antibiotics are capable of killing a wide range of bacteria. There’s a good chance that one of them will be the culprit causing Keith’s infection.’
‘So we wait.’
‘There’s nothing else for it, I’m afraid. I promise you we’ll call you if there’s any change in your son’s condition.’
Dan and Marion got up to leave. ‘Could I just see him once more before we go?’ asked Marion.
Dan and Marion stood looking through the viewing window with Jane Merry standing between them. ‘His skin,’ said Marion. ‘It’s getting worse.’
‘I’ll mention it to the nurses again,’ said Jane Merry.
Night Nurse Evelyn Holmes glanced up at the clock and saw that it was time to sponge down Keith Taylor. She had all the other information about his condition on the monitors in front of her on the desk nicknamed ‘The Enterprise’ by the staff due to its similarity to the flight deck of the famous starship. Sponging a patient’s skin and applying lanolin required the human touch.
‘There we are, my lovely,’ she cooed as she gently cleaned the skin of her unconscious patient, thinking to herself that Keith Taylor was round about the same age as her eldest boy who, at three in the morning, would be sound asleep in his bedroom and completely oblivious of the fight that her charge, Keith Taylor, was engaged in.
‘You are in a bit of a mess… aren’t you,’ she whispered as she patted Keith’s neck and face dry before starting to apply the cream. ‘But you’re young… you can fight this thing… In a few months’ time… you won’t even remember any of this… Oh, Jesus Christ!’
The nurse recoiled in horror and felt her blood run cold as part of Keith Taylor’s cheek started to come away in her hand as she applied the cream. One minute she was making gentle circling motions with the tips of her gloved fingers, the next a hollow furrow had opened up under Keith Taylor’s left eye and blood welled up in the trough as the skin gave way and a portion of flesh doubled over to hang limply on Keith’s lower cheek like some giant, hellish, teardrop.
Trevor Sands, called from his bed by an anxious duty doctor, had lost all semblance of urbanity. Sweat was trickling down his nose as he listened to Evelyn Holmes’ account of what had happened while he examined Keith Taylor for himself. ‘Ye gods, his skin is like tissue paper,’ he complained as his gloved hands probed gently. He took the bridge of Keith’s nose between his thumb and left forefinger while he tried to restore the loose flap of flesh to its rightful place but felt a hollow appear in his stomach when he felt movement between his fingertips.
‘Something wrong?’ asked the duty doctor.
Sands looked at him, his eyes filled with disbelief. ‘The bridge of his nose… it’s collapsed…’
Evelyn Holmes put her gloved hands to her mouth. She was unable to stop herself from saying, ‘He’s falling to bits.’
The corner of Keith’s mouth was next to go causing the ventilator tube to hang at a crazy angle and deepening the living nightmare of all those around him. No one wanted to touch the patient so it was left to Sands, as the senior medic present, to try to reposition the tube but what he feared might happen did happen as Keith Taylor’s insides proved as fragile as the rest of him and his trachea collapsed. ‘It’s hopeless,’ he said.
Keith Taylor died shortly after 4 a.m., before his parents could be summoned. Sands was waiting for them when they did arrive and invited them into his office. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it was all very sudden. It took us completely by surprise.’
Dan Taylor looked at the man sitting behind the desk and thought how different he looked from the last time he’d seen him. This man was wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and needed a shave. He was wringing his hands in front of him as he spoke. Taylor closed his eyes as Sands said, ‘We did everything we could.’ He’d somehow known the man was going to say that and it left him cold. ‘What happened?’ he asked in a voice he scarcely recognised himself.
‘We won’t know for sure until…’ Sands paused as he realised he was about to mention the post mortem that would have to take place and changed his mind. This wasn’t the time… ‘We don’t have all the lab results back yet but it now seems pretty certain at this stage that your son died of something we call necrotising fasciitis.’
Marion Taylor looked blankly over the top of the wad of tissues she held to her mouth, Dan shook his head slightly.
‘The papers often refer to it as the flesh-eating bug,’ said Sands, letting his voice fall to a whisper in deference to the images he knew he was conjuring up and causing Dan to close his eyes again.
‘And what causes that?’ asked Dan, clearing his throat and trying to sound controlled when, in reality, his heart was breaking.
‘It’s a rare condition, usually caused by a bacterium called streptococcus,’ said Sands. ‘It’s a strange bug because it can cause so many different conditions, ranging from sore throats to scarlet fever and unfortunately, on rare occasions, to necrotising fasciitis. We really don’t know why its behaviour can change so dramatically. But other bugs can also cause the condition, staphylococcus, clostridium, vibrio and a number of others. We’re not at all sure what triggers it off.’
‘And these drugs you were giving Keith…?’
‘In theory, they should have dealt with streptococcus, and I would have thought most of the others,’ said Sands. ‘But obviously, on this occasion, they didn’t. Hopefully the lab will be able to tell us why not.’
‘I want to see my son,’ said Marion Taylor in an unexpectedly firm voice.
Sands moved uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Mrs Taylor… I really don’t think that’s a good idea…’
‘I want to see him.’
Sands looked to Dan Taylor for support before saying, ‘Keith underwent a great deal of trauma before he died although I can assure you he felt no pain. He never regained consciousness. I honestly think it would be better if you just remembered Keith the way he was.’
Dan Taylor got up and put his arms round his wife while maintaining eye contact with Sands. ‘The doctor’s right, love. Let’s just remember our lad the way he was, not as the victim of some…’ He searched for inspiration. ‘Bastard disease.’
The words ‘flesh-eating’ were still going round and round inside his head. He was praying that Marion wouldn’t stick to her guns. She looked up at him and finally acquiesced with a small nod.
‘Bloody bizarre,’ muttered pathologist Simon Monkton. ‘How come the lab can’t grow anything when he’s absolutely riddled?’
‘I think they’re quite embarrassed about that too,’ replied Sands, who had chosen to be present at the post mortem on Keith Taylor. ‘I spoke to the consultant bacteriologist earlier. He was very apologetic.’
Monkton gave Sands a look that suggested apologies were less than useful.
‘You are sure it was necrotising fasciitis?’ asked Sands.
‘What else could it be?’ replied Monkton. ‘It’s practically eaten the poor kid alive.’
‘So that’s what you will be putting down as cause of death on the death certificate?’
Monkton paused in what he was doing and looked at Sands over his half-moon specs. ‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
‘The boy’s GP told me that Keith Taylor was part of a monitoring study being carried out by the Department of Health. He is obliged to inform them immediately about any health issues that crop up.’
‘Health issues?’ snorted Monkton. ‘I suppose you could say dying of necrotising fasciitis was a health issue that cropped up… poor kid. I take it you are absolutely sure he wasn’t taking any antibiotics when he became ill?’
‘That was the first thing I thought of when the lab failed to grow anything from his specimens but his GP and his family assure me that he was taking nothing apart from his usual immuno-suppressant drugs.’
‘Ironically, I suppose that’s probably why the infection ripped through him so fast,’ said Monkton. ‘The drugs would severely compromise his natural defences. I take it the suppressants were stopped as soon as he was admitted?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, that’s it then,’ said Monkton, stripping off his gloves and dropping them in a pedal bin he opened with his foot. ‘When God throws a curve ball… you’re out.’
‘His parents are coming in later to be told the findings of the PM.’
‘Something no parents should ever have to do,’ said Monkton. ‘I don’t envy you dealing with the living.’
