Free Tampered by Ross Pennie Page A

fought to keep a neutral expression on his face as he checked for stiffness in her neck (it moved normally) and tenderness in her belly (it showed only slight discomfort). So far, so good.
    “Do you have any headache?” he asked.
    “A little, yes.”
    “How severe is it?”
    “I don’t like to complain. I know I’m not the only one who’s got this.”
    He looked for signs of meningitis or a stroke, but her brain was okay — no confusion, slurred speech, droopy mouth, or weak limbs.
    “I’m going to order some tests and a painkiller. Be sure to ask for it when you need it,” he said and replaced her quilt.
    “Really, Dr. Wakefield, can you tell me what’s wrong? Do you have a diagnosis for me? When I had this before, no one could put their finger on it, though I must say I didn’t feel this sick, or have this much tummy pain.” Her pale grey eyes pleaded as they searched his face. “And what I’d really like to know is, how did I get it?”
    Patients always wanted to know how they contracted their infections. More often than not, he didn’t have an answer that made them feel any better. They never wanted to hear that their kids, their neighbour, their doctor, or their wayward spouse had infected them.
    The answer to Betty’s questions had three parts:
what
,
which
, and
how
.
    What
was easy to tell her — she had an infection, apparently of the intestinal tract, that seemed to fit the description of the thirty-some other gastro cases Natasha Sharma had documented in the past two months.
    Which
germ was making her sick, he couldn’t say, though it was obvious Dr. Jamieson’s antibiotic was ineffective against it. If the germ were a virus or a parasite, no antibiotic would help her. She’d need either tincture of time to let the infection resolve on its own, or exactly the right drug selected on the basis of culture results. Of course, her cultures were likely to be negative, just like all the other Camelot gastro cases.
    How
was impossible to answer. After two months of hunting, Zol and his team couldn’t say how this infection was being transmitted. Was it the food? The staff? The other residents? The environment?
    “At this point,” Hamish told her, “all I can say is you’ve got an intestinal infection. As far as I can tell, your bladder’s fine. And I’m working with Zol Szabo at the health unit to make you better and put a stop to further cases.”
    “Well, let me tell you, I was fine until I started writing my memoirs. Phyllis said I should start with a creative writing course at Caledonian University, so we enrolled together and . . .”
    Hamish prided himself on being a good listener, but this sounded like a tangent that wasn’t going to lead anywhere useful. “Yes?” he said, hoping she wouldn’t go on much longer.
    “And she was right. It was a lot of fun, and the instructor was a real hunk. Like our Dr. Szabo.”
    She shot him a look that said
Just bear with me, Doctor
. “I bought a notebook computer and I’ve written five stories so far — the humorous side of cabinet politics.” She raised an eyebrow and fixed him with a coquettish gaze. “An insider’s view. In the sixties and seventies I was the secretary to the Prime Minister and various members of his cabinet.”
    “What about the Official Secrets Act?”
    “It was all a long time ago. I’m allowed to talk now.”
    “Do you think you’ve ruffled some feathers?”
    “Earl Crabtree — he’s one of our mates and a long-time Party insider — forwarded two of my stories to a friend in the Ottawa Press Club, across from Parliament Hill. The word is, the reporters think the current Prime Minister might not see the humour in my behind-the-scenes anecdotes of his predecessors. Afraid I might diminish the Party’s carefully crafted image.”
    Hamish had no interest in government or politics and couldn’t see any plausible link between memoirs and epidemic diarrhea.
    Betty pulled at her quilt with her knobbly fingers