understand. But in times like that — you know, disasters, crises…' She was talking to herself now, lost to the images that flashed like jarring lightning strikes across her mind. '… it's not the big, important people who save the day — the kings and queens and politicians and generals — it's the normal people. The people who believe in themselves, who believe in good things so much that they'll fight against any danger. And so, five men and women came from nowhere to attack the… the… gods. Their names were…' She struggled to recall the details of the wild story that had been told to her by those superstitious villagers she used to tease. '… Church and Ruth and Laura and Ryan and Shavi. And some say they won. At least, the kingdom wasn't destroyed completely and those gods went off into hiding, but the heroes… no one knows what happened to them.
'But things could never be the same again. People still hadn't learned all the new rules, and everything they believed in had been thrown up in the air. They had to start from the beginning once more, trying to make a new… a better kingdom for themselves. But it was very, very hard and many hoped — and prayed — that those five heroes… if they really existed… would come back from wherever they had gone to help again.'
A gust of wind against the panes shook her out of her reverie. 'That's how the story goes, anyway. Some of it might be true, some of it might be made up, but that's the way with stories.' She looked down at Liam and saw that he was fast asleep. Stories to make the world better, she thought. To make us understand the truth behind what's going on.
Suddenly her thoughts rushed back to the moment of his birth, in St James's Hospital in Leeds, with Grant there and the sun streaming through the windows. It had been the last time, she recalled truly living in the moment, when the experience of what was happening wiped out all conscious thought. The concentrated hope of those few hours, the unshakeable belief that things could only get better, was still so profoundly affecting that she could feel the burn of nascent tears. Liam had come at a difficult time. She had barely started out on her medical studies, the long road of late nights, dull books and no spare time stretching out ahead of her. The soul-searching and intense debate had overwhelmed them from the moment the home pregnancy test kit had dropped into the waste bin: should Grant's studies as an architect take precedence over her ambitions? Who would give up their dreams to look after Liam? The thought that Liam wouldn't be there was not an option. The length of studies for both their chosen careers meant there would be no going back on the decision; it was a once-only life-defining choice, a sacrifice and a commitment that would have to be for ever or lead to a shattering bitterness in later years.
Caitlin had already decided that she was going to give up her path when Grant had called her on her mobile and asked her to meet him in Roundhay Park, where they had gone for their first date, away from the stink of Leeds city centre and the incestuous gossip of the university campus. She had found him sitting in the summery morning sun on the same blanket he had brought to that first picnic, with a basket of bread, cheese, cold meat and mineral water.
There was something about that moment — the quality of light, the smell of warm vegetation, the enigmatic turn of his smile and the openness in his eyes — that had crystallised her feelings, and she knew that she loved him and there would be no need for anyone else, ever. It would be just the two of them, just the three of them, and it wasn't frightening at all; it felt right.
'I'm doing the baby stuff,' he had said before she could sit down.
'No.' She had tried to wave him silent. 'I've already decided-'
'I knew you'd try to talk me out of it, which is why I've already sold all my books and drawing equipment and officially quit. No going back.'
'Grant!' she had said, horrified.
'Let's face it, Caitlin, the most I'll ever be is average. You're brilliant. It has to be me.'
She had looked him in the eyes, dumbfounded. 'You wanted it more than me. You know you did.' 'Then you owe me big time.' He had smiled, opening the mineral water, which fizzed loudly, sparkling in the sun. She'd shed a few tears, which she'd hidden away from him to avoid his merciless teasing, but for the first time she had been convinced that everything was going to be just right. When Caitlin slipped out of Liam's bedroom, Grant was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of homemade beer, looking exhausted. She felt drained herself, but after the brief respite with Liam, the harsh reality of the plague crowded her thoughts once more. Since the Fall, the local community had come to rely on her more than she had ever dreamed when she was a simple GP. In a world suddenly chaotic, she was a symbol of stability, a wise woman who could offer advice while curing all their ills. They demanded more of her than she could possibly give — as the only doctor working the area she was on call 24/7 — but her sense of responsibility overrode every desire she had to escape from the position.
In the lounge, she plucked a pile of medical textbooks from the bookshelf and took them to the table where the lantern flickered. Over the last few months she'd amassed quite a library to fill the gaps in her education, but nowhere had she managed to find any reference to an illness that resembled the symptoms of the plague. Some aspects reminded her of what she had read about the bubonic plague, yet the speed and the black discoloration were more reminiscent of the septicaemic plague, which had been much rarer during the Middle Ages but was transmitted by the same Yersinia pestis bacterium. Like the current outbreak, it had a near one hundred per cent fatality rate and, worryingly, no treatment had ever been found.
Yet the septicaemic plague's discoloration, which gave the Black Death its name, was caused by disseminated intravascular coagulation, visible over wide areas of the skin and certainly not in the remarkably regular lines of this disease. Caitlin could find no evidence for the cause of that symptom in any of her autopsies.
She wondered if it was some obscure tropical illness — certainly, the ferocity of its assault on the human system matched that of the Ebola virus — but even if she could identify it, there was little she could do without access to a lab or scientific expertise and the minimal medication she had to hand.
It had appeared in the village as if from nowhere. She had been called out in the early hours of one morning to treat a farmer who had gone down with the warning-sign black dots and raging fever. The farmer had been away at a market in Fordingbridge trying to organise another branch of the food-distribution system, but had not mentioned anything to his family about illness on his return.
Within a day, incidences of the disease cropped up rapidly throughout the village. Caitlin had attempted to track the spread, but it was soon apparent that it was striking down people who had had no contact. The only explanation was that it was airborne — a worst-case scenario that was devastating in its implications. With no national communication system available since the Fall, outside information was thin, but by that time she was knee-deep in the dead and the dying and she had no time for anything but disposal. 'What are you doing?'
She started. Grant was at the door, holding his glass of beer. She couldn't see his face in the shadows. 'Just some research. If I could pin down the genotype of the plague it might point-'
'We haven't seen you in days. Can't you give it a rest just for tonight?'
She recognised the tone in his voice and knew what was to come. 'Grant-'
'No. Don't give me all the excuses again. You're barely a part of this family-' 'I've got responsibilities!' Her voice snapped and tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. She'd told herself she'd remain calm and she'd barely lasted a few seconds; the unbearable stress she was under forced everything up against her skin, trying to break out of her.
'You've got responsibilities to us.' Grant was cold and distant, but anger bubbled just beneath the surface.
Caitlin stared at the textbook illustration of a virus, something so deadly stripped down to a cartoon. She'd heard the argument so many times recently in so many different tones, from despairing to furious, that she really didn't have the energy for such a futile exercise.
'Yes, people need their doctor,' Grant continued. 'But we need you, too. You're never here any more. You never even think about us when you're out-'
'How do you know what I think?' She winced; too combative — it would only notch the argument up to another level.
'I know. I can see it in every part of you… in everything you do. We're just here in the background. You don't give us any time, you don't give us any thought. We're not important. Why can't you forget about your job for a while?'
'Because people are dying out there!'
'People are dying in here… getting older… time running away…' Resentment rose up in him, old arguments running round and round in a Moebius strip, never answered or explained.
