The Facility, page 17
Roach opens his mouth. He closes it again, his eyes too. He turns his face to the wall.
‘What about food? Are you hungry? What can I bring you?’
Roach swallows. He rolls his head back towards Arthur. ‘Some kind of miracle cure would go down a treat. Maybe on granary? With a little mustard?’
‘I’ll see what I can rustle up.’
‘Talking of which,’ says Roach. ‘How go the trials? You can put my name down now, if you like. I’m willing to put aside my doubts.’
‘No one knows. No one’s heard. I think . . . I think if there were good news, someone would probably have heard.’
Roach exhales through his nose. He shuts his eyes again and for a long while he keeps them shut. When he opens them once more, his good eye is pooled with water. He turns his head towards Arthur and a tear spills across his cheek. Arthur rolls his lips between his teeth and reaches to take Roach’s hand. His friend grips and grips hard. ‘I can’t see, Arthur. I can’t see out of my right eye. And the left – I don’t know. It comes and goes.’ He looks at Arthur and he swallows. Then he sniffs and barks out a laugh. ‘You want the truth?’ He reaches his cracked fingers to wipe his cheek. ‘The truth is I’m scared, Arthur. Don’t tell anyone for God’s sake – ’ he attempts another laugh ‘ – but the truth is I’ve never been so scared.’
Arthur reaches with his free hand to brush at his own cheek. He does not know what to say but he opens his mouth to speak anyway. Roach, though, shakes his head.
‘Don’t say anything. What can you say? I’m glad you’re here, that’s all.’ He squeezes Arthur’s fingers. ‘I’m glad you came.’
For a moment Arthur holds his friend’s gaze, then he lowers his eyes to his lap. He says nothing. He could not talk now if he wanted to. He just sits and holds his friend’s hand.
He cannot, it feels like, stop shaking his head. ‘Yes,’ says Graves. ‘I realise that, minister, but—’
Burrows is watching and Graves holds his assistant’s eye as he listens to Jenkins’s rumbling voice.
‘It is not July, you are quite right. But even in November—’ Now he shuts his eyes, raises the heel of his left hand to his forehead.
‘Obviously they’re not going anywhere but—’ He is shaking his head again and faster than before. ‘We were told, though, that arrangements had been—’ He won’t snap. He will not. Not even listening to this pompous, overbearing, over-fed bureaucrat who cannot seem to get it into his head that they are talking about—
‘Dead bodies!’ Graves says. It just comes out. ‘For heaven’s sake, minister, we are talking about dead bodies! We cannot simply leave them to rot. We cannot simply shift aside the frozen peas and stuff them into our Frigidaire!’
Burrows’s eyes have grown wide. He is holding out a hand, palm down, and it quakes in time with his head. He steps closer. Graves screws his eyes tight and gestures him away.
‘They must be collected, minister. They must be disposed of. Apart from the question of what is decent, the bodies in my basement are a health risk. They are a threat to the welfare of my staff.’
Why they are even in this situation is beyond him. Call it what you like: a prison, a hospital, a facility if obfuscation really must prevail. But the disease, no one disputes, is a killer. Scores of people have been infected and there is no treatment yet available that is any more effective than a dose of Nurofen. So the inmates will die: it is as obvious as it is regrettable. One might have assumed, therefore, that someone, somewhere – the brains who conceived the strategy in the first place, perhaps – would have thought things through to their logical conclusion. One might have assumed, hoped, prayed they would have half a plan, at the very least, for dealing with the single inevitable consequence of this infernal operation.
‘Yes, minister. Yes, minister. Of course, minister. Well, for that I apologise, but when one is dealing with dead bodies, with diseased dead bodies—’
He lets his jaw hang. He looks to the ceiling.
‘No, minister. No, minister. Of course, minister. If you would just allow me to—’
But Jenkins hangs up.
Graves listens to the drone in his ear and he counts. One. Two. Threefourfive. He does not slam down the receiver exactly but he uses more force than is necessary and upsets a cup of cold coffee. Liquid spills on to a stack of folders and Graves curses. He stands and looks about him for something with which to wipe but there is nothing on his desk now because he has cleared it. There are just the folders of the people soon to arrive and the coffee mug and no tissues even, not a serviette or a paper towel or something, anything, that he might use to—
A tissue flutters at the edge of his vision. He turns and plucks it from Burrows’s fingers. He makes a grunting noise, which is as close to a civil tone as he can manage, and he wipes: the folders first and then the phone and finally the underside of the cup. He balls the tissue and searches for somewhere to throw it and now he cannot see his bin. Where is his bin? It was under the desk but someone has obviously moved it and not told him and he wishes that people wouldn’t—
Burrows’s hand appears once more in front of him. This time Graves growls his thanks. He watches as Burrows leans and drops the tissue into Graves’s bin, which is at the wall behind Graves’s chair – in the very place that Graves put it when he set about tidying his desk.
For a moment Graves focuses on breathing. He checks behind him and sits back down. He looks at the bin, at Burrows, at the telephone. He reaches, adjusts the phone so it is set straight, then reclines in his chair and clasps the arms. ‘What is it, John? What is it about this place?’
Burrows pulls his lips tight. He looks to the floor.
‘It’s one thing and then another and then another after that,’ Graves says, as much to himself now. He shakes his head again. He stares at nothing. Then Burrows shuffles and Graves stirs. ‘Well.’ He pulls himself straight. ‘At least we know where we stand. At least things cannot possibly get any worse.’
Burrows offers a tentative smile. ‘There’s an optimist and a pessimist,’ he says. ‘They’re sitting down, having a cup of coffee—’
Graves frowns. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s a joke. I heard it from one of the guards. There’s an optimist and a pessimist and they’re sitting down, drinking coffee—’
‘Not now, John, please. I have six dead bodies to dispose of and a government ministry to placate. But if you’re making a pot . . .’
‘A pot? No, no. That was the joke. In the joke, they’re drinking coffee, that’s all. Although I don’t know why they’re drinking coffee. They don’t have to be drinking anything.’ Burrows sees the expression on Graves’s face and reaches to collect his cup. ‘Biscuit?’
‘Just the coffee, John, thank you.’ Graves watches his assistant to the door.
He opens the post while he waits and he files. His in tray empties and his mood lifts slightly, and the coffee, when it comes, soothes Graves further. That is all it takes: an empty in tray and a cup of fresh coffee. Which just goes to show how ridiculous it is that he allows himself to get so worked up. Because how many times recently has he lost his temper? Twice today, for a start: just now, talking to the minister, and this morning, shaving, of all things. He scalded himself, first, on the hot tap, then threw his razor blade away before checking whether he had a new one. He had to empty the rubbish bag to recover the old blade and when finally he reapplied the cream and started shaving, he took a slice from his Adam’s apple. He bloodied the basin and his towel and then the shirt he had just finished ironing. So, in an act of retribution, he balled the shirt and tossed it towards the sink – but knocked a bottle of cologne and the bottle broke. Which made the cottage reek, and him too once he had finished cleaning up, of a scent he disliked intensely and only kept because it was a gift from his daughter. After that he was late and he is never late, although perhaps he would have been better not coming in at all. Certainly it would have been better not to have shouted at his employer. But he did of course, which made it twice in just a few hours that he lost his temper, when he promised himself only last week that he would keep a sense of perspective.
The bodies. Yes, they are a problem, but he is here to resolve problems, not to whinge about the lack of resources. And really it is quite simple. They will have to be buried, at least until alternative arrangements can be made. The bodies might need to be treated in some way, or a coffin constructed, or something done anyway to safeguard against the spread of disease but that should be straightforward enough. Silk could help. Could he? Why not, after all? He could talk to Silk, or have Burrows do so, and find out how the cadavers should be handled: how to treat them, where to bury them, how deep and so on. Who knows, the doctor might actually prove to be of some value. And razor blades. What a fuss because of a razor blade, when he can borrow a disposable from the inmates’ supply and have Burrows order some of his own brand the next time they plan a delivery. Problem solved. Two problems, in fact, in the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee.
He is tired. Not to make excuses for himself but he is sleeping badly still – worse than ever, as it happens – and it does not help. He thinks perhaps he should take something, which brings to mind his daughter – her email, specifically, to which he still has not replied. She asked him to call her and he has not done that either. He has been putting it off: he can admit that much to himself at least. There is no longer any need, however – if, indeed, there ever was. He has built up talking to Rachel as being akin to a reckoning with his conscience. His conscience, though, is at peace. She is his daughter; he is her father. Even were she somehow to learn what he is involved with, she would simply have to come to terms with it, just as he has. Their relationship is fragile, yes, but it is hardly likely to toughen if they shy from exposing it to the occasional knock.
He opens Outlook. He finds Rachel’s last message and he reads it again and he drags the telephone towards him. He reaches for his coffee mug too and finds that the mug is empty. He needs a top-up. And this had better be the last one because the caffeine can hardly be helping, with his sleep or with his temper. The last cup then and perhaps . . . Yes, why not? Perhaps he will have that biscuit after all.
He is chewing the custard cream still as he trails Silk’s assistant down the stairwell. He is panting and asking questions and trying to swallow all at once, and it feels like his mouth is clogged with glue. Burrows is at his shoulder and at one point his assistant’s foot clips his heel. Graves stumbles and has to grab at the banister to keep from falling. He glowers at Burrows, who winces an apology, and both men hurry to keep up with Wood. At the bottom of the stairs they turn right, then jerk to a stop when they see Silk’s assistant heading left.
‘Where are you going, man?’ says Graves. ‘The ward is this way.’
‘Dr Silk isn’t on the ward,’ says Wood. He strides on.
‘But there’s nothing along here.’ Graves directs his frown towards Burrows. ‘Is there? I thought there was just . . .’
Burrows nods. ‘Another stairwell.’
Graves quickens his pace and pulls level with Wood. ‘Will you please tell me what this is about?’
Wood shrugs, not because he does not know, it seems to Graves, but because he will not say. ‘He told me to fetch you. He told me to hurry. I think it would be better if . . . That is, if Dr Silk . . .’
Graves gestures towards the approaching doorway. ‘You are aware, I assume, of where you are leading us? You are aware what is down there?’
Wood does not answer. He gives Graves a look, then lowers his gaze. It is like they are rushing to the scene of an accident, Graves thinks; like someone up ahead is bleeding and this young man feels somehow responsible.
They reach the doorway and Graves goes ahead: down the first flight of stairs – narrower and less well lit than those in the rest of the building – and then back on themselves and down the second. There is another door at the bottom and the hinges groan as Graves tugs the handle. He ducks his head and wipes a cobweb from his face and steps into the room beyond.
He is braced for the stench but there is only the smell he would have expected had the basement not also become their morgue: rising damp, rotting timbers, air that has been trapped here since the building was constructed. He hesitates, though, in the gloom. There are three strip lights running along the central beam but only the middle one emits a steady glow. The light nearest has blown; the strip at the far end fizzes and flickers. Graves peers towards the furthest corner of the room. There are two figures standing upright and a number of bundles at their feet. Six, Graves assumes, because the far corner is where he instructed his staff to lay the bodies of the six dead inmates: Prior, the man from the riot who finally succumbed to his wounds, plus four victims of the disease and another of his own despair.
‘Over here,’ says Wood and he steps around Graves’s shoulder. Graves and his assistant follow.
The strobe effect seems to intensify the closer they get. As they walk under the light itself it buzzes so violently that Graves ducks his head and Burrows, next to him, scuttles sideways. In the flash, Graves gets another glimpse of the scene ahead. There are in fact three figures standing: bunched tight and whispering. And there are more than six bundles on the floor. There must be, what? Ten? Twelve? ‘My God,’ Graves says.
Wood clears his throat and the tallest of the figures turns. Silk steps forwards and out of the shadows.
‘Henry. Thank you for coming.’
Wood scurries around Silk and huddles beside the doctor’s companions: Perkins and Doyle, Graves can see now – the doctor’s two female assistants. They are tight jawed and pale and unable to meet Graves’s eye. Graves looks from them to the bundles. This time he is able to count properly and finally he understands. He moves forwards and past Silk. He looks at the corpses, eight men and women lying next to the six inmates who were here before, and he turns to face the doctor. ‘You killed them.’
‘Come now, Henry. There is no need for melodrama.’
‘What then?’ Graves looks from the doctor to the dead bodies. They are wrapped in blankets but shoddily. A hand protrudes here, a foot there. One face is completely uncovered and Graves knows it. Wilson’s eyes are pinned wide and his teeth are bared. It is not an expression Graves ever contemplated seeing on a dead man. ‘What then?’ he says again. ‘They’re dead. Aren’t they?’ Graves looks and once more he counts. He made no mistake, however. There are fourteen bodies, which means every one of the prisoners who volunteered and was accepted for Silk’s trial is now a corpse. Graves stares again at the doctor. He opens his mouth and tries to speak but even when he shakes his head he cannot dislodge the words.
‘The intention,’ says Silk, ‘was to cure them, as you well know. Their reaction to the treatment, however, was . . . unfortunate. It was unforeseen.’
‘Unforeseen?’ Graves manages to say. He is smiling, he realises. ‘What in God’s name did you give them?’
Silk leans with his head and he hisses. ‘This isn’t the common cold, Henry. The virus we are dealing with is as hardy as HIV. It is as vicious as Ebola. In instances like this, it is a case of fighting fire with fire. Echinacea, I can assure you, would not have cut it.’
‘Unforeseen, though? How could this possibly have been unforeseen? How the hell,’ Graves says, raising his voice, ‘did you get it so wrong? Didn’t you test it?’
Silk makes a face. ‘Of course I tested it. That’s what a medical trial is! I was testing it on them.’
‘But mice, man! Rats! And . . . and . . . they’re all dead.’ Graves is looking again at the bodies. ‘Every one of them. Shouldn’t half of them have been taking a placebo? I thought the whole point of a trial was to have a control group!’
‘We are beyond mice,’ says Silk. ‘We are beyond control groups. The virus, as I keep reminding you, has not afforded us the luxury of time.’ The doctor lifts his chin and drops his shoulders. ‘It was for precisely this reason that I decided an extended trial process would not be ethical. It hardly seems fair to treat one person and not another.’
‘But this,’ Graves says. ‘This is fair? This is ethical?’ He looks to Wood, to Wood’s colleagues. Wood already has his eyes on the floor; Perkins and Doyle lower theirs.
Silk is shaking his head now, as though suddenly irritated. ‘I didn’t summon you here for a biology lesson, Henry. I asked Wood to fetch you because I hoped you might be of some service.’
Graves is distracted momentarily by Burrows. His assistant is crouching beside Wilson’s body, peering at the dead man’s face. He reaches a finger and guides it close but draws it back and springs upright when he notices Graves looking.
‘First things first.’ Silk is pondering the bundles at his feet. ‘The bodies can remain here for a day or so but after that they will need to be disposed of. I assume the appropriate arrangements are in place?’
Graves does not reply. He clamps his teeth.
‘More important, we will need to keep this quiet. I don’t want—’
‘You’re worried about your reputation?’ Graves says. ‘You’re worried what people will think?’
‘Not at all,’ says Silk. ‘My reputation is burnished enough that the odd scratch here and there will hardly be noticed. No, I am worried about the next eight volunteers. I am concerned they might prove less amenable should they become aware what fate has befallen their predecessors.’
Graves feels his lips part. He looks to Burrows, who is staring wide-eyed at the doctor. ‘The next eight?’ Graves smiles again. ‘You aren’t serious.’
‘Their disappearance can be explained readily enough,’ says Silk. ‘We shall say that they have been moved to another facility, to a hospital perhaps. If the implication is that they are in the final stages of recovery, we may in fact see some benefit in the next trial.’ Silk allows his mouth to curl at one corner. ‘You will be aware, given your expertise on such matters, Henry, that an expectation of improved health among the participants is often a precondition to success with the intervention itself.’
