The body

The Body

“The corpse, Doctor?”

“Yes, th... the corpse.”

“I’m sure that you are fully aware of the seriousness of this case, Doctor,” Jane said. “I must see the body now.”

“Ar  ...I’m afraid, Mrs. Wrelton, you may not be in luck. The cadaver appears to have disappeared.”

“Disappeared? Impossible. A body cannot simply walk out of a hospital,” Jane replied, raising her eyebrows slightly.

“Mrs Wrelton, or is it Miss?” Doctor Kubango enquired. “As I just said Mrs Pinto’s remains are no longer here; she was right here in this room but as she no longer is, I can only assume that she is missing and since without a body, you can no longer have any need for me, I bid you good day.”

“But  ... Doctor, we must find it.”

“Miss Wrelton, I deal with the living. I cannot afford to waste my time on the dead. So if you will excuse me.”

And with those parting words Doctor Kubango turned and strode out of the room.

Left alone, Jane’s head began to spin. After fifteen hours of travel, she was on the verge of collapse. The two hour internal flight in a rickety, old plane from Luanda to Uige had been the worst part. She had been certain it would plummet from the sky at any moment.

She leaned against a wall to support herself as she readjusted her head gear to ensure all her fly-away blonde strands were swept into her white plastic hood. Her eyes were a misty haze. An emotional well began to gather in them and a silent, defiant tear ran off her nose, dropping unwanted onto the dirt-ridden floor. A feeling of unease and foreboding nagged at her. Something was very wrong.

Jane filled her lungs full of air and exhaled slowly and purposefully. More composed, she began to examine the room.

On first glance, it was a typical hospital room, clinical and white but on closer examination Jane revealed small inconsistencies. The medicinal smell commonly associated with hospitals was missing. Instead, dampness pervaded the air. It was not hygienic or sterile; cobwebs gathered in the corners and telling red smears stained the walls.

“What a place to die,” Jane thought. And when her gaze finally turned to the solitary bed in the corner of the room, she added, “and what a way to die.”

There was so much blood. Deep, dark, lonely blood, expelled from a body as its last breath was taken.

There was blood on the sheets, blood on the floor and blood leading out of the room.

Fresh blood.

As Jane scrutinized the room, the words, “you’re out of your depth,” echoed around her cluttered mind, chased by question she had been asking herself since getting on the death trap to Uige, “why did I beg my supervisor for this assignment?”

She could hear herself, convincing her supervisor at WHO of her abilities: “I’m ready for this. I speak Portuguese. I am fine to go alone. I can do this.”

But she didn’t feel very ready now. Even her language skills had proved to be useless.  Doctor Kubango had laughed at her text book Portuguese and then addressed her in flawless, antiquated English.

She reassured herself with the belief that Mrs. Pinto’s death was probably a one off. That is was a rare, non-contagious disease that the doctors lacked the required medical knowledge to diagnose. Probably.

A lump of fear grew in Jane’s throat as she took one last look at the soggy, red mattress before creeping out of the room.

She found herself in a white, sterile corridor with two doors leading from it.  Jane stood still and listened to the sounds around her. Cries, muffled conversations and the clanging of metal, medical instruments mingled together to create an erroneous melody.

Following the direction of the noise, Jane pushed the first door open. It squeaked ajar, exposing, a cacophony of young girls sprawled on tired, unwelcoming beds.  The children were of all ages and sizes, but they shared a common fate; desperation and hopelessness. Their owl like, haunting eyes turned towards Jane as she delicately tiptoed further into the room.

“Spaceman!” a child hollered.

The face of another toddler slowly began to crease up as tears slipped from her eyes and loud, disturbing howls were emitted from her mouth.

Jane glanced down at her protective suit and cursed the strict regulations that WHO placed on investigations of mysterious deaths. Decked out in a white plastic suit complete with mask, goggles, gloves and boots, she was an overgrown marshmallow. She looked more ready to tackle life on Mars, than a children’s ward.

Of course,  she had been pleased to have the suit when she had stood in the presence of all that blood but how could she persuade the locals to talk  to her if she looked like she was from outer space?

She had to try.

Jane sauntered slowly up to a child who was lying listlessly on a sagging mattress.

“Hola. Qual o seu nome?” Jane asked raising her mask and smiling encouragingly at the child.

Nothing.

“How am I going to find out their symptoms if I couldn’t even get them to tell me their names?” she thought desperately.

Squeezing herself between the tightly packed beds, Jane tried to engage a few more children.

As she approached them, the children buried their faces in their hands. Quiet whimpering sounds could be heard. Fear swirled above their heads.  None of them would look at her.

Sighing, Jane began to head towards the exit, when she spotted a lonely, naked doll with one arm chewed up to the elbow. Gradually Jane moved towards the doll which was lying face down on the ground. She eased herself down to pick it up. Small, round blotches had been drawn on the doll’s back.

She cautiously offered the doll to a girl in the nearest cot.

Nothing. The girl simply buried herself under a filthy, once-white sheet.

But in the corner of her eye, Jane watched another girl with shaved hair stare longingly at the doll.

With an outstretched arm, Jane offered the tatty toy to the hairless girl.

The girl sprung into life and seized the doll like a lion jumping on its prey and then buried herself and her prey under her dirty bed covers.

“Is the doll ill?” Jane murmured.

The child peered over the sheet and very slightly moved her head up and down whilst covering her face with her arm.

“What is the doll’s name?” Jane continued, encouraged.

“Pa ..Patricia,” the girl mumbled.

“And you, what is your name?”

“An  ... Andrea.”

“Are you ill like Patricia?” She looked momentary away from the child. Her teeth clenched together.

Painfully, Andrea sat up and lifted up her t-shirt and to reveal bumpy, inflamed spots lining her lower back.

Colour drained from Jane’s face and she tensed her lips together.

Steadying her shaking hand, Jane quietly asked Andrea if she could pull down her bottom lip. Andrea’s eyes shone with fear as she complied with this seemingly strange request.

Readjusting her suit to ensure every inch of her was covered, Jane took a swab and vial out of her pocket and wiped it quickly over the girl’s mouth to catch her saliva and then delicately placed it in the vial.

When she was finished, she turned once more and looked at Andrea. A small trickle of blood ran from the girl’s nose. There was nothing she could do for her.

A silent tear ran down Jane’s face. “Why does this poor, innocent girl have to die?” she thought bitterly to herself. “What has she done wrong?”

She delicately carried the sample out of the room. Only by testing could she confirm her worst fears. She didn’t know what it could be but she knew it wouldn’t be good.

Jane scuttled down the corridor to find Dr. Kubango again. She had to get the sample tested.

On entering his office, Dr. Kubango muttered, “Still here, Miss Wrelton, I see,” while continuing flicking through a patient’s file.

“Yes and I shall not be going anywhere until we find that body and I get this tested.”

Ignoring her, “I hear you have been scaring small children in that suit of yours. Don’t you think it is a little dramatic?”

“If I am right about this sample, it certainly will not be,” Jane snapped. “And what I really want to know is why you reported her illness to WHO in the first place if you don’t want to help me diagnose her condition.”

“It is my duty to report suspicious circumstances. Nothing more. If you are quite finished, I have many more patients to see. As I told you before my concern is the living not the dead.”

Jane thought about the tell tale spots on Andrea’s back and the river of blood that had oozed from her nose.

“Doctor, you will have even more patients to deal with if we don’t test this sample.  And if we don’t find that body, it is the living who will suffer; the dead no longer can.”

“Nurse!” the doctor yelled into the corridor. A timid, elderly lady hobbled into the room. “Sister Kabinba, please show Miss Wrelton here to the laboratory.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Jane mumbled as Sister Kabinba pushed her gently towards the door.

As they walked along the corridor to the laboratory, Jane tried to engage her new recruit into a conversation but her attempts were futile. Sister Kabinba leisurely shuffled her feet along whilst vehemently studying the white, cracked tiles that lined the floor. Occasionally, she would steal a shy glance at Jane, but at the first sign of recognition, Sister Kabinba would study the floor in even more detail than she previously had.

After a few minutes, they stood in front of a heavy metal door and the nurse held out an open palm.

Despite Jane’s previous attempts at conversation in Portuguese, Sister Kabinba flatly stated, “Sample  ... give to me  ... must.” She suddenly stared Jane directly in the eyes. Jane shivered. It was a stare of pure dislike.

Even before the “o” had formed on the word “no”, the nurse grabbed the sample out of Jane’s protective glove and screeched, “tomorrow,” before forcing the rusted door open and letting it swing violently closed behind her.

Jane stood opened mouthed, thinking only of the bare, wrinkled hand that had snatched the potentially deadly sample out of her gloved hand. Knowing that all she could do now was wait, she decided to head back to her hotel.

Before leaving the hospital she stripped off her suit, disposing of it carefully in a hospital incinerator. She had plenty more.

An intense, humid heat slapped Jane fiercely across the face as she pushed the hospital door open.

Blinded by sun, she staggered out onto the street. It was late in the day and within the hour, the beating hot sun would be swiftly wiped out like a windscreen wiper washing off a stain.

Uige was a hive of activity. Its residents were returning from their labour intensive days to their small corrugated-iron shacks. The town had a temporary feel to it as if the residents could walk out of it one day carrying all their possessions on their backs.

Jane stood outside the hospital observing the street. Every woman that passed had two vital accessories with them; a baby on their back secured by a brightly coloured sarong and an object on her head. Baskets of bananas, pineapples and oranges paraded past her delicately perched on ladies’ head like offerings to the Gods.

Walking to her hotel, Jane felt as if she had entered a time warp. It was if all development had stopped in 1970s or 1975 to be more exact; the day the Portuguese moved out and left Angola to its fate; 27 years of bloody civil war.  All repairs, care and maintenance had also stopped on that fateful day and the buildings now stood as crumbling relics of a bygone era. Relics full of bullet holes.

Jane’s hotel had once been an impressive and welcoming establishment but years of fighting, neglect and decay had seen to its downfall. Nevertheless, it was a bed and Jane collapsed exhausted onto it. She felt as heavy as stone; weighed down by the enormity of her task. She wanted to help people. She wanted to stop the spread of disease, to combat illnesses that are long gone in the West. She just didn’t know how to do it. She had joined WHO, full of naïve enthusiasm, excited about the chance to do something meaningful, something that would make a difference. She just hadn’t realised that doing something worthwhile would be so difficult and tiring. How could she connect to people who didn’t trust her and saw her as an intruder?

She fell into an uneasy sleep, dreamless yet still full of blood and suffering as if the future was playing itself out in front of her eyes.

Jane woke up to loud ringing in her ears. Disorientated, she looked around the white washed room momentarily wondering where she was. She sunk back down in her bed when she remembered the horror of her situation.

“Hello,” Jane mumbled into the receiver.

“Miss. Wrelton, I have the results.” Dr. Kubango's deep tones echoed at the other end of the line.

“And ..?”

“You have better come and look at them yourself.”

Jane was left with the dead tone at the other end of the line.

She raced back to the hospital and impatiently threw her suit, goggles and gloves over her clothes while stumbling up the steps of the hospital. In the lobby, she bumped into the doctor.

“Ar .. the space lady returns.”

“Doctor.”

“Please come to the laboratory. I have the results ready for your inspection.”

Silently they walked to the laboratory. Doctor Kubango gestured for Jane to look into a microscope. She gazed into it. Her face lost more and more colour the longer she looked.

“I have never seen this virus before. “Do you know…?” On seeing Jane’s paleness, Doctor Kubango faltered. 

“Only in books.”

“What is it?”

“Marburg. I knew it had to be something terrible when I saw all that blood.”

“Mar … what? Never heard of it,” Dr. Kubango replied.

“It is Ebola’s deadly cousin.  It is essentially the same. Death occurs in over 90% of all cases. The disease is easily passed on by blood, salvia, and vomit. Even sweat,” Jane paused, “You must tell me where the body is.”

“I afraid I do not know where the cadaver is,” Dr, Kubango uttered whilst heading for the exit. “I must take my leave. Patients.”

Mouth wide open, Jane stared incredulously at his back as he strolled to the door. How could he just walk out? Did he not understand the implications of the disease? Why aren’t we talking about isolation units? Patients with similar symptoms? Andrea?

If Jane had felt out of her depth the other day, she now felt as if she was standing in a bottomless pit.

Teary eyed, she telephoned London and alerted them to situation. But she knew that it would be at least two days until international teams of doctors descended like flies on the unsuspecting town of Uige.

Until then, she was alone, inexperienced and lost.

Alone, she had to stop a deadly virus. She felt like she was playing the lead role in a horror movie only it was real and she wasn’t equipped with any of the astounding supernatural abilities that film heroines seem to possess.

She placed her hands on top of her protective head gear and silently cried out, “What can I do?”

An image of a well loved, battered doll came into her mind. Andrea.

She strode along the corridor and into the paediatric ward. Her eyes scanned the listless bodies in the room. She was pleased that the suit was covering her quivering mouth. She had to appear to be strong for the children’s sake. Not let them know their inevitable fate.

In the corner, she saw Andrea’s weak frame. Death was upon her.

She walked over to her, treading softly.

“Andrea, did you know Mrs. Pinto?” Jane asked desperately.

“Yes … she … nurse … nice to me,” Andrea weakly murmured and then continued, “I sad for Mr. Pinto. He cried when he took her away.”

“Where did he take her, Andrea?”

“Home,” Andrea answered. “I am going home soon too.”

Jane searched the child’s face for more clues. What did she mean she was going home soon? Did she know she was dying? Like the other girls who had been in contact with Mrs. Pinto. Like the other girls who had been in contact with Andrea.

Then it hit her like a blast of fire.

She shuddered. Would Mr. Pinto now be infected? Surely he couldn’t have avoided touching some of his wife’s blood, vomit or sweat?

Jane raced to Dr.Kubango's office and flung open the door.

“Mrs. Pinto is at home,” she cried out.

“Yes,” Dr. Kubango stated flatly.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

“Miss Wrelton, you barge into my hospital, unwelcome. You create terror in my patients in that outfit of yours. You demand that I bend to your every whim. You come here with your western ideas and philosophies. You have no understanding at all of how the local people must feel, of how Mrs. Pinto’s relatives must feel or any of the unfortunate hospital staff that were unlucky enough to watch Alexandra’s painful death. I will not be ordered about in my own hospital.”

“But .. more people will die if we don’t stop it from spreading.”

“Death is a matter of course in Angola, Miss Wrelton. I only try help to them part in as much dignity as they can. Alexandra was much loved. I couldn’t bear the idea of leaving her alone in the morgue, unclean.”

Jane’s jaw dropped. “You let them wash the body? What about th … the … blood?”

“I don’t expect you to understand but the death rituals are an important part of our culture; I couldn’t refuse Mr. Pinto his natural right. Our customs dictate that we wash the dead in order to cleanse them for their next journey.” Doctor Kubango's eyes searched the floor, beseechingly.

“And what do we do now?”  Jane asked exhaustedly.

“I will take you to their house. He will have finished by now.”

They left the hospital together and marched purposefully along the crowded streets of Uige. The further they walked the less robust and permanent the buildings appeared. The paved road turned to red mud and Jane found herself walking between hastily constructed red mud shacks.

Doctor Kubango entered one of them. A putrid smell wafted out as the door opened.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pinto. We have come for Alexandra,” he stated avoiding Mr. Pinto’s gaze.

A bed was placed in the centre of the room. A man was gently sponging a pale, lifeless figure outstretched on the bed. Tears rolled down his eyes whilst he hummed a melancholy tune. Jane glanced at his naked back. Red tell tale spots looked back.

“No matter. I will join her soon.”

Marburg was out.
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Although fictional in content and with fictional characters, this story is based on the Marburg virus in Uige, Angola in 2004 that claimed over 200 lives. It started in a paediatric ward in the provincial hospital and was rumoured to have spread so quickly amongst the Uige's population due to the local custom of washing the dead.