Far From My Father’s House. Jill McGivering

hadn’t lost many patients. She hadn’t been a doctor long enough.

      ‘Two others are very ill. One teenage girl. One old woman. Both have high fever. Fatima is with them. She stays late too often.’ Britta raked her hands through her hair, shook her head. ‘It progresses quickly.’

      The waiter came with the sandwich and two more glasses of orange juice.

      ‘You should be careful.’ Britta mimed washing her hands. ‘Lots of soap, lots of scrub.’

      ‘Do you think they’re ill before they arrive?’

      ‘I think so. There must be carriers.’ Britta shrugged. ‘And in these conditions . . .’

      Ellen picked up a quarter of the club sandwich, a high stack of chicken, bacon, egg and salad. Enough to feed a family. She bit into it, oozing mayonnaise.

      Britta was staring into middle distance, her green eyes glassy with exhaustion. ‘She just didn’t respond.’

      Ellen nodded. She chewed slowly, thinking. ‘By the time they reach you, these women are exhausted,’ she said. ‘As well as traumatized. And you don’t know how long they’ve been ill.’

      Britta tutted. ‘Fatima says they’re afraid of the hospital. You know how rumours spread.’ She sighed. ‘Some woman saw the body being taken out this afternoon and caused a panic.’

      Ellen pointed to the sandwich. ‘You’re going to have to help me out,’ she said. ‘There’s far too much.’

      Britta looked at the sandwich, then at her hands. The creases in her palms were black with dirt. ‘Thank you, but I should go and wash.’ She didn’t move.

      ‘Is Frank still there?’

      ‘In the camp?’ She sighed. ‘I think so.’ She leant forward, bracing herself to get up, then seemed to lose heart and sank back into her seat.

      The lobby rang with a sudden burst of music, a brassy jazz rendition of ‘New York, New York’. The handful of diners looked around as the head waiter rushed to lower the volume and the music slid again under the low hum of conversation.

      ‘I spoke to my boss in Geneva,’ Britta said. ‘You know what he said? If many more people die, don’t tell about it.’

      ‘People need to know, Britta.’

      ‘Do they?’ She looked startled as if she’d only just realized that she was confiding in a journalist. ‘That big potato is coming. What’s his name? The British guy.’

      ‘Quentin Khan?’

      ‘Yes, Mr Khan. He’s very careful about his image. Too many deaths, he’ll be scared away. That’s what my boss says.’ Britta’s hand had risen to her cross and she was clasping it in her fist, tugging at it. ‘We need the money. Medicine International isn’t big. Frankly speaking, we had problems before this typhoid. As it is, I hardly have the money to pay for Fatima.’

      ‘You’re worn out.’ Ellen looked at the tension in Britta’s face. ‘Go and have a hot bath. Eat something. Sleep. You’ve done all you can for today.’

      Britta pointed to the laptop. ‘I can’t.’ She looked close to tears. ‘I have so much paperwork. Accounts. Orders.’

      She pulled herself to her feet, picked up her things and murmured goodnight. Her steps to the lifts were slow and heavy.

      At ten, Ellen paid the bill and went back upstairs. She was just getting ready for bed when the phone rang. The voice at the other end was playful.

      ‘Hey, Ellie. What’s up?’

      She smiled at her own fuzzy reflection in the television set, a woman on the brink of middle age looking back at her with bright, amused eyes. ‘I’m going to bed. It’s late. How’re you doing?’

      He snorted. ‘Just great.’

      There was a pause. The phone line seemed to magnify the sound of his breathing. She thought of all the hours they used to spend on the phone together, sometimes talking, sometimes quiet. A long time ago.

      ‘Am I coming up then? Just for a drink. No fooling around.’

      ‘Dead right no fooling around.’ She laughed. It was fun, hearing him again. ‘Give me one good reason why I should say yes?’

      He slowed his voice to a stagey drawl. ‘I got Scotch.’

      She drew back the curtains and switched off the hotel lights and they sat, side by side, looking out through the floor-to-ceiling windows across suburban Peshawar. The road alongside the hotel was a necklace of streetlights, studded with moving cars. House lights blinked randomly in the darkness. In the distance, a blue neon sign spluttered on and off. I should tape the window, she thought, in case there’s a blast. That’s a lot of flying glass.

      The whisky was smooth and mellow. She let it roll over her tongue. It stung slightly, then slipped down her throat. The lights outside began to blur.

      ‘So what happened?’ she said.

      He exhaled heavily as if he’d been punctured. ‘It’s a mess.’ He paused. She sensed his tiredness as he let himself start to unwind. ‘There’s lots more people on the way. And not enough food for the ones we already got.’

      ‘Any idea how many people?’

      He shrugged. ‘All we’ve seen is the first wave. The army’s barely in the foothills.’ He slipped off his sandals and crossed his legs, laying an ankle on the opposite knee and pointing the bare sole of his foot towards her. The black hairs above his ankles showed beneath the baggy bottoms of his jeans. He smelt clean, tinged with the perfume of hotel soap.

      ‘I saw a lot of boxes arriving.’

      He raised his glass to his lips, sipped. ‘Not as many as there should be.’

      ‘Well, there’s always a time lag. Once news of the appeal—’

      ‘I didn’t mean that.’ He was staring out into the darkness, preoccupied. She sipped at her whisky, giving him time. It burnt its way down her throat and into her stomach and spread there, warming and numbing. It wasn’t easy to get alcohol here. It was a treat. ‘Seems like there’s a ton of stuff missing,’ he said slowly. ‘Tents. Sugar. Rice. You name it.’