Seven Days of Us(29)

“Suit yourself,” said Alpha Male.

“Make sure he gets home safe,” Camilla said to Jesse. She seemed to be Mother Hen already.

“No sexy time,” added Alpha Male, and George gave him the finger. Matt looked appalled.

Now it was just the two of them. George was sitting back in his seat, eyelids drooping.

“Last orders!” shouted the barman.

“They’re closing already?” said Jesse.

“This is Norfolk, mate. You’re not in Manhattan now.”

“L.A. I’m West Coast.”

“Same difference.”

Was he just being a dick, or was it a clumsy attempt at flirting? A ringtone broke the moment, and George reached into his pocket. He looked at the screen for a second, switched it to silent, and let it sit, buzzing, on the table.

“Go ahead,” said Jesse, sipping the cool foam from his fresh pint. He’d nursed the first one for ages, and it had grown warm and stale.

“Nah, I’m leaving it.”

“Your girlfriend?” said Jesse. He’d spent enough time with straight men to read the signs.

“Fiancée.”

“Whoa. Serious.”

“I know. Not entirely sure how it happened, if I’m honest.”

“I’m guessing you put a ring on it?”

George grunted. He was staring at the phone, looking spaced out.

“How long have you guys been together?” said Jesse.

“Six years. Don’t get me wrong, she’s an awesome girl. Hundred percent. But it’s a massive commitment, y’know? There’s still a lot I want to do before I settle down, do the whole two-point-four kids thing. Guess you wouldn’t know.”

“Drink up, boys, we’re closin’,” said a hefty, middle-aged barmaid.

“Where are you staying?” asked George, suddenly.

“The Harbour Hotel.”

“Would the bar be open?”

“Maybe.”

“Quick one there, for the road?”

“Won’t your family wonder where you went?”

“They know I can take care of myself.”

“OK. Sure.”

They walked out into the night.





? 4 ?


   Christmas Day 2016


   Quarantine: Day Three





Olivia


THE WILLOW ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 5:30 A.M.

? ? ?





Haag Blog 10: What Happens in PPE Stays in PPE


So here I am, back on British soil, after three months in Liberia. For the rest of the world it’s Christmas Day, but for me and my colleagues this is another twenty-four hours of quarantine. Twice daily, we must report our temperature to Public Health England. We have been supplied with “emergency Haag response kits,” packed with bleach, rubber gloves, and a mysterious little orange trowel, presumably for some kind of emergency burial . . . With these tangible links to Haag, it’s not easy to switch off and feel festive.

Because it turns out that coming home can be lonely. Friends and family either don’t want to hear about the things you’ve seen, or they don’t ask, for fear of upsetting you. “How was it?” they say. “You know, um, eye-opening,” you reply, groping for some palatable truth. “Of course. Must have been awful,” they say, looking uncomfortable, and somehow, at that point, the conversation always moves on. They mean well. But in trying to spare you, and themselves, they unwittingly make it worse. With no outlet, memories fester like untreated wounds.

There’s another shock in homecoming: the flashback. My colleague, who had more practical experience in treating epidemics than me, used to say, “What happens in PPE stays in PPE,” and I now understand what he meant. Let me explain. The Red Zone, the ward where Haag-positive patients were treated, could only be entered in full PPE. For the uninitiated that’s Personal Protective Equipment; a hazmat suit, goggles, wellies, heavy-duty apron, double rubber gloves. Anything that went into the Red Zone had to be bleached, or incinerated, on exit. We dressed with a buddy, to check—and triple-check—each other’s kit. It took at least twenty minutes. The deeper you both got into your PPE, the harder it became to communicate, until you were two shapeless monsters performing a strange dance of exaggerated thumbs-up gestures. If you’ve ever been scuba diving, you’ll have some idea of the process. And, just like going underwater, PPE muffles the senses. Within minutes your goggles are steamed up, you can’t smell anything but yourself—your own sweat, your own breath. Your hearing is foggy. Touch is blunted. It once took me five minutes to ascertain whether a woman was dead. Out of PPE, it would have taken me five seconds.

Then you enter the Red Zone, and do what you have to do. From inside your bubble you see terrible things. Children, screaming and screaming for their mothers—who are crying because they can’t touch their child. People begging you not to let them die, when all you can offer is a few words of badly accented Kreyol. Patients hemorrhaging so fast that within minutes of changing their sheets their beds are drenched with blood. Corpses lying unmoved for hours because there isn’t time to prioritize the dead over the living. By the time your shift finishes, you are emotionally spent. You and your buddy leave the Red Zone and are immediately sprayed with chlorine solution, before painstakingly doffing your PPE. A chlorine shower follows. Next, you must wash your hands three times, wash the tap you used, change into clean, bleach-mottled scrubs and dry wellies. But during this time, something happens. The hour of ritual undressing, washing, and redressing acts as a buffer between the Red Zone and reality. And the strange thing was, the memories did stay in that underwater PPE world, just as my colleague promised.