The Book of Strange New Things (45 page)

The medical centre was surprisingly big for the number of personnel it served. It was built on two levels and had many rooms, some of which were only half-furnished and waiting to be kitted out with equipment. Two of the three operating tables in the surgical theatre were shrouded in plastic wrapping. One particularly large space that Peter peeked into as he passed was painted a cheerful yellow and almost blindingly inundated with daylight from bay windows. It was empty apart from some stacked boxes neatly labelled
NEO-NATAL
.

The morgue had the same seldom-visited, overly spacious feel as most of the centre, even though it was possibly busier than it had ever been: three of the five remaining medical staff were gathered there once Grainger walked in, and Peter was politely introduced – firm handshakes, head-nods – to Dr Austin and Nurse Flores. ‘Glad to meet you,’ said the chimpanzee-like Flores, not sounding glad at all, and sat straight back down in her chair, arms folded over her dowdy uniform. Peter wondered what nationality she was. She was four foot ten, tops, and her head looked shrunken. Whatever genetic code had produced her was very different from the one that had produced him. She was almost as alien-looking as the Oasans.

‘I’m from England,’ he said to her, not caring how gauche he sounded. ‘Where are you from?’

She hesitated. ‘El Salvador.’

‘Isn’t that in Guatemala?’

‘No, but we’re . . . neighbours, you could say.’

‘I heard about the volcano in Guatemala.’ His mind went into overdrive as he attempted to recall enough details from Bea’s letter to support a conversation with Flores. But she held up one wizened hand and said:

‘Spare me.’

‘It’s just so awful to think – ’ he began.

‘No, really: spare me,’ she said, and that was the end of that.

For a few seconds, the mortuary lapsed into silence, apart from a rhythmic groaning sound that was not human in origin. Dr Austin explained that this noise was coming from the freezers, due to their having been only recently switched on.

‘It just didn’t make sense to keep a room full of freezers running with nothing in them, year after year,’ he elaborated. ‘Especially before we got our energy usage properly sorted out.’ Austin was Australian, by the sound of him, or perhaps a New Zealander; athletic, muscular, with movie-star good looks apart from an untidy scar gouged into his jawline. He and Flores had been absent from Severin’s funeral service, as far as Peter could recall.

‘You’ve done very well, lasting all this time,’ said Peter.

‘Lasting?’

‘Not needing to switch the freezers on. Until now.’

Austin shrugged. ‘In the future, as this community grows, we’ll need a morgue for sure. In the future, we’ll probably have murders, poisonings, all the thrills and spills you get when your population passes a certain point. But these are early days. Or were.’

The freezers groaned on.

‘Anyway . . . ’ sighed Austin, and unlatched the drawer containing the deceased, as though Peter had finally requested to see Dr Everett and shouldn’t be kept waiting. Austin pulled at the handles and the plastic crib slid out, exposing the naked body as far as the navel. Matthew Everett’s head was nestled on a wipe-clean pillow and his arms lay supported on banana-shaped cushions. He was a presentable middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, a permanent vertical frown creasing his brow, and dimpled cheeks. His eyes were almost but not quite closed, and his mouth hung open. There was a pale dusting of frost on his tongue, and subtle ice-twinkles on his pale flesh. Other than this, he looked well.

‘Of course we’ve had a few deaths over the years,’ conceded Austin. ‘Not many; well below average for a community this size, but . . . it happens. People have diabetes, heart conditions . . . Their pre-existing pathology catches up with them. But Matt was healthy as a horse.’

‘My horse died,’ said Grainger.

‘Beg pardon?’ said Austin.

‘I used to have a horse, when I was a kid,’ said Grainger. ‘He was wonderful. He died.’

There was nothing to say to that, so Austin pushed the drawer shut again and fastened the latches. Once again, Peter was struck by the simplicity of the technology: no computerised locking system to be placated with a keypad or a coded swipe-card, just a drawer with a couple of handles. He realised all of a sudden that this simplified design was not the result of cheapskate make-do, a weird mismatch between USIC’s colossal wealth and a penchant for outmoded discards. No, these freezers were new. And not just new, but custom made. Some obstinate designer had paid extra for nineteenth-century practicality, had bribed a manufacturer to leave out the computerised sensors, microchipped programs, flashing lights and smart options that an up-to-date mortuary freezer would contain.

Dr Austin washed his hands in a sink, using a cake of astringent-smelling soap. He dried himself with an ordinary clean towel, then unwrapped a stick of chewing gum and popped it in his mouth. He held the packet out to Peter, a generous gesture since gum was an imported item.

‘No thanks,’ said Peter.

‘God knows why I eat it myself,’ mused Austin. ‘Zero nutritional value, a ten-second hit of sugar, and your salivary glands give your stomach the message that there’s food on the way – which there isn’t. Complete waste of time. And bloody expensive here. But I’m addicted.’

‘You should try คฉ้รี่ค,’ said Peter, recalling the pleasant sensation of this plant between his fingers, the burst of sweet juice on his tongue as his teeth first pierced its tough hide, the delicious pulp that yielded hints of fresh flavour even after half an hour of chewing. ‘You’d never want gum again.’

‘Beg pardon?’

‘คฉ้รี่ค.’

Austin nodded tolerantly. Probably adding
Speech impediment
to his mental file of the pastor’s health issues.

Silence fell, or what passed for silence in the USIC morgue. Peter thought that the freezers were groaning a bit less noisily than before, but maybe he was just acclimatising to the sound.

‘Did Dr Everett have family?’ he asked.

‘I couldn’t tell you,’ said Austin. ‘He didn’t talk about it.’

‘He had a daughter,’ said Grainger quietly, almost to herself.

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Austin.

‘They were estranged,’ said Grainger.

‘It happens,’ said Austin.

Peter wondered why – given that this meeting wasn’t exactly abuzz with convivial chatter – somebody didn’t just hand over a dossier on Everett and set a deadline for the funeral address.

‘So,’ he said, ‘I imagine I’ll be doing a funeral service?’

Austin blinked. The concept had caught him by surprise. ‘Uh . . . Maybe,’ he said. ‘Not for a while, though. We’re keeping him at negative temp. Frozen, in other words. Until another pathologist arrives.’ He glanced over to the mortuary drawers, then out the window. ‘The big concern, of course, is whether there’s anything in this environment that might cause people to become ill. That’s been a concern from the start. We’re breathing air we’ve never breathed before, eating food that’s totally new to our digestive systems. So far, all the evidence suggests it’s not a problem. But only time will tell. Lots of time. And it could be very bad news that we’ve now got a man who had no health problems whatsoever, no reason for him to die, and he’s dead.’

Peter began to shiver. He’d worn as much clothing as he could tolerate nowadays, even within the USIC base – his dishdasha, a loose sweater, jogging pants, tennis shoes – but it wasn’t enough to withstand the chill of the mortuary. He wished he could fling open the window, let the comforting balmy atmosphere swirl in.

‘Have you done a . . . uh . . . ’ The word had slipped out of his vocabulary. Without even intending to, he sliced at the air with an invisible scalpel.

‘Autopsy?’ Austin shook his head ruefully. ‘Matt was the one who had the skills in that area. That’s why we’ve got to wait. I mean,
I
can do autopsies if they’re straightforward. I could’ve determined a cause of death for Severin; that was no mystery. But if you’ve got no clues, you’re better off with an expert. And our expert was Matt.’

No one spoke for a minute. Austin seemed lost in thought. Grainger stared down at her shoes, which tapped restlessly in the air. Flores, who hadn’t uttered a peep since introducing herself, gazed out the window. Maybe she was dumbstruck with grief.

‘Well . . . ’ said Peter. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Can’t think of anything off-hand,’ said Austin. ‘We were actually wondering if there’s anything
we
can do to help
you
.’

‘Help me?’

‘Not with your . . . ah . . . evangelising, obviously,’ the doctor smiled. ‘But medically.’

Peter’s fingers flew up to his brow, touching the flaking skin there. ‘I’ll be more careful next time, I promise,’ he said. ‘Grainger’s given me some excellent suntan lotion.’

‘Sunscreen,’ Grainger corrected him irritably. ‘SPF 50.’

Austin said: ‘I actually meant the natives. The Oasans, as you call them. We’ve been supplying them with basic medicines virtually since we first got here. It’s the only thing they seem to want from us.’ He smirked in deference to Peter’s mission. ‘Well, just
about
the only thing. But you know, not one of them has ever shown up here for treatment. Not one! Which means not one of them has ever been checked out or diagnosed properly. We would love to know what’s up with them.’

‘Up?’ echoed Peter.

‘What ails them,’ said Austin. ‘What they’re dying of.’

Peter had a vivid mental image of his congregation in all their colours, singing hymns and swaying shoulder to shoulder.

‘The ones I’ve been dealing with seem quite healthy to me,’ he said.

‘Do you know what drugs they’re taking?’ persisted Austin.

The question annoyed Peter and he tried not to show it. ‘I’m not aware of them taking any. One of my Jesus Lovers – one of my congregation – had a close relative who died not long ago. I never met him. Another one has a brother – or maybe a sister – who’s in constant pain, apparently. I imagine that’s where some of the painkillers are going.’

‘Yes, I imagine so.’ Austin’s tone was neutral – breezy, even. There wasn’t a milligram of sarcasm detectable in it. But once again, Peter felt that his fellowship with the Oasans was being assessed with a jaundiced eye. The intimacy he shared with the Jesus Lovers was profound, built on a foundation of a thousand solved problems, disentangled misunderstandings, shared history. But as far as the USIC staff could see, his intimacy with the inhabitants of Freaktown hadn’t even got off the ground. The quaint Christian had nothing to show for his labours that a rational person could respect. People like Austin had a list of questions which they assumed needed answers before the word ‘progress’ could be uttered.

But that was what the Godless were always so good at, wasn’t it? Asking the wrong questions, looking for progress in the wrong places.

‘I appreciate why you’re curious,’ said Peter. ‘It’s just that the Oasans I see every day aren’t ill. And the ones who are ill don’t come to our church.’

‘Don’t you . . . uh . . . ’ Austin waved one hand vaguely around, to indicate door-to-door evangelism.

‘Normally I would,’ said Peter. ‘I mean, when I first arrived, I assumed I’d be visiting homes, looking for ways to make contact. But they’ve been coming to me. A hundred and six of them, last time we met. It’s a big congregation for just one pastor with no backup, and it’s growing. I’m giving them all my attention, all my energy, and still there’s more I could do if I had time – and that’s before I even
think
of knocking on the doors of the ones who’ve been keeping away. Not that they
have
doors . . . ’

‘Well,’ said Austin, ‘if you do find a sick one who’d be willing to come here and, you know, let us check him over . . . Or her . . . ’

‘Or whatever,’ said Flores.

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Peter. ‘The thing is, I don’t have any medical knowledge. I’m not even sure I could recognise a specific disease . . . in one of
us
, let alone in an Oasan. The signs and symptoms, I mean.’

‘No, of course not,’ Austin sighed.

Nurse Flores spoke up again, her simian face unexpectedly illuminated with sharp intelligence. ‘So, the ones you’re dealing with could be sick and you wouldn’t know it. Every last one of them could be sick.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Peter. ‘We’ve built up a lot of trust. They tell me what’s on their mind. And I work beside them, I see how they move. They’re slow and careful, but that’s their way. I think I’d be able to tell if something was badly wrong.’

Flores nodded, unconvinced.

‘My wife’s a nurse,’ said Peter. ‘I wish she were here with me.’

Austin raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve got a wife?’

‘Yes,’ said Peter. ‘Beatrice.’ The mention of her name felt desperate somehow, an attempt to lend her an individual status she could never truly have for these strangers.

‘And she’s . . . ’ Austin hesitated. ‘She’s in the picture?’

Peter thought for a moment; remembered his conversation with Tuska:
Is there a special person in your life right now? Nope, can’t say that there is
. ‘Yes.’

Austin cocked his head, intrigued. ‘It’s not often we get someone here who’s got . . . you know . . . a partner waiting for them back home. I mean, a partner who’s . . . ’

‘In the picture.’

‘Yeah.’

‘She would’ve loved to come too,’ said Peter. For the first time in ages, his mind retrieved a vividly complete recent memory of Beatrice, sitting beside him at the USIC office, still dressed in her nurse’s uniform, her face flinching in distaste at the horribly strong tea she’d been handed. Within a microsecond, she adjusted her expression to imply that the tea was merely too hot, and she turned back towards the USIC examiners with a smile. ‘It would’ve made such a difference,’ Peter went on. ‘To me and to the whole project. USIC didn’t agree.’

‘Well, she must have failed the suitability tests,’ said Austin, with an air of commiseration.

‘She wasn’t given any tests. USIC interviewed us together a couple of times, and then they made it clear that the rest of the interviews were for me alone.’