Spoiler
Any feedback would be much appreciated. I don't want to reveal the plot detail just yet - so it may feel a little slow-paced at the moment.
Chapter 1
THE offices of The Detroit Chronicle were out-dated and out of place. Once a prominent feature in the city’s skyline, the 1930s building which housed Michigan’s most popular daily newspaper had been dwarfed by the development of skyscrapers either side of it in recent decades. The Wayne Building had receded like a dying weed, now overshadowed by the superior towers that flanked it. Its mud-brown façade was battered and worn, dulled by 80 years of existence in downtown Detroit. The city’s Planning Department intended to demolish the building within five years in order to redevelop the site for new housing - but The Chronicle were proving to be uncooperative tenants.
The newspaper’s parent company, Gannett, was desperate to retain a presence in the heart of Detroit. Their executives accepted they would eventually have to move to an out-of-town site, but they were determined to drag their heels for as long as the Planning Department would allow them to. The prospect of upheaval had caused worry among the majority of The Chronicle’s staff, but those experienced enough to know that a final decision on the Wayne Building was still some way in the future had been quick to quell the restlessness of their colleagues – or, in the case of Gareth Jepson, had cared so little for the future of the paper that he had barely given the furore around them a second’s notice. Gareth was underpaid, overworked and in nine years as a reporter he had considered quitting more times than he cared to remember. Life in the Motor City had drained him to the point of depression. He had begun a course of Prozac six months ago – and he regularly took twice the dose recommended to him by his doctor. This self-destructive attitude, which was causing great concern amongst his friends, family and colleagues, had begun to impair his work. Twice he had been called in to see the editor in the past month for failing to meet deadlines and, when he arrived at his desk on the first Monday in November to be greeted by yet another appointment memo with his boss, Gareth knew his time was up. Part of him was relieved, part of him feared for what his future held.
Gareth was a tall, lean 44-year-old. His slicked-back hair, once thick and brown was now thinning, broken up by grey strands. His bushy eyebrows had survived the ageing process thus far and were in need of maintenance – as was the stubble on his face, which was usually untidy. His meeting with the editor was not for another half an hour. For a moment he considered emptying his desk and packing up his things. He laughed to himself. He had no things. His desk, barring a beaten-up laptop, a pile of three notepads and a pen, was bare. He had only been sitting at this particular desk since July after being given a new job title. At the time he had told his wife, Janet, that it was a promotion, but officially he had been ‘internally relocated’. During his time at the Chronicle, Gareth had fulfilled several roles. He initially started off in sports, covering the Detroit Lions for three NFL seasons before switching to the position of crime correspondent, which had been a genuine promotion. Crime in Detroit was always big news. The city had a deep-rooted gang problem and rarely did a week pass without a major story breaking. Gareth regularly made the front page and, at one stage, had been a genuine candidate for a job at one of the big national broadcasters, for whom he had always aspired to work for. Those dreams were ended by one error of judgement that almost cost Gareth his entire career, let alone a move to NBC. While covering the high-profile trial of local gangleader Big Fin in the summer of 2001, one of Gareth’s articles, which detailed some of the finer aspects of the case, was deemed to have been in contempt of court. Big Fin’s lawyers immediately filed for a mistrial and succeeded.
The emotional and political fallout that ensued cost Gareth his confidence and his relationship with the city’s police department. The Chronicle decided he was no longer suitable for the position of crime correspondent, and he was banished to the triviality of local news, covering stories from the creation of America’s largest pizza in a Detroit restaurant to the search for a missing cow which had escaped from a nearby farm and wandered into city limits. It was slow-paced and disinteresting, and Gareth hated it.
So it came as something of a relief when he was offered the chance to become the Chronicle’s health correspondent, a new position which, out of sympathy, the paper’s management had created for Gareth in the hope he would rediscover his passion for journalism. Four months in, and the editor, Alice Denatalie, was already regretting her decision. “Gareth,” she said, shouting from across the office, “can you pop in now, please? I need to leave early for a lunch meeting”. Gareth, who had been flicking through his old notebooks, had completely forgotten about his meeting with Alice, but the fact he was going to be put out of his misery sooner rather than later raised his spirits slightly. He stood up with gumption, and walked purposefully towards Alice’s glass office door, from behind which her round face and round glasses were protruding.
“How are you?” she said, as Gareth closed the door behind him and slouched down into a low-riding leather sofa on the back wall of the office, “you look like you’re about to cry every time I glance over at your desk. Is everything alright?” Alice had never been one for tact, and Gareth winced at her tasteless attempt at humour. “I’m fine,” he said softly, “things are just very quiet at the moment.”
“I’m glad you said that,” said Alice, surprising Gareth somewhat with her nonchalant attitude to what had been a blatant lie. Gareth had been inundated with potential stories ever since he began his new role, but he struggled on a daily basis to sum up the motivation to follow his leads. “I’ve had an interesting email that I want you to take a look at. Fairview Hospital have had a spate of infections going around their wards and I want to go quite big on it. Providing the Globe don’t get their hands on it, this should make a good story for us. I’ll forward the email to your Blackberry. Sorry to cut it short, but I better run, I’m already five minutes late for my reservation as it is. Keep me posted.”
Gareth nodded politely before rising and walking back over to his desk, still in shock that he had kept his job. The spread of an infection around a hospital ward was a far cry from the drug-fuelled gang wars he had previously reported on, but Gareth hoped a trip to Fairview, his first as health correspondent, would open up new opportunities for him. He stuffed a notepad and a pen into his satchel, grabbed his car keys and made his way down the maze of winding metal staircases that ran up inside the Wayne Building, reading Alice’s email on his phone as he went. He whistled a nameless tune that echoed off the four concrete walls. For the first time in a long time, Gareth was mildly looking forward to a day’s work.
Chapter 2
FAIRVIEW was the largest hospital in Detroit. It was situated on Outer Drive, one of Detroit’s major ring roads, and to get there Gareth had to first navigate his way through the lunchtime traffic in the city centre. The petrol light of his blue Ford Contour was on – but it always was. Gareth had the attitude of a taxi driver; if his hard-earned cash could be in the bank earning interest, rather than in his tank, then he would leave it there until his car was running on fumes and on the verge of breaking down completely. Only then would he fill-up. Sitting in traffic, listening to the engine ticking over and his dollars dissipating into the downtown air would usually put Gareth in a foul mood, but today his spirits were high, thoughts of quitting The Chronicle buried at the very back of his mind.
Driving around Detroit was never a particularly pleasant experience on the best of days. Once a thriving metropolis, no city in America more demonstrated urban decay. If Seattle was the Emerald City, Detroit was the Grey one. The roads, the buildings, the sky. Parts of downtown were little more than derelict shells, relics frozen in time, disused and abandoned. Trees grew on the tops of buildings. The car plants, which once proudly gave the Motor City its name and reputation, lay crumbling amid a sea of unkempt grass. A three-bedroom house on Albany Street, in the northern suburbs, once sold for a dollar. Fortunately for Gareth, he was heading south.
The prison-like structure of Fairview loomed in the distance. A wire fence ran from the sidewalk to the very rear of the site, enclosing the hospital’s three main buildings. The red brickwork was faded and crumbling at the corners. Gareth had been here before, but never inside. He imagined it was dark. The hospital’s only sources of natural light were small, metal-framed windows, all of which were the same size and shape and ran in strips along the sides of each building. The luminous glow of sterile lighting spilled out into the car park, in which Gareth now sat, recounting his one and only visit here. It was during his time as The Chronicle’s crime correspondent that he had sat in the lobby of Fairview’s main building awaiting details of an injured police officer, who had been shot, twice, in broad daylight while patrolling Outer Drive. Gareth had been asked to leave by the receptionist without being given so much as a name. As he thought about it now, he could not remember whether or not the officer had survived his injuries. He knew of many who hadn’t.
Gareth made his way across the car park, locking the Contour as he walked, before climbing a short flight of stairs to the main entrance. The glass doors before him parted automatically to reveal Fairview’s main reception, which, barring an old couple and a young mother, was empty. Gareth approached the front desk.
“Hi there,” he said to the receptionist, who was typing on her computer, “my name is Gareth Jepson. I’m from The Chronicle, here to see the Director of Nursing. I have an appointment for one o’clock.” Without saying a word the receptionist disappeared into a back office and returned with a clipboard and a pen.
“Please fill this form out and then take a seat,” she said, “the Director will be with you shortly.” But as soon as Gareth had sat down a short, portly woman appeared at the door, calling his name.
“You must be Gareth,” she said, shaking his hand, “welcome to Fairview. I’m Susan Haynes, Director of Nursing. It’s lovely to meet you.” She looked down at his empty form. “Oh, don’t worry about that. You can fill it out after. It’s just standard procedure really, we ask everyone who visits us in a professional capacity to give us their contact details, in case we ever need to call them again.”
“I guessed it was something like that,” replied Gareth, “here – why don’t you take my card? I’m the new health correspondent at The Chronicle so I’m sure we will be speaking quite regularly in the future.” Susan accepted his card with a smile, but insisted he fill out an official form after their meeting. She led him through two sets of double doors and down a long, narrow corridor, at the end of which was her office.
“Please, take a seat,” she said, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk. “So, Gareth, how can I help you?”
“Well, I gather you’ve had to deal with an unusually high number of infections on your wards in recent week. I was merely wondering what you could tell me about them and explain how you intend to deal with the problem? If you want to settle any nerves amongst the public, we could always do an interview.” Susan rocked back in her chair and paused, a contemplative expression spreading across her face. After an unnatural wait, she replied:
“There have been no infections on our wards. Nothing out of the ordinary, at least. Thinking about it, I’d say we’ve had no more than two instances of MRSA in the past six months – I assume that’s what you meant by ‘infections’?” Gareth had no idea what he meant by infections, he was simply reciting the contents of Alice’s email. Despite his job title, he was completely ignorant of America’s health care issues. “I suppose so,” he replied, unconvincingly.
“Well, in that case, that’s nothing out of the ordinary. About 100,000 people die every year in this country because of hospital-acquired infections. It’s a tragedy, but Fairview is one of the more innovative facilities when it comes to combating superbugs. I’m interested to know what made you think we had a problem here?”
“Even if I did know,” Gareth began, “I wouldn’t want to compromise a source by telling you, but truthfully I don’t. I was sent here by my editor – I assume the paper received a tip-off.”
The tone of Susan’s voice changed. “There is no infection problem at Fairview and whoever is spreading these lies could be causing unnecessary and groundless concern amongst our patients,” she fumed. “It would be very unwise of you to print a story based on what your tipster says. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Slightly taken aback by her sudden aggression, Gareth exchanged pleasantries with Susan and exited the office hastily, his notepad still bare. The inside of Fairview was exactly as he had imagined. The air in the corridors was warm and thick, the ceilings low and the walls too close together. The fluorescent strip lighting flickered at random intervals. The hum of electricity provided the hospital with an eerie soundtrack, interrupted occasionally by the muffled sound of a door slamming in a distant corridor. Gareth was almost at the first set of double doors when Susan called after him.
“Gareth, wait,” she said, almost panicked. Gareth turned to acknowledge her, but said nothing. “Please wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude – I’m just under a lot of pressure at the moment and the last thing I need is a PR disaster to deal with. The management board would be on my case if a story appeared in The Chronicle – especially something that wasn’t true. I hope you understand?"
“Sure,” Gareth replied, lying, “these things happen. I’ve followed up countless dead-ends as a journalist and I guess this is just another one of those. It is a bit of a strange one though – the tip-off was so specific. Ah well, no damage done.”
“Thank you for being so understanding. And again, I’m sorry if I lost my temper. Call me if you need anything else – you have my card don’t you?”
“I do – and you mine,” replied Gareth with a smile, remembering their earlier conversation in the lobby.
“Don’t forget to fill out that contact form on your way out,” she said, smiling back at him, “you’ll get me into trouble!”
Susan retreated into her office, leaving Gareth alone in the corridor. His visit to Fairview had been a waste. He would have to return to Alice empty-handed, storyless and one step-closer to being fired. He saw little point in filling out the contact form that Susan insisted he complete - he doubted he would ever see her again - but as he re-entered the lobby the receptionist was already waiting for him, clipboard in hand.
“I know, I know,” he said, stopping her before she could speak. She handed him a pen.
“Tough day?” she asked.
“No, just a waste of one. I don’t like hospitals and this has been a pointless visit.”
“I don’t like hospitals either, but the money’s good. What brings you to Fairview anyway? This place is deserted most of the time.”
“I was looking into whether there’d been a high number of infections going around the wards recently,” Gareth said, “but apparently there’s been nothing unusual.”
“Oh no, like I said it’s been very quiet. Some days are busier than others but it never gets crazy. It gets busy on clinic days though.”
“What kind of clinics do they run here?”
“Every few months they close the hospital down and open it up to drug addicts – they’re mad if you ask me – they give them advice and a quick look over. They’ve been doing it for years. There’s one next week actually. Folks come from all over. Lots of them from Chicago. I once spoke to a man who had come Indiana. I guess there aren’t many private hospitals that open their doors for free. My husband has this theory that it helps the hospital pay less taxes – you know, because it counts as charity work? He’s a cynic my husband.”
“Perhaps they actually care here,” replied Gareth. “Anyway, I better get back to the office and break the bad news to my editor. Here’s your form. Have a nice day.”
Gareth turned to face the exit and sighed. Rain was lashing against the doors. He could barely make out the Contour, which had been distorted by the water droplets on the glass into little more than a blue blur. He used his woollen jacket to fashion a makeshift umbrella, raising it above his head, and hurried across the car park, his foot splashing in puddles as he ran. The temperature outside had plummeted. It was barely two o’clock, but the thick black clouds overhead were blocking out the already-dim November light, making it feel much later. The days were getting shorter. Soon it would snow. Gareth wiped the condensation from the thermometer on his dashboard. It was only a few degrees above freezing. He turned the heating up to full and sunk down into the driver’s seat, allowing the warm air to drive the damp from his face. He called Alice.
“Hi Alice, it’s Gareth. How was lunch?”
“It was nice. We went to that Italian in Greektown – you know it?”
“Giovanni’s? I went there with Janet once. The food was nice, but the service was slow. The owner is a funny guy.”
“Yeah, he came over to ask how the food was. My pizza was a bit cold but I didn’t tell him. Anyway, enough about my lunch, how are things at Fairview?”
“Not good,” replied Gareth. “I’m just leaving. The Director of Nursing said they’ve had no infections recently. I spoke to one of the receptionists and she said the same. I guess it was just a bad tip. Can you remember where it came from?”
“It got passed to me from David on the news desk. I forgot to ask who had called in. I’m on my way back to the office now, I’ll try and find out. That’s a shame though; it would have made a good story. It’s been a while since you’ve been on the frontpage.”
“It’s been too long. But reporting on health doesn’t compare to crime - even local news - and it’s very quiet. I’m sure something will come along soon. I’m doing my best.”
“Glad to hear it. You’ve certainly dropped off the radar a bit. I had one of the directors on the phone last week asking if you had left the paper. But like you said, I guess it is quiet.”
Alice was too nice, too polite. Gareth knew, despite her gentle encouragement, that he was teetering on the brink. The involvement of one of Gannet’s directors unnerved him; he knew it was only a matter of time before he got the dreaded phone call. He would have to step things up. “I better get going,” he said, “I want to make it back to the office before the rush hour starts. In this rain, it’ll be even worse than it normally is. See you in an hour?”
“See you then.” Alice hung up. The rain, which the cold air was slowly turning into slush, was pounding on the Contour’s bonnet. The engine stuttered as it started. The windscreen wipers struggled to keep pace with the torrential downpour, even on their fastest setting. With his eyes squinted, struggling to see in the low light and bad weather, Gareth pulled away towards Outer Drive. The route onto the ring road was blocked, however, by a large black van. It was parked outside the main entrance, in a no-waiting zone. Gareth beeped his horn. A man, shaven-headed and dressed in a dark suit, emerged from the passenger door.
“Sorry sir,” he said, as Gareth wound down his window, “we’re just making a delivery. My colleague is inside now and there are only a few more boxes left to take inside. You know what, I’ll take some of them in now, so we can get out of your way. Apologies.”
“OK,” Gareth replied, his frustration only partly alleviated. The man returned to the van, opened one of the rear doors and took out two small packages, which he carried under his arm and into the lobby. After a minute he returned, accompanied by another man. Gareth prepared to pull away, but the second man reached inside the van to collect another box. Gareth beeped his horn again. “Fucking hell, come on!” he shouted to no one. Noticing his growing anger, the second man, also dressed in a suit, approached the Contour.
“We’re really sorry. Thank you for your patience. This is the last one. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Fine. Hurry up. I have places to be buddy.” As the man turned back towards the hospital, Gareth could not help but notice the box tucked under his right arm. Amid a sprawl of black text on the label were the four unmistakable letters: MRSA.
