‘There’s still nothing here regarding Saskia Harden,’ she reported. ‘I’ve double-checked the police criminal records, the national DNA database, Revenue amp; Customs, Social Services, the lot. I’ve even tried MI5, Interpol and UNIT. But there’s nothing. She just doesn’t exist.’
‘I thought Owen went to see her GP?’
‘The address on their records is false.’
‘So who is she?’
Toshiko took off her glasses and chewed the arm thoughtfully. ‘Good question. A ghost. A phantom. Or just a figment of someone’s imagination?’
‘But one who needs a GP.’
‘Yes. I wonder why?’
‘It’s only a guess, but people usually go to the doctor when they’re ill.’
Toshiko pointed the arm of her glasses at him and smiled indulgently. ‘Hey, you’re right. You know, with a brain like that you’ll go far, Ianto.’
He smiled. ‘Oh, I’m really a genius in disguise. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’
‘Well, it’s a very good disguise.’
‘It takes a genius to make a disguise this effective.’
Toshiko laughed, and it turned into another cough. She grimaced as the fit passed, rubbing at her neck. ‘I’ve got a sore throat too. Is there anything in the medical stores I could take, Ianto?’
‘Basic analgesics is all you’re allowed, I’m afraid. There are some alien remedies in the safe, I believe, but they are all strictly out of bounds. Besides which, you are only human. Painkillers designed for Arcateenians, for instance, might not work on you — in fact, quite the reverse: they could be deadly.’
Toshiko shrugged and turned back to her work with a sniff. ‘Just my luck.’
‘I’ve checked the TV news,’ Ianto told her. ‘You may like to know that you’re not the only one feeling a bit poorly. There’s been a surge of respiratory problems right across South Wales and parts of South West England. They say it’s the start of a flu epidemic.’
‘It would explain why I feel so lousy.’
‘I shouldn’t worry too much about it. You’re probably just run down, and your experience at Greendown Moss won’t have helped.’
Toshiko coughed and groaned again. ‘Don’t remind me. I don’t think I’ll ever get the mud out of my hair. But you’re probably right. Thanks for the coffee, anyway.’
Ianto deftly removed the cup as soon as she put it down, being very careful not to touch the rim as he did so.
EIGHTEEN
Bob Strong was slowly coming to the conclusion that he was dying. He thought he should call his mother, but he was almost too weak to move.
He was coughing up more blood — thick, dark clots of it mixed with a pungent mucus that made him retch and gag with the effort. He was on his hands and knees, shaking like a frightened dog, spitting out more strings of red slime onto the living room floor, when the doorbell rang.
It was such a stupidly ordinary sound that he almost laughed. Ding dong! Then he was coughing again, and, by the time the convulsions had gone and he was wiping his trembling lips with the remains of a ragged, disintegrating paper towel, he knew there was no way he could get to the door to answer it, let alone care who it was.
The bell sounded again. For a full minute he lay on the cold laminate floor, surrounded by gobbets of blood- streaked phlegm and old tissues, utterly exhausted. When the doorbell sounded for the third and fourth time, each a little more urgently, a part of his semi-conscious brain began to concentrate, analysing the situation, in an almost dreamlike state.
Maybe it was Owen Harper, the man from the Government.
It could be him at the door. With the cure, or some kind of vaccine. Or a team of paramedics in decontamination suits, ready to whisk him into biohazard quarantine. Bob guessed there were procedures, protocols for this sort of thing.
Somehow he dredged up the energy to crawl towards the front door. In the hallway, he had to wait for a minute for another coughing fit to pass, and then, with a mighty effort, pull himself upright using the doorframe as support. Finally, he was on his feet, feeling sick and dizzy, the world spinning around him and an ache in his chest and throat that threatened to stop him breathing. Only then did he think that if it was the authorities, intent on either rescue or internment, they would have probably broken the door down by now and come in for him.
He focused on the front door. There was a shape on the other side of the frosted glass — female.
It took a couple of attempts to open the door because his fingers were half-numb and slippery with perspiration. He couldn’t get a good grip on the latch. Eventually he managed to unlock it and the door opened to reveal a young, rather striking blonde in a raincoat. She had strange, haunting green eyes that, even in his current state of mind, he recognised immediately.
‘Saskia?’
‘Hello, Dr Strong.’
Not ‘Good God, you look awful, what’s the matter?’ Just ‘Hello.’ It was so utterly normal and unexpected that Bob felt an immediate, fantastic surge of hope and warmth. Maybe things were not quite as bad as he thought, if she didn’t reel back in alarm and disgust at the first sight of him. Maybe he felt worse than he looked. But then he remembered who he was dealing with.
‘Saskia,’ he said roughly, his throat still clogged with snot. Realising this guttural noise could hardly be understood, he swallowed with difficulty and began again. ‘Saskia … Y’know, now isn’t a good time.’
‘Is there anything wrong? You don’t look very well, Dr Strong.’ Was that a smile on those perfect lips? Surely that was concern in her eyes, not mockery?
Strong went to speak, coughed up another string of mucus, and backed away. Immediately Saskia Harden stepped in after him, reaching out to help keep him upright.
She took him into the living room, surveying the mess without comment. She let him sit down in the armchair. ‘Rest there a moment.’
He raised a hand to protest. ‘What are you doing here?’ He coughed painfully and tried once again to focus on her.
‘Do you know what’s wrong with you?’ Saskia asked him gently.
He shook his head and shivered. ‘Dunno. I think it’s something to do with what’s been on TV. I think I should go to hospital, but …’
‘But …?’
‘Well, I’ve already got people working on it,’ he told her. ‘They’ve done some blood tests. They’re looking in to it.’
‘But do you know what it is?’
‘Not yet.’ He gagged, once, and then spoke in a rush, the words tumbling from his lips in a hurry because he knew he was going to throw up soon. ‘They’re saying it’s flu but it isn’t. I think it’s some kind of virus. I mean, virus as in “biohazard”. Like a biological weapon — I know it sounds crazy, but I’m convinced. I’ve seen the reports on the TV … it’s spreading across the whole area, and they keep telling everyone it’s nothing to worry about, it’s just a minor flu epidemic or a bug, but I can tell they’re keeping something back. You probably think I’m nuts-’ (She shook her head,
He wiped a hand down his face, surprised at the roughness on his chin. He realised that he must look like a complete tramp; Saskia’s cool green gaze was still checking him over carefully, perhaps trying to recognise the same man she’d seen in surgery the previous day. ‘Look,’ he said, summoning a feeble smile from somewhere, ‘I did warn you — this isn’t a good time for me. Maybe I’m just paranoid or this thing is doing something to my mind, but
