croaked.
Owen sat down. ‘No kids?’
‘Nah, thank God.’ Strong slumped into the opposite chair. ‘Never got round to that — creative differences, as you say. Or procreative differences. I wouldn’t have minded a couple of sprogs, but she wasn’t ready for them. Career came first, she said. First, last, and always.’
There was bitterness there, but only very slight. Strong was enjoying being single. Or at least he would have been, Owen thought, if he hadn’t been so ill.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ the man confessed. ‘I’ve never had anything like this before. Coughs and colds, yes, but this … this is something else. Reckon I’ve got flippin’ TB.’
‘That’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah — but not impossible. It is on the increase in the UK, has been for some years now.’
‘Only in inner-city areas — and then it’s the slums. But you’re a long way from those kinds of places here. Have you had any tests?’
‘Not yet. I’m waiting to see what happens.’
Owen smiled. ‘Keep taking the tablets and come back in a week?’
Another laugh, which turned into a coughing fit. ‘Yeah,’ he gasped after a pause. ‘That’s it. I’ve taken some codeine for the pain; I’m just sitting the cough out.’
‘Pain?’
‘In the throat, when I cough. Most likely it’s a bad throat infection.’
Owen nodded, thinking. He wondered whether he should say he’d stopped in at the Trynsel practice or not. But the pause in the conversation had given Strong the chance to reassess his visitor.
‘You didn’t say what you called for.’
‘It’s just routine,’ Owen lied. ‘When a GP goes down as quickly as you have, we have to follow it up. It’s automatic.’
‘We?’
‘NHS Direct.’ Owen had said the first thing that came into his head and instantly regretted it.
Strong wasn’t impressed. ‘Rubbish,’ he said, and a more wary look came into his eyes.
‘No, it’s true. When a GP contracts a serious illness we have to investigate. Government policy now.’
‘Serious illness?’ There was genuine worry now. ‘Do you know something I don’t?’
Owen hoped serious illness was just enough to steer Strong away from asking too many questions about where he’d come from. ‘Well, it’s probably nothing, is it? But it’s procedure. Have to be sure.’
‘Sure of what?’
‘That it’s nothing too serious.’ Hold on, this is getting daft. Nothing-too-serious? Not-serious-enough? Just- about-right-serious?
Strong leant forward, hunched over as he coughed once or twice and looked Owen carefully in the eyes. ‘My boss thinks it’s biological warfare, you know.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ve got to admit it makes a kind of sense. It sounds mad but it’s not as unlikely as all that. What if there’s been a leak somewhere, from some kind of government research facility. Look what happened last year with that foot-and-mouth outbreak — all because of some burst drainpipes in the floods. Contaminated the area where some builders were working, and then they trampled it onto the farms.’ Strong sat back, his chest rumbling with another cough. ‘Maybe there’s something in the water. Or someone’s brought this into the surgery, probably by accident, and I’ve picked it up.’ He looked pointedly at Owen. ‘And that’s why you’re here.’
‘It is?’
‘You’re not from NHS Direct. You’re from the Government, I can tell. Got Civil Service written all over you. Could even be MI5 — am I right?’
‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you.’
Strong laughed and then coughed, long and hard, turning red in the face with the strain of it. Owen went out into the kitchen and fetched a glass of water. By the time he got back, Strong was slumped in his chair, pale and exhausted, with flecks of spit on his chin. ‘God, I feel awful,’ he muttered, rubbing his chest. ‘So. What happens now? Am I whisked away to a top secret research lab for tests? Or just disappeared, so no one will ever know what happened to me?’
Owen looked as though he was considering for a moment before replying. ‘We may have to do some tests, yes, but you won’t have to go anywhere. In fact I can take a blood sample right here, right now.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the field kit he always carried: a slim box no bigger than a pencil case containing needles, syringes, sterilised pads, scalpels. Some of the stuff was more advanced than the most up-to-date medical equipment available anywhere in the world.
‘You came prepared,’ said Strong, automatically rolling up his shirtsleeve.
‘I was a Boy Scout.’ Owen pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, assembled a hypodermic, sterilised a patch of skin on Strong’s forearm and tapped a vein until it stood out. Then he quickly and expertly extracted some blood.
‘Nicely done,’ Strong said, and then coughed. ‘Didn’t feel a thing.’
‘I’ll get this analysed and then we’ll know what’s what,’ Owen said as he stowed the kit and sample. ‘But as far as we’re concerned, at the moment you’ve just got a bad case of flu — although it could be a new strain.’
‘Asian flu?’
‘Doubtful, but it’s really too early to tell. Like I said: tests. That’ll give us an idea.’
Strong sat back, clearing his throat painfully again, thinking about the implications. He looked twenty years older. ‘Bloody hell, this is just awful. How long am I going to be off work?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Owen assured him, sounding positive but professional. ‘Remember, this is all precautionary. It’s probably nothing.’
‘Yeah,’ said Strong, in a hollow voice that meant he had said those same words to patients a hundred times before and not meant it either.
‘Get some rest,’ Owen advised him. ‘I’ll give you a call and let you know the results as soon as. OK?’
Strong nodded, reaching for his tissues again as another coughing fit began. He waved as Owen let himself out.
Back in the car, Owen contacted Ianto again.
‘It’s me. I’ve seen Strong and he’s in a bad way. Coughing up blood. I’ve taken a sample for analysis and I’m on my way back now. Do us a favour and get my stuff set up.’
‘As you wish.’ A pause. ‘And what about Saskia Harden?’
Owen swore. ‘Listen, never mind her for the moment. I’m more worried about Strong. I saw another patient at the medical centre with the same symptoms, and possibly a whole lot more in the waiting room. Whatever this is, it needs prioritising.’
‘Once a doctor, always a doctor, eh?’
‘I’ll do my job, Ianto, and you do yours. That way we all get job satisfaction.’
SEVEN
Owen found Jack on the phone to the UN in Geneva.
‘Torchwood,’ Jack was saying. ‘Yes. T-O-R-C-H-W … look, who is this? I’m calling on a priority line, dammit, I don’t need to spell anything out. I was promised a full report on the Helsinki Warp. Yes, I know that was a UNIT operation. Torchwood is copied in on everything UNIT does.’ He listened for a few seconds, a muscle twitching in his jaw. ‘Captain Jack Harkness. Harkness. H-A-R-K … oh, can it.’
He threw the phone onto his desk in exasperation and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘What is it with these guys? Give them a desk and a phone and they think they control the world.’
‘Some of them do, don’t they?’
‘Over my dead body. And I mean that. It’s bad enough dealing with the Hokrala Corp lawyers and their ex- dimension writs, without all that United Nations red tape.’ Jack leant back in his chair and called out: ‘Ianto!
