Stranded by Val McDermid Read Free Book Online Page B

we both knew too much about the transmission routes of the virus for the idea of putting me at risk to take deep root. Sure, it meant changes for how we made love, but that was a tiny price to pay for the affirmation that her life would go on.
    We spent the weekend behind closed doors, loving each other, talking endlessly about what she’d have to do to maximise her chances of long-term health. At some point on Sunday, she confessed that Claire had refused to have sex since the diagnosis. That made me angrier than anything I’d previously known or suspected about the abuse of power between the two of them.
    That parting was the worst. I wanted to take her home with me. I wanted our passion to be her cocoon against the virus. But realistically, even if she’d been able to leave Claire, we both knew her best chance for access to the latest treatments would be to remain in the West.
    Oddly, in spite of the cataclysmic nature of her news, nothing really changed between us. The old channels of communication remained intact, the intensity between us diminished not at all. The only difference was that now we also discussed drug treatments, dietary regimes and alternative therapies.
    Then one Monday, silence. No e-mail. I wasn’t too worried. There had been days when Elinor hadn’t been able to write, but mostly those had been on the weekend when she’d not been able to escape Claire’s oppressive attention. Tuesday dragged past, then Wednesday. No reply to my e-mails, no phone call. Nothing. Finally, on the Thursday, I tried to call her at work.
    Voice-mail. I left an innocuous message and hung up. Friday brought more silence. The weekend was a nightmare. I checked my e-mail neurotically, every hour, on the hour. I was afraid to go out in case she called, and by Sunday night my apartment felt like a prison cell. Monday, I spoke to her voice-mail again. Desperation had me in its grip. I even considered taking the chance of calling her at home. Instead, I hit on the idea of calling the department secretary.
    â€˜I’ve been trying to contact Dr Stevenson,’ I said when I finally got through.
    â€˜Dr Stevenson is away at present,’ the stiff English voice said.
    â€˜When will she be back?’
    â€˜I really can’t say.’
    I’d been fighting fear for days, but now my defences were crumbling fast. ‘Look, I’m a personal friend of Elinor’s,’ I said. ‘From St Petersburg. I’m due to be in London this week and we were supposed to meet. But I’ve had no reply to my e-mails, and I really need to contact her about our arrangements. Can you help me?’
    The voice softened. ‘I’m afraid Dr Stevenson’s very ill. She won’t be well enough to have a meeting this week.’
    â€˜Is she in hospital?’ Somehow, I managed to keep hold of my English in the teeth of the terror that was ripping through me.
    â€˜Yes. She’s a patient here.’
    â€˜Can you put me through to the ward she’s on?’
    â€˜I’m . . . I’m sorry, she’s in intensive care. She won’t be able to speak to you.’
    I don’t remember ending the call. Just the desperate pain her words brought in their wake. I couldn’t make sense of what I was hearing. It ran counter to all I knew about HIV and AIDS. It was a matter of months since Elinor had been infected. For her to be so ill so soon was virtually unheard of. People lived with HIV for years. Some people lived with AIDS for years. It was impossible.
    But the impossible had happened.
    I spent the next couple of days in a frenzy of activity, staving off my alarm with action. I couldn’t afford the flight, but I managed to get the money together by borrowing from my three closest friends. I couldn’t explain to my boss why I needed the time off and we were under pressure at work, so there was no prospect of making it to London before the weekend. The rest of my spare