‘Bob, how are you, dear?’
Bob gripped the phone tighter. ‘Mum? What are you doing ringing now?’
‘Well, I wanted to know if you were coming up for your Dad’s birthday or not. He’s eighty next month, remember, and we’re planning a party. Everyone will be there. I rang you at the surgery but they said you’d gone home poorly. What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know,’ Bob said. ‘Some sort of throat infection I think. I’m not sure.’
‘It’s not anything to do with what’s been on the news, is it? That sounds awful.’
‘What’s been on the news?’
‘The flu epidemic in Wales. It’s in your region, dear.’
‘I hadn’t heard,’ Bob said. He felt a surge of anxiety and fumbled for the TV remote as his mother continued to talk.
‘Have you taken anything for it? Have you made yourself a hot drink? I always used to make you a lemon and honey drink, do you remember?’ She spoke so warmly; she had never stopped thinking of Bob as her youngest boy and, whenever he was ill or unhappy, she adopted the same tone she had used when treating a grazed knee or a nosebleed when he had been little. ‘Are you eating properly? Would you like me to come over? Perhaps I could help …’
‘Mum, I’m thirty-eight. I don’t need to be looked after.’ He said this more harshly than he’d intended, and the silence at the other end of the line told him it had been noted. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m just feeling really rough right now. It’s not a good time.’
‘That’s why someone should come round,’ his mother said, relenting a little. ‘You need looking after, Bob. I always said so. Men can never look after themselves properly when they’re ill.’
‘No, really.’ Bob’s parents had moved up from Richmond to live in Hereford last year. It had been a big move for them at their age, but Robert Strong Senior was frailer than he liked to admit, and the bungalow had seemed like a good idea. His mother had come from Herefordshire originally, and she had always wanted to move back there, away from London. And Bob was not unaware of the fact that it brought both his parents that bit closer to where he now lived in Cardiff. It was only an hour’s drive from his own house to their new bungalow, and he realised now that he had not visited as often as he had originally said he would — and certainly not as often as he should.
‘How is Dad?’ Bob asked eventually, after another coughing fit.
‘He’s doing very well,’ came the reply, although judging by the tone, not as well as Mum had hoped. ‘He still finds walking difficult, and of course he can’t get up from his chair, poor dear.’
Bob heard another voice call out from in the room. ‘What was that?’
‘That was your father interrupting, dear. He said whatever you do, don’t grow old …’
‘It’s rubbish!’ Dad’s voice piped up from the far side of the living room.
‘Tell him he’s doing OK,’ Bob said, ‘And I’ll consider myself lucky if I get anywhere near his age.’
He listened to his mother recounting this and heard a muffled reply from his father. Bob squeezed his eyes shut and felt his throat stiffening. Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to see his parents again. ‘And tell him I’ll be there for his birthday,’ he added thickly. ‘In fact, as soon as I’m feeling better, I’ll come and visit.’
There was a definite lift in his mother’s voice now. ‘Perhaps you could stay over, even if it’s just for one night. That would be lovely.’
‘Yeah, I’d like that. I’ll come for a weekend.’
‘That’s lovely. Tell me when you’re coming and I’ll make sure I’ve got plenty in. Your father doesn’t eat much these days — he’s only having chicken soup for his dinner now — and I’ve got to be careful, so I’ll buy in specially.’
‘Great.’
‘And get better soon. You sound awful.’
‘OK, Mum. Thanks.’
‘I’ll call you again tomorrow. Take care, love.’
‘Yeah. Love you. Bye.’
Bob switched the phone off and sank back into the cushions. He coughed up a mouthful of thick, stinking phlegm and spat it into a tissue. The urge to vomit was becoming increasing difficult to ignore.
He switched the TV back on to distract him. There was a programme about estate agents on one channel, and on another it was beeswax. He flicked to another channel and this time picked up a news bulletin.
The so-called flu epidemic had indeed made the news. Certainly there was a mention of it midway through the second round-up, as reports came in from across the UK of a sharp increase in respiratory complaints. Bob sat up at this point and listened properly.
‘… and a spokesperson for the Ministry of Health said it was too early to say whether or not this represented a serious flu epidemic.’
The picture switched to a junior health minister — Bob didn’t bother looking at the name which scrolled along the bottom of the screen — standing in front of the Houses of Parliament saying, ‘We don’t want to overreact to this, obviously. The National Health Service has every provision in place to not only recognise a serious epidemic, but to cope with it as well. So far we have not had to reach that stage, and I don’t think we will.’
The picture changed back to a shot of a doctor’s surgery somewhere. ‘Nevertheless, many GPs are concerned at the sudden increase in respiratory problems, which, they said, cannot entirely be blamed on seasonal variations.’
Cut to a GP in his surgery, an older guy, wearing heavy glasses. The caption said Dr Graham Walker. ‘I’ve seen nearly four to five times as many patients in the last week with what I would term serious respiratory conditions. It isn’t normal, and we should be on our guard. The problem is that Westminster is ignoring this simply because the epidemic is in Wales and not London.’
‘Some commentators feel that the concerns of GPs are being overlooked, and this may be putting the public’s health at risk,’ the reporter continued. ‘The Government has been quick to point out, however, that there is a widespread vaccination programme available for free for anyone over sixty-five to protect against flu. This is also true for vulnerable people below that age, such as those with chronic heart disease, diabetes, kidney disease or asthma sufferers. This is David Coulton, reporting for BBC News 24.’
Bob muted the TV and coughed into his tissue again. A part of him felt just a little bit better knowing that he was not the only person suffering, but he did wonder what, if anything, the Government would do. Perhaps nothing until his blood sample had been checked.
THIRTEEN
Gwen eventually found Owen standing at the rail at Mermaid Quay. It was chilly so close to the water, and she had to pull her denim jacket tighter to ward off the hard south-easterly blowing in towards Cardiff. Owen was still in a T-shirt, looking out across the bay.
‘Hey,’ Gwen said as she joined him at the rail.
‘Don’t bother,’ muttered Owen, without taking his eyes off the horizon.
‘Don’t bother what?’
‘Don’t bother trying to sweet-talk me back into the Hub. I need a break.’
‘We’re all pretty tired,’ Gwen remarked evenly. ‘Jack says he needs you though.’
That provoked a harsh laugh. ‘Sent you up after me, did he? Thought you could work your womanly wiles and get me to come running back? So I can go back in and say sorry I messed up, Jack. Again. Please let me prove myself to you by solving the problem in five minutes flat.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Gwen. ‘It’s not like that and you know it. Jack wanted to come after you himself.’
‘That would’ve been even worse.’
‘I said I’d come because I knew how you’d be feeling.’
He looked at her for the first time. ‘Bet you don’t.’
‘Yeah, I do. You’re feeling pretty stupid and ashamed for reacting like that. Not only did you mess up and overreact, you shot our only chance of finding out what this is all about.’
