“Well, for goodness’ sake, go and fetch your jacket so Mrs. Gaddson doesn’t come out and begin haranguing you.”
“The Gallstone’s already been,” Colin said. “She tried to make me put on a muffler. A muffler!” He gave another anxious look down the street. “I ignored her.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Dunworthy said. “I should be home in time for lunch. If you need anything, ask Finch.”
“Umm,” Colin said, obviously not listening. Dunworthy wondered what his mother was sending that merited such devotion. Obviously not a muffler.
He pulled his own muffler up round his neck and set off for Infirmary through the rain. There were only a few people in the streets, and they kept out of each others’ way, one woman stepping off the pavement altogether to avoid meeting Dunworthy.
Without the carillon banging away at “It Came Upon The Midnight Clear,” one would have had no idea at all that it was Christmas Eve. No one carried gifts or holly, no one carried parcels at all. It was as if the quarantine had knocked the memory of Christmas out of their heads completely.
Well, and hadn’t it? He hadn’t given a thought to shopping for gifts or a tree. He thought of Colin huddled at Balliol’s gate and hoped his mother at least hadn’t forgotten to send his gifts. On the way home he’d stop and get Colin a small present, a toy or a vid or something, something besides a muffler.
At the infirmary, he was hustled immediately into Isolation and taken off to question the new cases. “It’s essential we establish an American connection,” Mary said. “There’s been a snag at the WIC. There’s no one on duty who can run a sequencing because of the holidays. They’re supposed to be at full readiness at all times, of course, but apparently it’s after Christmas that they usually get problems—food poisonings and over-indulgence masquerading as viruses—so they give time off before. At any rate, the CDC in Atlanta agreed to send the vaccine prototype to the WIC without a positive S-ident, but they can’t begin manufacturing without a definite connection.”
She led him down a cordoned-off corridor. “The cases are all following the profile of the South Carolina virus—high fever, body aches, secondary pulmonary complication, but unfortunately, that’s not proof.” She stopped outside a ward. “You didn’t find any American connections for Badri, did you?”
“No, but there are still a good many gaps. Do you want me to question him, as well?”
She hesitated.
“He’s worse,” Dunworthy said.
“He’s developed pneumonia. I don’t know if he’ll be able to tall you anything. His fever is still very high, which follows the profile. We have him on the antimicrobials and adjuvants which the South Carolina virus responded to.” She opened the door to the ward. “The chart lists all the cases which have come in. Ask the nurse on duty which bed they’re in.” She typed something into the console by the first bed. It lit up a chart as branching and intertwined as the big beech in the quad. “You don’t mind having Colin with you for another night, do you?”
“I don’t mind in the slightest.”
“Oh, good. I doubt very much I’ll be able to get home before tomorrow, and I do worry about him staying alone in the flat. I’m apparently the only one who does, however,” she said angrily. “I finally got through to Dierdre down in Kent, and she wasn’t even concerned. ‘Oh, is there a quarantine on?’ she said. ‘I’ve been so rushed I haven’t had time to catch the news,’ and then she proceeded to tell me all about her and her livein’s plans, with the clear implication that she’d have had no time at all for Colin and was glad she was rid of him. There are times when I’m convinced she’s not my niece.”
“Did she send Colin’s Christmas presents, do you know? He said she planned to send them by post.”
“I’m certain she’s been far too
“I’ve got it at Balliol,” he said.
“Oh, good. I didn’t finish my shopping, but if you’d wrap up the muffler and the other things, he’ll have something under the tree, won’t he?” She stood up. “If you find any possible connection, come tell me immediately. As you can see, we’ve already traced several of the secondaries to Badri, but those may only be cross-connections, and the real connection be someone else.”
She left, and he sat down beside the bed of the woman of the purple umbrella.
“Ms. Breen?” he said. “I’m afraid I must ask you some questions.”
