The doctor saved her by cutting in at that point, ‘Excuse me. But my patient is very ill. Now is not twenty questions time. Now is -’
‘Fook me!’
Aunty Celia’s extra loud cry finally brought everyone’s attention back to the TV, where a top-down image of Manhattan was displayed. Caitlin momentarily thought it might have been archival footage of the 9/11 attacks. Great plumes of black smoke curled away from collapsed high-rise buildings that burned at their cores like active volcanoes. But quickly she saw there were too many of them, too widely spread over the island, at least eight or nine that she could count immediately.
‘…
‘Everyone’s gone,’ said Maggie in a flat voice. ‘This is fucked.
The coverage switched to grainy video taken from a weather cam, somewhere high above Manhattan. As Caitlin watched, numb and disbelieving, a Singapore Airlines jumbo jet ploughed into the side of the Chrysler Building, one wing spinning off screen.
Something snagged in Caitlin’s conscious mind. Something that she had almost missed. ‘I’m ill?’ she said, suddenly picking up on the qualification the doctor had made. ‘I’m
Dr Colbert nodded distractedly. Now that he was watching the TV he seemed unable to wrench his attention away from it.
The screen switched to a series of shots detailing the moments just before and after a giant tanker had slammed into a wharf in a city she didn’t recognise. Two frames showed it heading straight into the dockside. The next two captured the impact, with the front quarter of the supertanker crumpling back in on itself while the water around the vessel churned white and dockside cranes began to topple. A single frame caught the moment of detonation amidships, a blossom of white light spilling from the ruptured hull. And then the entire length of the supertanker was consumed by the birth of a dwarf star.
Maggie started swearing at the TV again, a stream of disconnected curses. Aunty Celia softly repeated the same thing over and over again: ‘Fookin’ ‘ell… Fookin’ ‘ell…’ Every time she said it, she folded and unfolded her arms, like a malfunctioning animatronic figure. Monique, however, was refusing to even look at the screen anymore.
‘You said you could not speak French at all,’ she said, challenging Caitlin once more.
Dr Colbert shook his head like a dog emerging from water and waved the young woman away with his clipboard, addressing himself only half to Caitlin. His eyes remained fixed on the catastrophe as it unfolded a few feet above the end of the bed.
‘We have done scans while you were unconscious,’ he told his patient, in English. ‘You have a lesion on your hippocampus, a part of the brain intimately involved in the organisation of memory. It may be a tumour. But we need to take a biopsy to ascertain its nature. It may be serious. Much more serious than the injuries that brought you here. They are uncomfortable, but they can be dealt with.’
Caitlin Monroe had been an Echelon field agent for nearly five years. She had been intensively trained for three years before that. For her entire adult life, she had lived in a crazy maze where every step she took, every corner she turned, she faced the possibility of betrayal and death. She had adapted to a contingent existence where nothing was taken for granted. She had faced her own potential annihilation so many times that a doctor telling her she might be dying was completely passй. At least, on a normal day.
But this was a thousand miles from being a normal day, and for once Caitlin found the idea of her life ending to be a completely novel and unsettling experience. It stuck in her mind, a barbed, immovable object that tugged painfully whenever she tried to pull at it. ‘I’m dying?’ she asked him finally.
‘No,’ said Colbert. ‘But -’
The television went blank, the screen a dead, black void.
‘What the…?’
Two words of white, plain type appeared.
TRANSMISSION INTERRUPTED.
‘Holy shit, it’s happening here now!’ Maggie exclaimed.
‘No!’ said Caitlin, cutting off an outbreak of panic. They could all hear cries of alarm and distress from other rooms on the hospital floor. ‘Just wait.’
‘Check the French news channels,’ she said. ‘See if they’re still on. And the English sports channels.’
Monique abandoned the task of glaring at her to flip through the channels with the remote. As Caitlin had expected, the continental stations were still broadcasting, as was Sky Racing and the English football channels. Even the end of the world wouldn’t be allowed to interfere with interminable replays of last year’s Champions League.
‘It’s nothing,’ Caitlin assured them, rubbing at her throbbing temples with one hand, the one trailing slightly fewer leads and sensors. ‘The government has taken control of the news broadcasters. It’s standard procedure in a national emergency. Just watch… And doc… what’s your name again?’
‘Colbert.’
‘Dr Colbert. I’m not dying?’
He gave the impression of a man greatly relieved to find himself back on familiar ground. ‘Not yet. But you
