The End of Men. Christina Sweeney-Baird

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СКАЧАТЬ patients and check his pulse. It is 45. He will die soon. They all will. Breathe, Amanda. The cavalry will charge in soon. I won’t have to deal with all of this on my own. There will be someone I can hand the reins over to. Someone qualified who wears a hazmat suit for a living will come and make everything better and let me go home and forget that this ever happened.

      The doors of the Minor Injury Unit swing open. It’s Matron.

      ‘There’s four more just arrived in ambulances. Two were here two days ago, and the other two were here yesterday. I don’t know what to do.’

      My worst nightmare is coming true.

      Email from Amanda Maclean ([email protected]) to Leah Spicer ([email protected]) 6.42 p.m. 3 November 2025

      Leah,

      Found your email online. Realised that you forgot to give it to me on the phone after you said to email you. I’ve just arrived home from my shift. When I left there were nineteen live patients in A&E all showing symptoms of what I think is a virus (antibiotics made no difference although obviously need pathology to confirm what’s going on. Is that easier for your lab to do over at HPS or is it quicker for us to just crack on here at Gartnavel?) Of the twenty-six I think we’ve seen so far, five died before I left the hospital. One man, the first I saw, from the Isle of Bute two days ago. Fraser McAlpine this afternoon. Three other men died quickly after coming in including one of my junior doctors, Ross.

      They’re all men. Too small a sample size so far obviously but I’ve never seen that before. Maybe men are more vulnerable to it? Can we have a call to discuss all of this please, also maybe loop someone more senior in? This is very bad, Leah. You need to understand how quickly the disease affects them. They go from having normal flu symptoms and feeling quite unwell to being dead with a temperature of over 43 degrees in a few hours.

      Please get back to me as soon as you can.

      Amanda

      Email from Amanda Maclean ([email protected]) to Leah Spicer ([email protected]) 6.48 p.m. 3 November 2025

      Leah, there was a baby as well, I just realised. We thought it was sepsis. He was in before Fraser McAlpine. He was only two months old. I thought he was stable when we sent him up to the Paediatric ICU but I just called them and he died a few minutes after they wheeled him out of the lift. He was here a few days ago, being treated in A&E.

      That makes twenty-seven I saw today. Six deaths. Oldest aged 62. Youngest aged two months.

      Amanda

      FW: Email from Amanda Maclean ([email protected]) to Leah Spicer ([email protected]) 6.48 p.m. 3 November 2025. FW to Raymond McNab ([email protected]) 10.30 a.m. 4 November 2025

      Ray,

      See below two emails from a woman I went to Uni with. She’s a consultant at Gartnavel. I think she’s mistaking a bad case of the flu (it’s November after all …) with ensuing sepsis/likely death from other, complicating factors for something more serious. There’s been no other reports of anything on the Category 1 list so I think we’re safe on the SARS /MRSA/Ebola front.

      Between you and me, she had a breakdown at university. Completely cracked up and had to take a year out. I think one of her parents died or something? Anyway, she’s quite fragile. I intend to send a holding email advising good infection-control practice and to get in touch if anything further. Flag if you disagree.

      Thanks,

      Leah

      Email from Raymond McNab (r.mcnab@healthprotectionscotland) to Leah Spicer ([email protected]) 10.42 a.m. 4 November 2025

      Thanks Leah.

      By the sounds of it, a stark raving lunatic who’s trying to waste the limited resources and time of this institution. Not to mention my patience. Ignore please.

      Ray

       Catherine

       London, United Kingdom Day 5

      I’ve never been good at the school pick-up. I don’t like talking to groups of people I vaguely know. Strangers are fine, as are, obviously, friends. I just cannot form a clique to save my life. The nursery gates are rife with stressful opportunities for me to put my foot in my mouth or misinterpret a friendly hello as a ‘Come and talk to us!’ wave when actually it was a ‘I’m busy talking to someone, nice to see you from a distance!’ wave. I have a PhD in Social Anthropology and yet the difference between these two waves can easily be lost on me. The irony, by contrast, is most certainly not.

      For the last few days pick-up has been stressful in a different way. Everyone wants to talk, not because they think I’m a brilliant conversationalist (although I live in hope). No, they seem to want a verbal sounding board for their mounting anxieties. The Plague is all anybody can talk about even though we’re all assuring each other that it’s very far away, what is it up to Glasgow? 400, 500 miles? Perfectly safe. The authorities will have it all in hand soon. One of the other mums, a lawyer, has told me three days in a row, in the resolute, inarguable tone I’m sure she uses in court, that there is absolutely nothing to worry about. Absolutely. Nothing. If she’s trying to convince herself I hope she’s more successful than she’s been in convincing me because all she’s done is stoke the panic I’ve kept simmering away.

      It feels like yesterday we were celebrating Guy Fawkes Night at the St Joseph’s fireworks night. It was an evening of hot dogs, mittens, adorable pictures of Anthony holding a pink-cheeked, excited Theodore. It was the last time I remember feeling truly relaxed and happy in a crowd of people and it was only five days ago. The news is still using the subdued tones of journalists who deal in facts not opinions. But the facts are becoming increasingly nauseating on their own. A virus affecting only men. ‘This has not been confirmed by officials but has been widely observed in the outbreaks in Glasgow, Edinburgh and along the West Coast of Scotland,’ they intone on the news.

      I’ve been racking my brains and I can’t think of a single infectious disease that only affects men. I mean, it’s not like I have a particularly good knowledge of infectious diseases but still. Isn’t it weird? Why is no one from a hospital or the Government confirming how weird that is? It would make me feel better in a strange way if someone from an official body came out and said, ‘This is unheard of, we have no idea what is going on.’

      Beatrice, normally my social saviour – my ‘nursery’ friend – grabs me by the hand, frightening me.

      ‘Beatrice!’ She sent her nanny to do pick-up the last few days. It’s a relief to see a friendly face but the relief quickly dissolves. She is drawn and haggard.

      ‘I’m moving to Norfolk. Tomorrow.’

      ‘What? You’re what?’ I splutter. Beatrice has a country house in Norfolk where she spends, at best, four weekends a year, letting it out on Airbnb the rest of the time.

      ‘The virus. I don’t like the sound of this, Catherine. There’s been an СКАЧАТЬ