The infirmary warder, who has the reputation for being a savage, jumps up from his chair and knocks it over, making an awful racket. He calls out with frightened, bulging eyes.
‘Doctor! Doctor! She wakes. They are all waking.’ He scurries around not knowing what to do, and then runs into the next room, ‘I say! Doctor, come quick.’
The doctor approaches them warily and must make an effort to steady his hands when he examines them. He probes, glares into their nostrils and throats, and tests their reflexes. Finding them remarkably well, he stands back from their beds quite astounded.
‘I feel giddy with hunger,’ Clovis says.
‘Yes, yes, please, doctor,’ the others chime in.
They are fed a tremendous amount of bread and are given several cups of hot cocoa.
‘Might we be allowed a cup of tea?’ Clovis asks.
‘No,’ the warder says, hatefully. ‘You’ve been dead to the world for two weeks. You’ve done no work, no cleaning, sleeping like innocent babes while the rest of the inmates here––’
‘That’s enough. Fetch them tea. And be quick about it,’ the doctor orders him.
‘What?’ Finn asks, dumbfounded. ‘Two weeks?’
‘What is wrong with us?’ Willa throws off her blanket and surveys her body, as if the answers might be written upon her limbs.
Jonesy, not fully awake, wonders if this then is the preliminary hearing of his death, and if so, where is Cheng Huang, the god who will hear his case. And who is this man probing his nostril with a cold instrument? He wonders, too, if he has any chance whatsoever of entering one of the Buddhist paradises. No, he thinks, probably not. He feels wayward strands of hair in his eyes and remembers – he has no queue and its absence is considered non-compliance. If he is not currently dead, the gods will execute him for treason for his missing queue. He hears the voices of the English. There are no English in paradise. He sits up and stares at the white men and women who surround him. Jonesy promptly falls back onto the bed.
A Millbank prisoner never knows how long their stay will be and are given no warning until they hear the words, ‘collect your letters’ – at which moment they will be sent on to a probationary prison to complete their sentence. But the Fowler group will not be sent on. Not to Brixton, not to a hulk, nor any other prison. These four are quarantined.
They are awake only a few hours before they are moved to one of the special wards near the infirmary in Pentagon No. 4. Clovis and Willa occupy three cells that have been fitted together to form a large, sleeping room, and a workroom, normally reserved for special cases. Finn and Jonesy are relegated the same arrangement down the corridor.
On that first night in the new cells, at a quarter to ten, when all lights are out, the flame from a large lamp glows through the slit in Clovis’s door. The keys are thrust in the lock and suddenly the chief matron stands at the door.
‘Cover yourselves. The governor comes with the doctor.’
Clovis throws her blanket over her shoulders and Willa reaches for her prison dress.
‘Leave us.’ The governor is brusque to the matron. ‘Doctor Lemmings, proceed, please.’
The doctor clears his throat and hesitates.
‘Out with it, sir.’ The governor softens a notch.
‘You, all of you, may be suffering from a sleeping sickness …’ the doctor begins.
Clovis looks first at the doctor and then to the governor.
Willa taps her temples. Three taps, a pause, three more. Repeat.
‘During the time you were asleep, we scoured your paperwork for whom we should notify in the event of your deaths. The same name appeared for each of you – an apothecary on the Commercial Road, Mr Owen Mockett,’ the doctor continues. ‘Odd, but nevertheless, it has proven to be a wise choice. He has presented me with a remedy of sorts, and a better understanding of what you can expect of your symptoms.’
‘Do get on with it, Dr Lemmings,’ the governor snaps.
‘Yes, well …’ The doctor removes two glass phials from his pocket. ‘Mr Mockett tells me that you are now under strict instructions from a doctor, a Mr Benedikt. You must take two drops and only two drops upon waking from any prolonged sleep you may experience. He was most adamant about this. The phials are made specifically to administer one drop at a time.’
All of Clovis’s senses and every fibre of her being are tuned to the doctor and the phials. At the mention of Mockett and Benedikt, she is on the edge of losing her composure. ‘Doctor’ Benedikt, indeed.
‘Mr Benedikt informed Mr Mockett that this sleeping sickness will most likely occur again this year in roughly six months’ time.’
Clovis’s thoughts are spinning, trying to arrange themselves into coherent compartments.
‘This is most unusual, and I am forced to allow for your special needs for one reason only, otherwise I would have you removed from here,’ the governor says. ‘This Mr Mockett cannot tell us if your condition is contagious.’
Willa rocks back and forth, back and forth. Clovis is not allowed to touch her. She is in no position to go against the governor, but she is weary of this man’s seething anger.
‘Sir, this is quite a shock. May I comfort her?’ she asks smoothly.
The governor does not acknowledge her. He cannot look at her without becoming aroused. She does not press.
The doctor places two phials on the table and edges ever closer to the cell door – as if he is fearful.
‘Two drops. Tomorrow we will discuss this further and I
