Far From My Father’s House. Jill McGivering

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СКАЧАТЬ the hotel restaurants. Easier and safer than venturing outside.

      She found CNN. A panel discussion about the war on drugs. She listened for a minute or two, trying to identify the speakers. Frank must be busy. He’d said they were overwhelmed. She hadn’t seen him since they’d arrived at the camp. She clicked through several sports channels and found HBO. A teen film. Preppy American girls leaning against their lockers in a high-school corridor, giggling together. Maybe Frank wouldn’t feel like meeting up. She’d better leave it. She switched off the set and went to type notes into her laptop about Ibrahim and the never-ending human exodus.

      By eight o’clock, she was hungry. She rang down to reception and asked them to put her through to Frank’s room. No answer. She powered down her laptop, realizing she felt disappointed, she’d been looking forward to seeing him.

      She headed downstairs. It had once been an imposing lobby but now the fake marble floor was scuffed and cracked. A long reception desk ran down one wall. A glamorous young Pakistani woman was lolling with her elbows on the counter, reading a magazine. Above her, a row of brass-rimmed clocks showed the time in Beijing, Paris, London and New York. Nearby there was a faded marble water feature. A polished ball slowly turned, veiled by a constant curtain of water.

      Ellen headed towards the far side of the lobby. An informal dining area had been set out there, carpeted and bordered by a low artificial fence which was threaded with plastic creepers. She chose a table which gave her a good view of the main entrance and ordered a club sandwich and an orange juice.

      Most of the tables were empty and the atmosphere was hushed. A compilation of bastardized Western pop was playing, just loud enough to take the edge off the silence. An orchestral version of ‘Yesterday’ flowed over her as she opened her notebook and looked at her rough diagram of the camp.

      A few minutes later, Britta came striding in through the main entrance. Her face was strained as she headed for the lifts.

      ‘Britta!’ Ellen waved her over. She closed her notebook and set it on the table. ‘Come and join me.’

      Britta flopped into a chair, dropping her bag, laptop and keys onto the table with a clatter. Her face was flecked with dust. Without her scarf, her hair fell in springy curls round her face, sticking in damp clumps to her forehead and temples. She pulled open the top button of her kameez, loosening the collar. A gold cross on a chain swung at her neck.

      Britta was breathing hard. Ellen sat quietly, waiting for her to recover. Had she come straight from the camp? It looked like it. Not very safe, surely, to be there so long after dark.

      The glass of orange juice arrived. Ellen peeled the paper wrapping off a straw, put it in the juice and pushed the glass towards Britta. Britta drank it off in one. Ellen ordered two more. Gradually Britta’s breaths became more even. The hard line of her shoulders softened.

      The two Belgians walked through the lobby, laughing and talking together. They were heading back to the lifts from the direction of the Italian restaurant. The young woman on reception lifted her head at the noise and watched as they stepped into a lift and disappeared.

      ‘Another one.’ Britta’s voice shook. ‘The girl you saw. Typhoid fever.’

      There was a short silence. So that was why she was so late.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Ellen said. She thought of the small hand with its bitten-down nails. She should have held it.

      ‘I thought I’d caught her. She had high fever and severe diarrhoea but I put her straight onto antibiotics.’ Britta paused, remembering. ‘She started to fit. Some intestinal haemorrhage, maybe. Then she died.’

      Without her scarf and in the artificial light, Britta looked younger, perhaps still in her twenties. She probably hadn’t lost many patients. She hadn’t been a doctor long enough.

      ‘Two others are very ill. One teenage girl. One old woman. Both have high fever. Fatima is with them. She stays late too often.’ Britta raked her hands through her hair, shook her head. ‘It progresses quickly.’

      The waiter came with the sandwich and two more glasses of orange juice.

      ‘You should be careful.’ Britta mimed washing her hands. ‘Lots of soap, lots of scrub.’

      ‘Do you think they’re ill before they arrive?’

      ‘I think so. There must be carriers.’ Britta shrugged. ‘And in these conditions . . .’

      Ellen picked up a quarter of the club sandwich, a high stack of chicken, bacon, egg and salad. Enough to feed a family. She bit into it, oozing mayonnaise.

      Britta was staring into middle distance, her green eyes glassy with exhaustion. ‘She just didn’t respond.’

      Ellen nodded. She chewed slowly, thinking. ‘By the time they reach you, these women are exhausted,’ she said. ‘As well as traumatized. And you don’t know how long they’ve been ill.’

      Britta tutted. ‘Fatima says they’re afraid of the hospital. You know how rumours spread.’ She sighed. ‘Some woman saw the body being taken out this afternoon and caused a panic.’

      Ellen pointed to the sandwich. ‘You’re going to have to help me out,’ she said. ‘There’s far too much.’

      Britta looked at the sandwich, then at her hands. The creases in her palms were black with dirt. ‘Thank you, but I should go and wash.’ She didn’t move.

      ‘Is Frank still there?’

      ‘In the camp?’ She sighed. ‘I think so.’ She leant forward, bracing herself to get up, then seemed to lose heart and sank back into her seat.

      The lobby rang with a sudden burst of music, a brassy jazz rendition of ‘New York, New York’. The handful of diners looked around as the head waiter rushed to lower the volume and the music slid again under the low hum of conversation.

      ‘I spoke to my boss in Geneva,’ Britta said. ‘You know what he said? If many more people die, don’t tell about it.’

      ‘People need to know, Britta.’

      ‘Do they?’ She looked startled as if she’d only just realized that she was confiding in a journalist. ‘That big potato is coming. What’s his name? The British guy.’

      ‘Quentin Khan?’

      ‘Yes, Mr Khan. He’s very careful about his image. Too many deaths, he’ll be scared away. That’s what my boss says.’ Britta’s hand had risen to her cross and she was clasping it in her fist, tugging at it. ‘We need the money. Medicine International isn’t big. Frankly speaking, we had problems before this typhoid. As it is, I hardly have the money to pay for Fatima.’

      ‘You’re worn out.’ Ellen looked at the tension in Britta’s face. ‘Go and have a hot bath. Eat something. Sleep. You’ve done all you can for today.’

      Britta pointed to the laptop. ‘I can’t.’ She looked close to tears. ‘I have so much paperwork. Accounts. Orders.’

      She pulled herself to her feet, picked up her things and murmured goodnight. Her steps to the lifts were slow and heavy.

      At ten, Ellen paid the bill and went back upstairs. СКАЧАТЬ