The Second Cure Page 4

  ‘I love you too. Sorry for being a shit,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘Really. I’m fine.’

  Winnie had turned off the hose, peeled off her gardening gloves, and now greeted them both with a kiss on the cheek. ‘Guess what I’ve made for dessert,’ she told Charlie.

  ‘Your trifle?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Charlie. ‘You spoil me.’

  ‘Her ladyship not here yet?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Her flight gets in at six-thirty. With the traffic, who knows when she’ll arrive? She said to start dinner without her.’

  ‘The garden’s looking great, Winnie. I don’t know how you keep it alive in this weather,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to if they bring back water restrictions. They’re talking about it.’ Winnie led the way into the gloom of the hallway. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll finish up in the kitchen.’

  The garden might be looking good, but Winnie wasn’t, Charlie thought. Had she lost weight? There was a sallowness to her complexion, a hollowing beneath her cheekbones and something subdued about her manner. As Winnie went off to tend to the kitchen, Charlie and Richard turned left into the dining room.

  There had been an addition to the shrine since Charlie’s last visit. While it wasn’t the worst such display Charlie had seen, it certainly wasn’t the most tasteful. Not for Winnie a couple of photos and a discreet urn. She had now joined the increasing numbers of bereaved former cat owners employing the services of a taxidermist. This specimen wasn’t a bad job. The cat-stuffing industry was burgeoning, and high demand had led to some singularly untalented artisans setting up shop and delivering creatures that belonged in a horror movie, not in the ‘memorial tableau’ (as the advertisements had it) of a departed moggie. At the high end of the scale there were the Japanese animatronic models, huge in the US, allowing movement of the head as sensors picked up the owner’s presence in the room. The cat would turn and gaze longingly at its former human through glass eyes, and a voice synthesiser mimicked its meows. Some of them even squirmed with pleasure when you stroked them.

  Stuff of nightmares, Charlie thought.

  Next to the cat, its bowl and what had presumably been a favourite soft toy was a mantel clock. Dinner was accompanied by its low ticking and quarter-hourly chimes. The air in the dining room was close, scented with furniture polish and the sharp edge of lavender. In the middle of winter, the room was cosy and welcoming, but in summer it was stultifying. Heavy floral curtains were drawn against the low sun. If a late afternoon nor’easterly breeze was cooling things down out there, they wouldn’t know about it. These old brick houses were fine for the first couple of days of a heat wave, insulating well and keeping the warmth out. But after that the heat accumulated, and even when a southerly buster blasted through the city and dropped the temperature by fifteen degrees, the house would remain unbearable.

  Winnie served them cold roast chicken and salad from her garden. Heritage tomatoes, an array of leafy greens, cucumbers and snow peas, all with deep flavours impossible to find in a supermarket. A glass of chilled Riesling would have been perfect, but Winnie was not a drinker. Mother and son chatted about Richard’s latest commission, a string quartet that was soon to go into rehearsal.

  Charlie, though, found it hard to pay attention to the conversation. Her eyes were drawn back to the stuffed cat.

  Winnie saw the direction of her gaze and smiled. ‘Did you notice Mr Darcy, Richard?’ she asked her son, nodding towards the corpse.

  ‘Hmm?’ Richard craned around towards the mantel. ‘Oh! You had him done …’

  ‘Doesn’t he look wonderful? They did a beautiful job, I think.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d kept him,’ said Charlie, weakly.

  ‘Yes, I popped him in the Esky when he passed, then the taxidermist freeze-dried him. It’s much more expensive than embalming chemicals, but just look at the result!’

  Mr Darcy stared at Charlie and she stared back.

  ‘The difficult thing was deciding how he should be posed,’ continued Winnie. ‘Sleeping was a possibility, but that might look like he was dead, and I didn’t want to be reminded of that. The taxidermist suggested a hunting pose, like he was about to pounce, but that just made me think of all the poor little birds Mr Darcy used to bring me. It was always much easier to think of him as a pacifist. So I went with this.’ The cat was stretched out along the ledge, looking self-satisfied. It still looked dead, but dead in a relaxed sort of way, Charlie supposed. Talking about him seemed to have perked up Winnie, though. Even when dead, Mr Darcy gave her comfort.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ came a husky voice from the doorway. They all turned away from their contemplation of the cat.

  ‘Brigid!’ cried Winnie. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. Come along, take a seat, meet Charlie.’ Her hands, scarcely ever in repose, fluttered around her wayward hair. She made the introductions.

  ‘Finally,’ Brigid said to Charlie. ‘I’d say I’ve heard so much about you, but that brother of mine never tells me anything.’ Charlie knew that wasn’t true. Richard and Brigid nattered constantly on the phone.

  Richard pulled Brigid into a bear hug. No sexual dimorphism in these siblings, Charlie noted: apart from being different sexes, they looked uncannily alike. Even their curly black hair was cut the same way, just above the collar, and their eyes were precisely the same hue of blue. It looked like the only chromosomes they didn’t share were her X and his Y.

  ‘Skinnier than ever,’ Richard told his sister.

  ‘You can talk,’ she said, but her eyes were back on Mr Darcy. ‘Mum, that is disgusting.’

  ‘You never liked him,’ said Winnie.

  ‘I wonder if I’m still allergic to it now it’s carked it.’

  Winnie shook her head at her daughter’s insensitivity as she gestured to the empty table setting. ‘Come and eat.’

  Brigid looked at the chicken on the table. ‘I knew you’d do that. I knew you’d serve meat.’

  ‘There’s a vegetarian lasagne in the fridge, I made it yesterday –’

  But Brigid wasn’t listening. She went into the hall and returned with a bag of takeaway plastic containers. ‘It’s all right. I brought my own.’ She began unpacking an array of Indian dishes, eggplant bharta, naan, chilli pickles, mango chutney, dhal, turmeric rice and cucumber raita. The aromas filled the room.

  ‘I bought too much, as usual. Anyone else want some?’

  ‘I think we’re all stuffed to the gills,’ said Charlie, with a glance at Winnie, who was looking at the invasion of her carefully arranged table by plastic boxes and lids dripping sauce.

  Brigid filled her plate as she talked about her flight down and the passenger sitting next to her who started snoring within moments of the plane taking off, his leg and arm trespassing on her space. Winnie was silent, Charlie noted, but Richard was laughing, thrilled to see his sister again. The siblings were clearly oblivious to their mother’s discomfort.

  ‘I’ve been reading about your research, Charlie. Washington Post, no less. Putting Australian science on the map. That’s pretty bloody cool.’ Brigid said, ripping up some naan.

  ‘Oh, it’s an international collaboration. I’m just part of it.’

  ‘Charlie’s being modest. She’s leading the charge. She’s got a paper coming out. In Nature,’ Richard said.

  Charlie squirmed. His pride was sweet, but embarrassing.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Brigid. ‘It’s Toxowhatsi, right?’

  ‘Toxoplasmosis.’ Charlie nodded. ‘But it’s mutated. It’s a new species.’

  ‘That’s what the paper’s about.’ Richard put his hand on Charlie’s. ‘It’s a huge deal.’

  ‘It won’t last long, though, will it? I mean – okay, only high school biology here – but if it kills off all its hosts, a parasite can’t survive too well, can it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re right, but if a parasite manages to reproduce before it kills the host, or
if it doesn’t wipe all the hosts out, it’ll do fine. In this case, though, cats are no longer the main host. They’re no longer the host the parasite reproduces in.’

  ‘What is, then?’ Winnie looked horrified.

  ‘Well, us.’

  ‘Us? Is it going to kill us just like it’s killing the cats?’ Winnie’s blue eyes were wide with concern, and she glanced over at Mr Darcy.

  ‘No, no. Look, it’s complicated.’ Charlie leant down and picked up a pen from her bag, then reached for a paper serviette from the Indian takeaway that was lying on the table. ‘Can I?’ Brigid nodded.

  Charlie drew a diagram as she spoke. ‘Okay, this is the life-cycle of the Toxoplasmosis that has been around forever. That’s Toxoplasmosis gondii. The definitive host – the one the parasite sexually reproduces in – is the cat. But at different stages in its life-cycle it infects other species, like rats, mice, birds. They get it from eating things the cat has defecated on.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve finished eating,’ said Winnie, ignoring Brigid’s ongoing devouring of her Indian feast.

  Charlie smiled. ‘Sorry. I forget you’re squeamish, Winnie. Anyway, in those animals it forms cysts within various tissues, and is dormant and usually does no harm. But when another cat eats the rat or the mouse or whatever, the parasite changes form and starts sexual reproduction again, and the cycle continues. And people can get it, too, especially if they have cats, but unless they’re immune-deficient or pregnant it won’t cause problems. It can cross the placenta and cause abnormalities, like blindness. And miscarriage.’

  ‘So what’s different with this new version?’ asked Brigid.

  ‘It no longer needs cats as the definitive host. It’s switched to humans. It means cats are no longer required as part of the cycle. But unfortunately for the cats, the mutation seems to produce a protein that shuts down key parts of their endocrine system and kills them. That’s why we’re calling it Toxoplasmosis pestis. It’s a cat plague. And it’s spread very quickly, through the carrier hosts, birds, rats, mice. It’s everywhere now.’

  ‘And it’s not just domestic cats, right?’ said Richard. He was enjoying this, enjoying his Charlie being the focus of his sister’s attention.

  She flashed him a smile, appreciating his pride. ‘Yep. It is affecting cats in every genus within the family. Lions, tigers, cheetahs, the lot. Some of those are already on the edge because of habitat loss and genetic isolation. This might wipe them out entirely. It’s awful.’

  ‘I heard the lions at Taronga are no longer being exhibited,’ said Winnie.

  ‘Big cats are being quarantined in zoos worldwide. Safari parks in Africa are closing to try to avoid the spread of infection. Let’s hope it works till we can find a cure.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Brigid. ‘We don’t eat rats and mice. And our crap goes down the sewer. So how is this going to go anywhere? Isn’t that a full stop on the, what, life-cycle?’

  Charlie liked Brigid’s questions. She was as sharp as her brother. ‘One way is sexually. We know that the original form of Toxo can be transmitted between rats during sex. A sexually transmitted disease. It looks like it’s the same with humans, which means it’s being spread quickly.’

  Brigid nodded. ‘But that doesn’t explain how it gets from cats to humans.’

  ‘Transmission between species is through ingestion of the oocysts – the spores – that are excreted, or through eating an infected host.’

  ‘So, we would get it from handling cat poo?’

  ‘Or cat litter. Or soil where cats have urinated.’

  ‘And then not washing your hands. Hear that, Mum? You never washed your hands after mauling that creature. And then you’d go straight into the kitchen …’

  Winnie ignored that. ‘So how did Mr Darcy catch it? From eating rats? I don’t think I have rats …’

  ‘It was probably those birds he caught,’ Charlie said. ‘This is what happens with evolution. Parasites change and the results can be cataclysmic.’

  ‘Oh, damn. You said the “e” word.’ Brigid sighed and gave Richard a significant look.

  Charlie looked at Brigid. The ‘e’ word?

  ‘Evolution. Mother doesn’t hold with it.’

  ‘I don’t have a problem with evolution, Brigid …’ began Winnie, quietly.

  ‘Well, your archbishop certainly does. I heard an interview he gave a couple of weeks back, defending creationism. Don’t tell me you’re a heretic in your own church? Mum’s a convert,’ she told Charlie. ‘The worst sort.’

  The tension in the room was now so dense that even Richard had noticed. He was playing with a snow pea with his fork, clearly not wanting to buy in.

  ‘Well everyone is entitled to their beliefs,’ said Charlie, trying to diffuse the atmosphere, ‘but Winnie’s not a –’.

  Brigid didn’t let her finish. ‘You reckon? Even when the belief is anti-scientific dogma, pure ideology? When it wants to send civilisation back to the Dark Ages? I thought science wasn’t meant to be about belief but about knowledge?’

  ‘Well, yes, it is, of course –’ began Charlie. She could feel herself blushing.

  ‘– of course it bloody is,’ said Brigid, who had abandoned her eggplant bharta and was gesturing with her fork. ‘This is the thing I don’t get. I don’t get the reticence to confront crap. It’s like climate change. Scientists know it’s real, but there they are, holding back, talking about statistical possibilities and degrees of certainty and meanwhile letting the shills get away with their utter bullshit, their “fake news”, their “alt-facts”, their astroturfing funded by the richest people on the planet. Don’t you guys get that it is too important to hide behind this crap “impartiality” line? Just say it. Say that evolution is real, say that we’re fucking up the planet, stop the bullshit, stop the weasel words, stop the “ooh, ninety-five per cent certainty” –’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie, finding her voice, angered now. ‘No. We work from evidence and we work from data, and the minute we give that up our voice is no more credible than anyone else’s.’ She swallowed and looked at Brigid. ‘Is this so different from what you do? You’re a journalist. You need to be impartial. You need to be unbiased. Your job isn’t to be a propagandist. You have to find the truth and you have to report it.’

  Brigid’s laugh came from deep within her. It was throaty and it was heartfelt. ‘Every word every journalist writes is political. And every word they choose not to write is political. Now, tell me that scientists don’t make choices, just the same, or tell me you’re terminally naïve.’

  Winnie stacked the plates loudly. ‘Anyone for trifle?’ she asked. The conversation was closed. Richard smiled at Charlie, his raised eyebrows saying, ‘Yep, my sister.’

  She glanced at Brigid, who was grinning at her, loving every moment. Charlie got up awkwardly to help Winnie and carried dishes to the kitchen. Brigid had started chatting with Richard about his music as though the altercation had never even happened. Or as though altercations were just a part of normal discourse.

  ‘I did email her, you know,’ said Winnie when they reached the sink. She stood there, dishes in her hand, and breathed deeply. Then she set the crockery on the counter and walked briskly back into the dining room. Charlie, nonplussed, followed.

  ‘I emailed you,’ she told her daughter, voice cracking. ‘I asked you if you were still a vegetarian so I’d know what to cook. You go through fads like other people go through socks, so how was I to know? No reply, as usual. So I made vegetarian lasagne just in case. If you weren’t so self-centred, I wouldn’t have had to, would I?’

  Richard and Brigid were agog. This was not their mother. This was not the woman Charlie knew.

  ‘I’ll get the trifle,’ said Winnie. ‘Give me a hand, Charlie?’

  Charlie followed her again and was surprised to see a slight smile breaking on Winnie’s face.

  ‘That felt good. I should do that more often.’

  But the smile was brittle, Charlie thou
ght. As though if she didn’t smile she’d cry.

  6.

  A generic hotel room. This one was in Hilbert’s on Pitt, but it could have been one of an infinity of hotel rooms. Beige and nondescript, it was the same one she always stayed in, irrespective of city, as though the sterility was a drawcard. Maybe it was. She kept choosing it, after all, when she could have gone for something boutique in the same price range. A Heidelberg print on the wall. Bland, instantly forgettable carpet. Off-white walls. Queen-sized bed with floral quilt cover and over-stuffed pillows. Coffee pod machine, tiny bottles of spirits, a packet of chips. Desk with a plastic folder telling her where the laundry was and the numbers of the local takeaways. A strip of paper across the toilet seat to promise it had been cleaned.

  Brigid dumped her bag on the bed and put one of the two beers she’d just bought into the minibar next to the overpriced mixers and half-bottles of wine provided by management for the innocent and unwary. She flipped the top off the other beer, flopped onto the bed, and turned on the TV. After tapping her way through the free-to-air offerings and finding nothing appealing, she turned it off again. Good. No distractions. She had work to do.

  She was aware of a low-level irritation in her gut, the floating unease she always felt when she’d spent time with her mother. It was worsened by that weird attack her mother made about the bloody lasagne. Where the hell had that come from? Instead of interrogating it, she doused it with a long draught of beer.

  Along with ill temper, though, she felt the lightness of relief. The ledger was in the black again. Filial duty done, now she was free – at least till her mother guilted her into another visit. She hated that house. It reeked of her adolescence, of her father’s dogmatism and her mother’s compliance. Never again, she told herself.

  She opened her laptop, and her profile on the Effenbergs. She needed a shower and sleep, but those could wait. All day, words had been bubbling away on the back burner of her mind, and now she had to get them down. It was going to be good.

  7.