armed guards in hazmat suits setting themselves up. Their job would be to shoot anything that tried to leave the pod without medical supervision.
We waited.
‘Been anytime nice this year?’ said Peterson, arranging his towel primly across his lap.
‘Let’s see. A London Frost Fair. A quick glimpse of Akhenaten. Pompeii was good.’
‘Really? We’re scheduled for Pompeii later this year.’
‘Well, if you see me, give me a wave.’
They zipped us up in plastic suits, carted us off to Sick Bay, and I was back in the isolation ward.
‘Nice,’ said Peterson, looking around him.
‘Better than the sock-smelling den of squalor that is the men’s ward, yes. I’m definitely not going in there. God knows what I’d come out with.’
Both Hunter and Dr Foster were engrossed with Peterson’s groin.
‘A man can never have too much of that,’ he said with a grin, which disappeared when they outlined the programme of vaccinations they had planned for him.
It was wiped from mine as well when I discovered I was in line, too. In vain did I protest I hadn’t actually had the pox. Plague! Dammit! Plague!
We weren’t allowed visitors, but people lined up to peer through the viewing window and point and laugh. They could at least have thrown peanuts.
Someone pasted up a list of famous people who had suffered from syphilis: Hitler
Mussolini
Ivan the Terrible
Bonaparte
Cesare Borgia
Casanova
Lord Darnley
Chief Operations Officer Peterson
I laughed, but was a little hurt that my own name wasn’t up there. Relations were better, but we weren’t yet on familiar terms. When your name appears on the pox printout, you know you’ve been accepted.
We wrote our reports and sent them off to Dr Bairstow, who presented himself punctually at 0930 every morning to stare at us. It was beyond his nature to smile and encourage, so we could only assume he was there to intimidate any lingering plague germs. He certainly intimidated us.
I didn’t develop anything. I don’t think anyone expected me to, but it was a wonderful excuse to lock me up for a couple of days. I wasn’t bothered and Peterson, when he didn’t have people peering at his nether regions, was good company. I advised him that if this kept up, to start charging a viewing fee.
‘I could be the next national monument,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Open on Sunday afternoons. Cream teas for half a crown.’
I said nastily, ‘There’s nothing monumental about you, Tiny Tim,’ and left him spluttering indignantly.
One night, I couldn’t sleep. The relief and elation I felt at having got Peterson back more or less intact had worn off, and fears for the future now crowded my mind.
I lay in the dark and stared up at the ceiling. Peterson snored gently in the corner. I contemplated getting out of bed and giving him a poke, but just as I pushed back the covers he grunted, snorted, and turned over.
In the blessed silence, I thought I heard a faint sound outside my door. The dark shape that appeared in the window was too tall for Hunter. Even as I raised myself on one elbow, the door opened a little way; a dark figure slid through the gap and closed it silently.
I reached for the tried and trusty water jug and prepared to sell my life dearly.
A whisper in the dark. ‘Don’t switch on the light.’
‘Leon?’
‘Shh. Don’t wake Peterson.’
I said, exasperated, ‘Have you ever tried to wake Peterson? What are you doing here?’
‘Just a minute …’
He drew back the curtains and a little moonlight fell into the room. He groped his way to the bed and sat heavily. ‘Ouch. What’s that?’
‘My feet. Where have you been?’
‘With Edward.’
‘No, I mean …’
‘I know what you mean. I can’t tell you. I’ve jumped back to report and receive fresh instructions. I can’t stay long. I shouldn’t be here at all.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I wanted to see you.’
‘We’re in the dark,’ I said, exasperated.
I felt him move, the little bed light clicked on, and there he was – drawn and haggard, with a half-healed cut over the bridge of his nose that was going to leave a scar. He wore light body armour, had a blaster slung over his shoulder, and two handguns on a sticky patch on one thigh. He looked tough, competent, and completely worn out. Once again, I had the feeling that big things were happening and I was only a very small cog.
We looked at each other and I said, accusingly, ‘You went off with all the Jaffa Cakes.’
‘The word on the street is that you’ve been rummaging in Peterson’s groin.’
‘If it makes you feel better, neither of us enjoyed it very much.’