to the call button above her head: she pushed it repeatedly until two stewardesses came running.
‘His hand… It’s covered in blood,’ stammered the woman, trying to keep at as much distance as she could. ‘He said he’s getting flu, but look at him!’
Barclay was now unaware of what was going on around him. His soaring temperature had induced a delirium in which successive waves of pain and nausea swept in to torment him.
‘Can you hear me, sir?’ One of the stewardesses, Judy Mills, was bending over him. ‘Can you tell us what’s wrong?’
Barclay’s eyes rolled open in response to the voice in his ear. He opened his mouth but no words came out. Instead he voided the contents of his stomach in a projectile vomit over Judy, who recoiled in disgust, her professionalism deserting her momentarily as revulsion and anger vied for its place.
‘Can’t you move him somewhere?’ asked the woman in the inside seat.
‘The flight’s full, madam,’ replied the second stewardess, Carol Bain.
‘You’ll have to do something, for God’s sake. He’s covered in blood.’
The woman had a point. Barclay’s untended nosebleed had covered his lower face and shirt front.
‘See if you can stop the bleeding,’ said Judy, who had done her best to sponge the mess off the front of her uniform and had returned. Carol put Barclay’s head back on the headrest, carefully avoiding putting herself in the firing line. She held a wad of tissues over Barclay’s nose and made eye contact with Judy. ‘What now?’ she whispered.
‘Just keep him like that. I’ll see if there’s a doctor on board.’
Judy made her way to the front of the aircraft and shortly afterwards the captain asked that any doctor on board should make himself known to the cabin crew. Carol, still holding the tissues to Barclay’s face, relaxed as she heard the call bell ring at the back, and relief flooded through her. To hide this fact from the passengers, she looked down at the unconscious Barclay’s lap. Her smile faded as she saw that his trousers were soaked in blood. She knew instinctively that this hadn’t come from a nosebleed.
Judy walked down the aisle to meet a short, bald man being ushered from the rear of the aircraft by one of the other cabin crew. They all paused at the junction between front and rear cabins, where they had a little more privacy.
‘You’re a doctor?’
‘I’m Dr Geoffrey Palmer. What’s the problem?’
‘One of the passengers at the front has passed out. He has a nosebleed and he… was sick.’ She couldn’t avoid looking down at her skirt.
‘Joys of the job.’ Palmer smiled, guessing what had happened. ‘Probably just airsickness followed by fainting at the sight of his own blood. I’ll take a look at him, if you like.’
‘We’d be very grateful.’
Judy led the way up to the front of the aircraft, but her feeling that things might be returning to normal deserted her when she saw Carol’s face: she was close to panic.
‘What’s up?’ Judy whispered.
‘He’s bleeding heavily… down below.’ She emphasised the point with a downward nod.
‘Let’s have a look, then,’ said Palmer, who hadn’t heard the exchange and seemed keen to take command of the situation.
Both stewardesses moved a little way up the aisle to allow Palmer access to the unconscious man.
‘Gosh, you are in a mess, aren’t you, old son,’ said Palmer, taking in the state of Barclay’s shirt. ‘That’s the trouble with blood, it gets everywhere.’
He felt for a pulse and then pushed up one of Barclay’s eyelids with his thumb. His demeanour changed in an instant. His self-assurance evaporated as he straightened up and unconsciously wiped his hand on the lapel of his jacket.
‘Doctor, he’s bleeding down below somewhere,’ whispered Carol. ‘Look at his trousers.’
Palmer looked down at the dark spreading stain on the thankfully dark material. ‘Oh my God,’ he murmured, taking a step backwards.
This from a doctor did little to promote confidence in the stewardesses, who exchanged anxious glances.
‘What do you think, Doctor?’ asked Judy, more in trepidation than in anticipation.
‘We must wash,’ replied Palmer, his wide eyes fixed on Barclay.
Barclay’s head lolled to face the inside and the woman passenger gasped. ‘His eyes,’ she stammered. ‘Look at them! They’re bleeding! For God’s sake, do something.’
‘Christ, it’s the real thing,’ said Palmer, sounding like an automaton. ‘We must wash.’
Judy signalled to Carol with her eyes to stay with Barclay. She herself led Palmer away to the galley area at the front, and closed the curtain.
‘Just what is it, Doctor?’ she hissed. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘I think it’s haemorrhagic fever,’ replied Palmer, clearly shaken.
She looked at him. ‘That doesn’t mean anything. Can you be more specific?’
‘There are a number of them. It could be Ebola.’
‘Ebola? Oh my God.’
‘We have to wash ourselves and keep well away from him.’
‘But you’re a doctor. Aren’t you going to help him?’
‘I’m a radiologist, for Christ’s sake. What the hell do I know about Ebola? Apart from that, there’s nothing anyone can do,’ snapped Palmer. ‘Ask the captain to radio ahead. Tell him to report that we have a possible case of viral HF on board. I’m going to wash. I suggest you and your colleague do the same.’
Palmer disappeared into the lavatory, leaving Judy looking after him in bemusement. ‘Well, thanks a bundle,’ she muttered, before rejoining Carol at Barclay’s seat.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded one of the passengers in the row behind.
‘We have a sick passenger,’ replied Judy. ‘There’s no cause for alarm, sir.’
‘No kidding,’ came the acid reply. ‘Just what the hell’s wrong with him?’
‘That’s impossible to say at the moment, sir. But the doctor thinks it could be… malaria.’
‘Poor bugger,’ said the passenger. ‘That can be nasty.’
‘Is it infectious?’ asked his wife in a loud whisper.
‘No, love, it ain’t,’ came the reply. ‘At least, I don’t think so
… Maybe we should ask the doctor.’
Palmer emerged from the lavatory and started down the aisle, still looking shaken. Judy seized the initiative and said, ‘Doctor, I was just saying to a concerned passenger here that you think our sick passenger may have malaria.’ The look in her eyes drilled home the message.
‘Malaria’s not infectious, is it, Doctor?’ asked the passenger.
‘No,’ replied Palmer a little uncertainly and then, more decisively, ‘No, it’s not.’
He squeezed past the stewardesses, keeping them between himself and Barclay as he made to return to his seat. The surrounding passengers seemed surprised.
‘Isn’t there something you can do for the poor guy?’ asked the one who had done all the talking.
‘No, er, nothing,’ replied Palmer. ‘They’ll be ready for him when we land.’ He continued down the aisle.
‘Whatever happened to mopping the fevered brow?’ said the passenger.
‘Changed days,’ said a woman.
‘I have to talk to the captain,’ Judy told Carol. ‘Are you still okay?’
Carol nodded and gave a wan smile. She still held a wad of tissues to Barclay’s face. The red stains on it reached up to her flimsy plastic gloves.
‘Are your gloves okay?’
‘I think so. Why?’
The look that passed between them explained all. ‘Keep checking them. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘Hi, Judy. How’s our casualty?’ asked the captain as the flight-deck door closed behind Judy.
She got down on her haunches between the two seats and said, ‘Our “doctor”’ — she endowed the word with distaste — ‘thinks it may be Ebola. He’s not an expert, he’s a radiologist, but he seemed pretty sure it was one of the “viral HFs”, he called them. He asks that you radio ahead and warn London.’
