Dooms Day Book

“Oh, I was glad to help, sir. He’d no one else, you know. I was certain his mother would come now that the danger’s past, but she said it was too difficult to make arrangements on such short notice. She did send lovely flowers. Lilies and laser blossoms. We held the service in Balliol’s chapel.” He shifted on the bed. “Oh, and speaking of the chapel, I do hope you don’t mind, but I’ve given permission to Holy Re-Formed to use it for a handbell concert on the fifteenth. The American bellringers are going to perform Rimbaud’s “When At Last My Savior Cometh,” and Holy Re-Formed’s been requisitioned by the NHS as an immunization center. I do hope that’s all right.”

“Yes,” Dunworthy said, thinking about Mary. He wondered when they had had the funeral, and if they had rung the bell afterwards.

“I can tell them you’d rather they used St. Mary’s,” Finch said anxiously.

“No, of course not,” Dunworthy said. “The chapel’s perfectly all right. You’ve obviously been doing a fine job in my absence.”

“Well, I try, sir. It’s difficult, with Mrs. Gaddson.” He stood up. “I don’t want to keep you from your rest. If there’s anything I can bring you, anything I can do?”

“No,” Dunworthy said, “there’s nothing you can do.”

He started for the door and then stopped. “I hope you’ll accept my condolences, Mr. Dunworthy,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “I know how close you and Dr. Ahrens were.”

Close, he thought after Finch was gone. I wasn’t close at all. He tried to remember Mary leaning over him, giving him his temp, looking up anxiously at the screens, to remember Colin standing by his bed in his new jacket and his muffler, saying, “Aunt Mary’s dead. Dead. Can’t you hear me?” but there was no memory there at all. Nothing.

The sister came in and hooked up another drip that put him out, and when he woke he felt abruptly better.

“It’s your T-cell enhancement taking hold,” William’s nurse told him. “We’ve been seeing it in a good number of cases. Some of them make miraculous recoveries.”

She made him walk to the toilet, and, after lunch, down the corridor. “The farther you can go, the better,” she said, kneeling to put his slippers on.

I’m not going anywhere, he thought. Gilchrist shut down the net.

She strapped his drip bag to his shoulder, hooked the portable motor to it, and helped him on with his robe. “You mustn’t worry about the depression,” she said, helping him out of bed. “It’s a common symptom after influenza. It will fade as soon as your chemical balance is restored.”

She walked him out into the corridor. “You might want to visit some of your friends,” she said. “There are two patients from Balliol in the ward at the end of the corridor. Ms. Piantini’s the fourth bed. She could do with a bit of cheering.”

“Did Mr. Latimer—” he said, and stopped. “Is Mr. Latimer still a patient?”

“Yes,” she said, and he could tell from her voice that Latimer hadn’t recovered from his stroke. “He’s two doors down.”

He shuffled down the corridor to Latimer’s room. He hadn’t gone to see Latimer after he fell ill, first because of having to wait for Andrews’ call and then because the infirmary had run out of SPG’s. Mary had said he had suffered complete paralysis and loss of function.

He pushed open the door to Latimer’s room. Latimer lay with his arms at his sides, the left one crooked slightly to accommodate the hookups and the drip. There were tubes in his nose and down his throat, and opfibers leading from his head and chest to the screens above the bed. His face was half-obscured by them, but he gave no sign that they bothered him.

“Latimer?” he said, going to stand beside the bed.

There was no indication he’d heard. His eyes were open, but they didn’t shift at the sound, and his face under the tangle of tubes didn’t change. He looked vague, distant, as if he were trying to remember a line from Chaucer.

“Mr. Latimer,” he said more loudly, and looked up at the screens. They didn’t change either.

He’s not aware of anything, Dunworthy thought. He put his hand on the back of the chair. “You don’t know anything that’s happened, do you?” he said. “Mary’s dead. Kivrin’s in 1348,” he said, watching the screens, “and you don’t even know. Gilchrist shut down the net.”

The screens didn’t change. The lines continued to move steadily, unconcernedly across the displays.

“You and Gilchrist sent her into the Black Death,” he shouted, “and you lie there—” He stopped and sank down in the chair.

“I tried to tell you Great-Aunt Mary was dead,” Colin had said, “but you were too ill.” Colin had tried to tell him, but he had lain there, like Latimer, unconcerned, oblivious.

Colin will never forgive me, he thought. Any more than he’ll forgive his mother for not coming to the funeral. What had Finch said, that it was too difficult to make arrangements on such short notice? He thought of Colin alone at the funeral, looking at the lilies and laser blossoms his mother had sent, at the mercy of Mrs. Gaddson and the bellringers.