Doctor Jenkinson always slept downstairs on the divan during his spasmodic weeks of night-duty. Lately he had been leaving the emergency duties to his younger, partners, but, nevertheless, there were still times when he had to take his turn. And by going upstairs to bed he invariably disturbed his wife on those occasions when it was necessary for him to turn out.
The telephone rang shortly after 3 a.m. and without even switching on the light he reached out and lifted the receiver from its cradle.
'Emergency doctor speaking.'
'Doctor,' it was a woman's voice, breathless, a note of panic. 'It's me daughter. She's dying.'
'Just let me have your name and address, and explain the symptoms, please.' He always tried to appear calm, especially at night. Illnesses were magnified totally out of proportion by the average person after dark. Often the patient could be helped by a little common-sense advice, followed by a call the following morning.
Gladys Williams blurted out her name and address. 'Me 'usband's with 'er now,' she gulped. 'Terrible pain 'er's in. Frothin' at the mouth and... and sorta,.. paralysed?'
'Keep her warm,' Patrick Jenkinson instructed, suddenly alert as he switched on the light with his free hand, and groped for his tie. I'll be with you in a few minutes.'
Less than ten minutes later, bag in hand, the tall doctor with grey hair stood by Shirley's bedside. There was a puzzled expression on his face, and he winced at the sight of the child. He spoke to her, but she did not appear to hear him. 'Her normally pretty face was a mask of pain, her eyes rolling, spittle frothing on her lips, and as he felt her damp forehead her teeth gnashed together. Her posture was unnatural, almost as though she was attempting to stretch every muscle in her body yet was unable to move any of them.
Jenkinson took a thermometer from his breast-pocket, shook it, and placed it under the child's armpit beneath her sweat-soaked nightdress.
'What is it, doctor?' Walter Williams spoke gruffly, anxiously.
'It could be any one of a number of things,' the doctor replied, not meeting the other's gaze. 'How long has she been like this?1
'Er wasn't too good yesterday,' Gladys Williams answered him. 'But that was only to be expected.
'Why?'
'Er 'orses were killed. Both of 'em. A car ran into 'em night before last on the Cannock Road. Upset 'er some-thin' awful.'
'Oh, yes,' Doctor Jenkinson stiffened. 'I remember the incident.' He did not add that he had been called to the scene of the accident to pronounce Herbie Whitcombe dead. This was no time to discuss such matters in detail.
'Er was just feelin' off-colour to start with. Complained of an 'eadache and was sick a couple o' times. Didn't want to eat. Then 'er complained 'er couldn't see properly. 'Ad trouble 'earin', too. We got 'er to bed, and then 'er started 'avin' these fits, goin' all stiff, shoutin' out... and when Walter 'ere tried to comfort 'er, 'er bit is 'and!'
'I see.' Jenkinson removed the thermometer from beneath Shirley's arm, and stepped nearer to the light to read it. Somehow he managed to keep his expression impassive, yet his hand shook visibly as he returned the instrument to its case.
'I'm going to call an ambulance,' he said as calmly as possible, moving towards the door and the telephone in the hall.
'It... it,' Walter Williams stammered white-faced and shaking, 'it ain't... rabies, is it?'
'No.' Patrick Jenkinson forced a smile and shook his head. 'I can assure you it's not rabies.' Though what the hell it is, he mused as he dialled, God only knows. The initial symptoms are akin to those found in meningitis... but this paralysis had him beaten.
Jenkinson travelled in the ambulance with Mr and Mrs Williams. Shirley lay still and stiff, eyes closed, and periodically the doctor checked her breathing. The faint movement of her chest was the only sign that she was alive. Within twenty minutes she was hi the intensive care unit of Walsall General Hospital. Her parents remained anxiously in the waiting-room, and it seemed an eternity before they saw Dr Jenkinson coming down the long room towards them. The doctor's expression was grim and sorrowful, and the flame of hope which had remained alive in their hearts flickered and died. Some terrible, inexplicable illness had snatched their beloved daughter from their lives with the unexpectedness of a bolt of lightning.
It was exactly a week after the funeral that Walter Williams began to feel unwell. For a time he told nobody, assuming that it was just tiredness caused by a combination of grief and sleepless nights. Life had to go on although the summons he had received from the police for allowing the horses to wander on to the road did not make him feel any better.
'What's up?' Gladys regarded him through red-rimmed eyes. 'What yer 'oldin' yer 'ead for, Walter?'
'I think I'm going to be sick.' Walter replied, and only just made it to the bathroom in time. It was the thought of the autopsy, the dissecting and stitching of a pretty, innocent little girl. The final analysis, the moment of truth.
Walter was still heaving when he came back into the room. He was sweating, too, and shivering at the same time—The light seemed to have dimmed. Gladys was in shadow and he could not discern her features. 'You ought to go to bed,' she said. He looked at her, knew that she was speaking to him', but he could not hear her words.
'Yer what?' he forced the words out, but whether there was any sound he did not know. 'Walter? You're ill!'
His comprehension faded. He sensed himself at a disadvantage. His back and neck muscles were agony. This woman—he didn't know who she was—was advancing on him, hands outstretched. She was an enemy. He had to defend himself, and the best way to do that was to attack. He stumbled towards her, using every ounce of physical and mental effort to force his limbs to respond. Gladys Williams was heavily built, but for her size she was surprisingly weak. He lurched against her, and she fell back against the table. His stiffening fingers found her flabby neck and closed around it, locking in a paralytic vice as they did so.
Her mouth was opening, but whether any sound came from it he could not tell. Her tongue was out, blue and swollen, her eyes bulged and rolled. Walter Williams could see no longer, yet it did not frighten him. He felt the woman struggling in his grasp for a time, but eventually she grew still. Then he became aware that he was losing balance, sliding, falling, taking her with him. They hit the floor and rolled over. She was on top of him, a crushing weight that restricted his breathing, the only bodily function of which he was now capable,
He lay there in a black void, his breathing becoming more shallow every minute, and eventually the trickle of spittle from his lips slowed and stopped altogether.
'Look at this.' Professor Brian Newman thrust some newspaper clippings across the desk towards Haynes. 'You can't ignore these. This is the consequence of bur experiments with the bats.'
'Nonsense,' Professor Rickers spoke up moving from the window. 'You're seeing things as you want to see 'em, Newman. You're a sensationalist—or maybe you're just trying to justify your own balls-ups and prove us wrong in the bargain.'
'Read them,' Newman snapped.
'I've read 'em,' Haynes pushed the cuttings back. 'Apart from the girl's death, and her father's, too, which are diagnosed as a type of meningitis—'
'Meningitis, buggery!' Newman's anger was rising.
'Maybe the horses and that guy in the car died from it, too,' Rickers laughed.
'There's a tie-up. My theory is that this... this disease has an indirect bearing on all four deaths, maybe the horses', too. We can't be sure.'
'You're just wasting your time, Newman, and ours.' Haynes said. He had not called the professor by his first name since the day when the bats had escaped from the laboratory. It wasn't that he was worried about them, he simply could not tolerate fools. And, in his estimation, Newman was an incompetent fool. Women and science did not mix.