Stop them dead, p.21
Stop Them Dead, page 21
Just as he took his first bite, he heard the voice of triage nurse Kelsei Price, right behind him.
‘Dr Shah,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a seven-year-old girl just admitted who I’m very concerned about.’
He turned round, chewing and swallowing, looking at her with exhausted eyes. The dark-haired woman looked back at him, with equally tired eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. ‘What are your concerns?’ he asked, scrupulously polite as always and, despite everything, determined to give his all, as ever.
‘According to her parents, the little girl began presenting flu-like symptoms on Friday – Covid was quickly eliminated. Since then she has steadily deteriorated, with her temperature rising – it is currently 38.9.’
He frowned. ‘38.9?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, what else can you tell me?’
‘She was seen by the family doctor on Saturday who advised the parents to give her the usual stuff – Calpol and Nurofen and plenty of fluids. They don’t seem to have had any effect and she has become delirious. She is very clammy and the parents say she’s been hot for the past two days.’
‘What tests have you done on this girl?’
‘I’ve done her bloods. They’ve come back with a raised white count. She appears to have a non-specific but serious infection. I’ve checked her urine for a possible urinary tract infection and I’ve done nose and throat swabs. I’ve also sent off for blood cultures, but we won’t get those back for twenty-four hours.’
‘I think you should send her up for a chest X-ray,’ Shah said. ‘Is she on a drip?’
‘Yes, I’ve cannulated her, doctor. But there’s something very strange going on, which I don’t understand.’
‘And that’s what?’ He took another bite of his banana.
‘Her mother tells me she tried to sponge her face with cold water earlier, and the girl screamed, rejecting it. She also screamed when they opened a window, saying the wind was hurting her.’
He put the rest of the banana on the work surface and stood up. ‘I’ll come straight up and see her.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and briefed him on the names.
A few moments later, Dr Shah and Nurse Price entered the small cubicle and swished the blue curtains closed behind them. Shah saw a small girl with a tangle of blonde curls on the bed, and a very concerned, sensible-looking couple standing beside her, both casually dressed. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Mr and Mrs Fairfax?’
They nodded.
He looked down at the semi-conscious little girl. ‘And this is Bluebell?’
‘It is,’ her mother said, her voice choked.
For some moments the young doctor looked at Bluebell. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Dr Shah. You’re Bluebell, right?’
Her eyelids opened halfway. She looked bewildered and did not respond for some moments, then, she mumbled, ‘Want to see Moose.’
He frowned. ‘Moose?’ he asked gently.
She did not reply, her eyelids closing again.
‘What happened to your nose, Bluebell? Did you scrape it?’
There was no response from her.
‘It was a puppy,’ Katy replied, after some moments.
‘Your puppy?’ Dr Shah questioned.
‘No, we bought her a puppy,’ Chris Fairfax explained. ‘And when we picked it up there was another puppy that Bluebell was playing with and it play-bit her on the nose.’
Shah frowned. ‘When was this?’
‘On Thursday.’
Shah did a mental calculation. The wound still looked livid, and it should have settled down by now and begun scabbing, he thought. ‘I understand that although she has a high temperature and is hot, that she doesn’t want any water on her body? Or cooling air?’
Katy Fairfax nodded. ‘Yes, she – she seems terrified of it. I suppose because she’s delirious and she thinks we’re trying to harm her.’ She shrugged helplessly. And not liking the look on the doctor’s face.
‘Any other symptoms?’
‘Her face drooped a little yesterday when she stood up, and she was unsteady on her legs. It was like . . .’ She hesitated.
‘Like?’ Shah prompted.
‘Almost like she’d had a stroke or something,’ Katy replied.
Shah checked Bluebell’s tummy with his stethoscope, and moved it around her abdomen and chest for some while, before hanging it back around his neck and turning to the Fairfaxes. He gestured for them to follow him outside, into the corridor. Then he said, ‘I’m very concerned about your daughter and you’ve done the right thing by bringing her in. I need to know some more – particularly about this bite on her nose.’
‘It’s just a scratch!’ Katy blurted.
‘Darling,’ Chris took her arm, trying to calm her.
‘Can you tell me a little bit about the puppy who did this?’
‘We don’t know much about it. It was a Staffie type,’ Chris replied. ‘We can’t get hold of the breeder.’
‘The breeder lied to us,’ Katy cut in. ‘When I took our puppy, Moose, to the vet it turns out her vaccination certificate is false.’
Shah stood still for some moments. ‘You bought her from a breeder?’
‘Yes,’ Chris said. ‘We found him on Gumtree, he said the dogs were from Wales. He seemed a nice man – except he’s vanished. I’ve tried to contact him – on the number he gave us, and on his email. The number doesn’t ring and his email bounces back. He’s disappeared from Gumtree.’
Dr Shah stood, trying to compute all this. ‘Are you saying, Mr and Mrs Fairfax, that you can’t be sure of the provenance of this puppy that bit your daughter?’
‘Yes, I guess we are,’ Chris said. ‘But what’s that got to do with anything – I mean – with Bluebell’s condition?’
‘Hopefully nothing at all,’ the doctor answered. He tried, and only partially succeeded, to give them a reassuring smile. ‘Do you think there is any possibility your puppy and the one who nipped Bluebell might have been bred abroad and not in Wales as you’ve been told?’
Chris and Katy looked at each other in confused silence. Finally, Chris said, ‘I can’t answer that, we simply don’t know.’
Excusing himself, telling the Fairfaxes he would be back in a couple of minutes, Dr Shah stepped outside and walked along the corridor, back to the nursing station where he was well out of earshot of the couple. Then he called the duty consultant. After two rings he heard the rather bolshy-sounding Welsh accent of George Pallant, who had told him a couple of hours ago that he was going home, but to call if there was an emergency.
‘Good evening, Anish, you’re still at the hospital?’
The registrar could hear what sounded like a television in the background. ‘I am, sir, I’ve stayed on, covering for Zeenat Hussein – she’s off with Covid. I’m very concerned about a seven-year-old girl who has just been admitted. She’s currently presenting a temperature of 38.9, and is delirious – three days after being bitten by a dog of dubious provenance. I’m extremely concerned that she could, possibly, be suffering from rabies.’
‘Rabies?’ he repeated in a tone of utter disbelief.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Rabies doesn’t exist in England. We’ve not had a case here since the beginning of the twentieth century. It’s been eliminated from the UK, and we’ve kept it that way with our stringent border controls and quarantine for animals.’
‘Exactly, sir. That is exactly my point.’
‘Your point? What is exactly your point?’
‘That we do not have rabies in this country.’
‘Anish,’ he said, sounding increasingly tetchy. ‘I’m very tired, would you mind not talking in riddles?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m not trying to talk in riddles, I’m trying to explain.’
‘Explain what, exactly?’
‘I’m trying to explain to you that, because there has been no incident of rabies in this country for well over a century, it is not something any doctor would be looking for. But we have it in Pakistan, and I’ve had experience of dealing with patients suffering from this horrible disease.’
‘I’m sure you have. Fortunately, it’s not something I’ve ever had to worry about.’
‘Maybe not, sir,’ Shah replied. ‘Not until now.’
61
Sunday 28 March
Roy Grace arrived home dejectedly, shortly after 10.30 p.m., hoping against hope as he climbed out of his car that he would hear the familiar sound of Humphrey’s excited barking. But as he slammed the door shut behind him, all he heard was the faint, distant bleating of sheep.
An equally downbeat Cleo greeted him as he entered the house. They hugged.
‘God,’ she said tearfully, ‘I’m so worried about him.’
‘He’s not in the park – I shouted myself hoarse and so did Charlie.’
‘He could have run out into the main road, the A27, and been hit by a car,’ she said. ‘He could just be lying there at the roadside. Do you think we should go and look there?’
‘I already did,’ he said. ‘I drove up and down it slowly enough, all along the side of the park, looking for just that, and I didn’t see anything. I’ve also called it in, in case any patrols see a stray dog out and about.’
They went into the kitchen and sat down on bar stools. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked.
‘I’ll have a small whisky. I’ll get it.’
‘I’ll do it,’ she said, and told him about the call from the con-woman as she poured him a generous portion of his favourite, Craigellachie. Handing him the glass, she said, ‘I’ve been in contact with a Facebook group. They say if you suspect your dog has been stolen, the best way to get it back is to make it too hot to handle, then they’ll release the dog because they can’t sell it. Spread the word via local Facebook pages and missing pet pages. I’ve been doing that all evening.’
‘With the reward?’
She nodded. ‘One hundred pounds, yes.’
He took a sip, feeling the welcome burn of the neat whisky down his throat and hitting the spot in his stomach, and thinking hard about what else they could do.
‘Have you eaten anything?’ Cleo asked, concerned.
‘I had a cereal bar in the car.’
‘You need more than that. Shall I make you a sandwich, or microwave something from the freezer?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m fine, really. Look, I’m sure he’s going to turn up.’
‘Why hasn’t anyone called? Apart from that prank bitch?’
He shrugged. ‘I guess – you know – it’s Sunday night. Maybe whoever’s found him hasn’t been looking at social media yet. Or perhaps they’re planning to take him to the RSPCA or maybe somewhere like Raystede over near Hailsham in the morning.’
‘I’ve rung the RSPCA and Raystede and all the other animal rescue places I could find on the internet – nothing.’
‘It’s early doors, darling.’
‘God, I hope you’re right.’
Silently, sipping some more whisky, he hoped, too, he was right. ‘I can’t imagine anyone has just stolen him. Not a mature dog of his age. And when they do look on the internet and see the reward, they’ll be in touch. I’m sure they will.’
Although with what he knew about the current levels of criminality in the dog world, he was less confident than he sounded.
‘I just hate to think of him all scared in some stranger’s house. Or still out there in the park somewhere.’
‘I’ll get up at dawn and go back, just in case he is still there.’
She shook her head. ‘No, you need your rest and you’ve got to work. I’ll sort something out with work and call Kaitlynn to look after the kids then I’ll go back there in the morning. It feels wrong here without him. Shit, I love that damned dog so much.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘I know you do, too – he’s your running buddy!’
He smiled thinly. ‘Yep, my running buddy.’
Where are you at this moment, Humphrey, he thought. Where are you, my running buddy? Then he turned to Cleo. ‘There could well be someone looking online at this moment, and seeing your post, and thinking it’s late to call now – and they’ll call in the morning. Eh?’
She gave a wan smile back.
62
Sunday 28 March
There was someone looking at the Facebook post at this very moment. And thinking he would call in the morning. But not because it was late.
Gecko sat at his laptop up in the little spare room of Elvira’s house. He was staring at the photograph of Humphrey sitting in the midst of a bed of daffodils, looking appealing. A lot more damned appealing than the bloody shit-factory that was walking endlessly round and round the living room, the hallway and the kitchen, pissing on the walls and the carpet, whining and, twice tonight so far, shitting on the floor.
He figured that the longer he held out from calling, the more desperate his owners would be. Which meant he might be able to squeeze more out of them than the £100 reward currently on offer. And any more would be nice, since business had pretty much ground to a halt these past few days. All the publicity about dog theft in the papers and on the television news had meant owners taking extra care. He’d pushed an old lady over last week – which he’d almost felt bad about – and made off with her Westie puppy, for which Mr Jim had paid him just fifty pounds. So this reward on offer for Humphrey would be very sweet.
His nostrils twitched. He could smell the foul stench of dog faeces again. How much damned shit did Humphrey have inside him?
Elvira called out from the bedroom. ‘My love, I think the dog has done something again.’
‘I’m on it,’ he said.
‘Any luck finding his owners?’
‘Not so far,’ he said. ‘I’ll go down and clear it up.’
‘Don’t be angry with him, he’s probably just very confused.’
‘Yeah, well I get confused sometimes, but I don’t go and crap in people’s houses.’
She giggled.
‘It’s not funny.’
She mimicked his voice, sounding oh-so-serious. ‘It’s not funny. It is soooo not funny.’
‘Hey!’ he said, feigning a hurt voice. ‘Out of the goodness of my heart I bring this lost dog home, and all you can do is take the piss.’
‘I thought it was the dog that was taking the piss – rather a lot of times.’
‘Not funny.’
63
Sunday 28 March
At a few minutes past 11 p.m., the consultant paediatrician, George Pallant, strutted into the room, casually dressed in a waxed jacket over a cardigan and jeans, unlike his usual work attire of either a dark suit and tie or scrubs. A short man with swept-back black hair, who reminded many people of the actor Stephen Graham, he walked very erect to compensate for his lack of stature. He always spoke to people with his head tilted back slightly, giving the impression he was looking down his nose at them, as if to say I don’t give a damn about being shorter than you, I’m still superior, I’m a god here.
Anish Shah, who was a good six inches taller and had always found Pallant’s manner a little unsettling, met him at the front entrance and they walked in silence past all the cubicles to an empty corridor at the rear, before the consultant, who looked as shattered as Shah felt, spoke. ‘Rabies? This has to be nonsense, Anish.’
‘I hope so, sir,’ the registrar replied.
Keeping his voice low, the consultant said, ‘For starters, do you have any idea what a diagnosis of rabies would mean?’
‘For the patient?’
Pallant shook his head. ‘Not just for the patient – but for this country.’
Shah shook his head. ‘No, what do you mean? I don’t understand.’
‘Then you’d better start understanding, and fast.’
Shah had never liked this man and he liked him even less than usual at this moment. And he liked him even less still when Pallant jabbed him in the chest with his slender, manicured index finger.
‘Like I told you, we don’t have rabies in this country. It’s been eliminated and has been so for over a hundred years. It’s arrant nonsense to suggest we might have a case now. Do you have any idea of the significance of what you are saying – without foundation? That this little girl – Bluebell Fairfax – may have rabies is opening a very dangerous can of worms. You would, effectively, be saying that we have rabies in our animal population. The implication of this would be simply devastating.’
‘You want to cover it up?’ Shah asked, both confused and astonished.
Pallant shook his head. ‘I’m not a fool, man. But you’re young and inexperienced. I respect your concerns, but we need to carry out a number of tests and eliminate all other possibilities before we can even begin to contemplate your diagnosis – or rather – assertion.’
‘I understand that, sir.’
‘Good. Has she been vaccinated against rabies? If not, could you arrange it, as a precaution?’
‘We are too late for that, sir – the first jab has to be done within twenty-four hours of the bite and we are several days past that now. Without that crucial first jab the disease is almost always fatal.’
Pallant was quiet for some moments, taking on board the significance of this. ‘Let me go and take a look at her.’
They walked through the ward, passing several empty cubicles, and then came to the curtained-off one, a nurse, with a clipboard containing Bluebell’s readings, standing outside.
Pallant studied the sheet for a moment then nodded to Shah, who pulled open the blue curtain. Inside, the consultant saw an anxious-looking man and a tearful woman, the small child with her blonde ringlets on the bed beyond them, eyes shut.
‘Mr and Mrs Fairfax, this is Dr Pallant, our paediatric consultant. He’s come in specially to see Bluebell,’ Shah said.
Briefly acknowledging them then switching on his bedside charm, the consultant took a careful look at Bluebell. ‘Hello, how are you feeling?’
‘My legs hurt,’ she murmured, opening her eyes a fraction, her voice weak. Her eyelids closed again.
