The doctor touched her arm.
‘That’s not what I meant. Why didn’t you tell me who you are?’ His anger had vanished and his voice was gentle.
Stevie couldn’t tell him about the letter from beyond the dead, the trouble Simon had gone to, hiding the laptop in her loft, the resolution she had made to follow his instructions.
‘Simon was insistent that I deliver the package to Mr Reah personally. I didn’t realise I had to introduce myself.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘I don’t know.’
Ahumibe was still staring at Stevie as if she was a ghost. His face was gaunt, but there was a hint of flesh around his jowls that suggested he might recently have lost weight. He sighed and she saw him making an effort to return to himself.
‘I would have got in touch to pass on my condolences to you, if I’d known.’ He shook his head. ‘Simon always joked that he was married to medicine. Are you organising the funeral?’
‘No, a cousin is taking care of his estate.’
His estate. Stevie didn’t think she had ever used the phrase before. It sounded like an expression lifted from a Victorian novel, not anything that could be relevant to her.
‘I see.’ The doctor gave her a weary smile and she saw that he was handsome. ‘I’m John Ahumibe. I was a friend of Simon’s. Whatever this package is, if it’s hospital property then it must be returned. I can make sure that it finds the right home.’
Stevie drew the bag closer to her.
‘That’s kind of you, but Simon was insistent that it went to Mr Reah personally.’
Dr Ahumibe’s voice was patient. ‘Sadly that is no longer possible.’
‘Then I’ll pass it to his executor. She can decide what to do next.’
Dr Ahumibe gave a swift look down the ward.
‘Come with me.’ He touched Stevie’s elbow and led her into a small office off the main ward, shutting the door. The room was clean and white, but it appeared that whoever occupied it had been suddenly called away; papers were splayed across the desk, a half-drunk cup of coffee abandoned beside them.
Stevie asked, ‘Was this Mr Reah’s office?’
‘Mr Reah generally wrote up his notes in here, but the room wasn’t for his exclusive use. We’re pushed for space, like everywhere else in the hospital.’ He gave a rueful, upside-down smile. ‘Everywhere else in the city.’
‘What did he die of?’
Dr Ahumibe put his hands in the pockets of his white coat and leant against the desk, staring down at his shoes.
‘I don’t know.’ He raised his head and looked at Stevie. ‘Nobody knows, but people are dying from it. Hospitals might not be the healthiest places to be right now.’
‘Are they ever?’ She meant it as a joke, but her voice broke on the final word. ‘Sorry.’ Stevie massaged her temples with her fingertips, wishing she could stop apologising. ‘It’s been a long day.’ She thought of Joanie in intensive care, remembered the man falling from the Underground escalator and the old lady saying, ‘He’s got the sickness.’ She asked, ‘How serious is it?’
‘No one’s sure yet.’ Dr Ahumibe pulled out a chair from beneath the desk. ‘Sit down.’ She sat and he squatted level with her, scrutinising her face. ‘You’re pale. Do you feel feverish?’
‘I’m fine.’ No one had stood so close to her for days. Not since Joanie had greeted her with a kiss before they last went on air. ‘I saw an accident on the way here and I’m a bit hospital-phobic, that’s all.’ The doctor smelt like Simon, Stevie realised, the same scent of soap and long hospital hours. ‘Plus I’ve been indoors for the last few days. I came down with something after I found Simon. It laid me out. I think I’m still recovering.’
She pulled away from him and Dr Ahumibe sank into another chair, his feet planted wide apart, body hunched forwards, his brown eyes still fixed on hers. His hair was black and neatly shorn, showing the shape of his skull, the swell of the back of his head.
‘You found him?’
‘Yes.’
She thought he was going to ask her about it, but he said, ‘It’s hard to believe.’ His skin looked muddy with tiredness.
‘I know.’ She had seen Simon’s body with her own eyes, but it seemed impossible that the flesh which had held her flesh was easing into decay. No, she reminded herself, the decay had been stalled. His body was in a freezer somewhere, awaiting a post mortem. Dr Ahumibe’s brow puckered with deliberate concentration or concern, she wasn’t sure which.
‘Tell me your symptoms.’
Stevie listed the horrors that had pursued her. The doctor nodded from time to time, as if to show she was confirming what he already knew. When she had finished he said, ‘And you feel okay now?’
‘A little weak, prone to queasiness, but basically fine.’
He nodded, his face closed and careful.
‘It’s good to meet a survivor.’
‘Surely only people who are already weak are in real danger.’ The words made her sound like a eugenicist and she added, ‘I mean old and very young people, or people who are already ill.’
‘Mr Reah was a hale-and-hearty fifty-five.’ The doctor clasped his hands together.
‘And Simon? Is that what killed him?’
Dr Ahumibe looked away from her, towards a small window high on the exterior wall and a glimpse of blue sky. Stevie followed his gaze and thought how like a prison cell the room was.
‘No. From what I heard, Simon died of something else.’ He ran a hand across his skull. ‘Simon and I had known each other a long time. We worked together here, and as part of the same small team in private practice. That’s why I was surprised he hadn’t mentioned you. Whatever it was he wanted you deliver to Mr Reah, he would have trusted me with it, now that Malcolm’s gone.’
Stevie hesitated. Simon’s letter was insistent that she trust no one except Reah. But Reah was dead and Dr John Ahumibe had a tired, anxious air that made her want to confide in him. Behind her a door opened.
‘You’re needed on the ward.’ The nurse who had entered was dark and pretty, with black hair that looked as if it would break into a riot of curls, were it not besieged by a barricade of pins.
Ahumibe gave her a small nod and got to his feet.
‘Two seconds.’ He looked at Stevie, his eyes mild and unreadable. ‘Why not open the package here and make up your mind once you’ve seen what’s in it?’
Dr Ahumibe had the sort of voice designed to soothe frightened patients, or to gently break bad news, but the reasonableness of it recalled Simon’s letter. He had told her not to entrust the laptop to anyone else, no matter how polite, kind or authoritative. Stevie slung her satchel over her shoulder.
‘I’ll phone if it’s anything belonging to the hospital.’
The nurse was still standing in the doorway, watching them as if they were part of some play. Her good looks and neat figure were marred by her sour expression.
‘Excuse me,’ Stevie said. ‘I need to go.’
For a second Stevie thought the other woman was going to block her way, but she held the door open.
‘Miss Flint.’ Dr Ahumibe followed them out of the room. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stay a little longer.’ He glanced at the nurse. ‘Miss Flint may have survived the virus.’
The nurse looked at her. Stevie saw that her irises were almost pure black, her eyes shadowed with lack of sleep.
‘You had it?’
Stevie shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’
The nurse started to say something, but the ward doors opened and a thin man wearing a creased white coat over an equally crumpled blue shirt and chinos strode towards them. The new arrival was almost as tall as Dr Ahumibe and as pale and blond as the other man was dark. Dr Ahumibe said, ‘Miss Flint’s had the virus and lived to tell the tale.’