A Quiet Contagion (eBook)

A powerfully disquieting mystery for modern times, inspired by the 1957 Coventry polio epidemic

Jane Jesmond (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023
320 Seiten
Verve Books (Verlag)
978-0-85730-850-4 (ISBN)

Infos

An unsettling contemporary mystery with a historical twist and fast-paced plot, from the author of the Jen Shaw series.

Six decades. Seven people. One unspeakable secret.

1957. A catastrophe occurs at the pharmaceutical lab in Coventry where sixteen-year-old Wilf is working for the summer. A catastrophe that needs to be covered up at all costs.2017. Phiney is shocked by the death of her grandfather, Wilf, who has jumped from a railway bridge at a Coventry station. Journalist Mat Torrington is the only witness.

Left in utter disbelief, with a swarm of unanswered questions, Phiney, Mat and Wilf's wife, Dora, begin their own enquiries into Wilf's death. It is soon clear that these two events, sixty years apart, are connected - and that Wilf is not the only casualty.

But what is the link? And can they find out before any more lives are lost?

PRAISE FOR A QUIET CONTAGION

'Jesmond's thriller incorporates a very likeable protagonist and a really twisty plot with a thought-provoking moral dilemma' - Mail on Sunday

'A well written story, with excellently created characters. This blend of history and contemporary, fact and fiction is original and engrossing' - Mature Times

'An original and moving mystery, deftly weaving between past and present to examine a profoundly ethical question that is still deeply relevant today' - Philippa East

'Jesmond presents a cracking conundrum then adds a chewy moral dilemma to the mix, dangling a riveting hook before throwing in a ticking time bomb to create a propulsive beating heart... A complex, moving and ultimately satisfying page-turner' - Fiona Erskine

'An original and absorbing thriller that casts light on a little-known part of our history. Authentic characters, great pace, and a captivating storyline that still resonates powerfully today' - Sarah Clarke

'A deeply intelligent novel from a commanding writer... Tragic, terrifying, and all too real, A Quiet Contagion will have your heart pounding even as you weep' - Helen Fields

'This compulsive thriller blends real events with a clever fictional plot. Thoughtful, topical and gripping, A Quiet Contagion is bound to win Jane Jesmond even more acclaim' - Carolyn Kirby

PRAISE FOR JANE JESMOND

'An original voice in crime fiction' - Sunday Times on Cut Adrift (A Best Crime Novel of 2023)

'Jesmond's delineation of her characters as people with plausible flaws and hot tempers adds depth and complexity to a story that might wear its sentiments on its sleeves, yet which is trimly steered and freighted with contemporary resonance' - Times on Cut Adrift (Thriller Book of the Month)

'In an over-saturated market, finding a new voice with something compelling to say in the crime writing field can be difficult. Thankfully there are people out there trying to deliver a twist on the genre, and Jane Jesmond is one of them' - On Yorkshire Magazine on Cut Adrift

'This amazing debut novel from Jane Jesmond will give you all the thrills you've been looking for and keep you gripped from the get-go' - Female First on On The Edge

Textauszug

Chapter One: Phiney Wistman

14 June 2017

The day after the reunion

The row of letterboxes ran in a neat line from the entrance door into the dusty lobby. My landlord had chosen a set in red with a white flap and they gleamed in the light from the grubby window like bared teeth. A smile or a grimace? Who knew?

One of the morons who lived in my building had dropped a heap of fliers and adverts on the floor. I picked them up and gave in to the urge to check my box, newly and clearly relabelled, Flat 3 Josephine Wistman, to avoid any errors. Maybe the post had come early for once.

The test centre had said it would take up to eight weeks for the letter to arrive. Seven of them had passed with me managing to focus on other things, but since the eighth week began, the test results had started to nibble away at my thoughts. I unlocked my box. Was now, in the middle of this utterly routine day, the moment when I’d know if my mother had passed more on to me than her coffee-coloured hair, her caramel eyes and her sensitivity to smell? Had she also bequeathed me the gene that would give me breast cancer?

But my box was empty.

The tight muscles in my chest relaxed and the breath slipped out of my lungs in a long sigh. Another day of normality was beginning. I set off for Coventry City Hospital, where I worked.

I always walked, even when I was on nights. It was my way of ensuring I took some exercise because, believe me, after a gruelling shift on the children’s oncology ward, you don’t feel like doing anything except curling up with the latest Maeve Binchy. Or having a good weep. And weeping didn’t help.

No, I thought, as I sped down the familiar streets, past my old school and through the hospital car park, weeping was a waste of time; my grandad had taught me that. It was better to fight. And, with that in mind, I strode through the entrance doors and ran up the stairs to the ward and into its familiar chaos.

The door to the office was open. Meghan, at her desk, looked with disgust at a computer printout. I nipped in and put an eco-container on her desk.

‘Banana bread! Homemade. Catch you later.’

She started to say something but I shook my head and sped away.

My first patient was Marnie (seven years old, early-stage lympho-blastic leukaemia, prognosis good but not reacting well to chemo), who was sitting in bed in one of the wards painted with Disney characters to encourage the kids into thinking they might be somewhere fun. Her mother stood by her with that half-bent stance all the parents had, wanting to shield her daughter from any more suffering yet knowing she couldn’t.

‘Good news,’ I said. ‘Marnie’s bloods are back and they’re fine, so we’ll be able to treat her.’

Marnie wore a new knitted hat. A pink bonnet with pointy ears and a mane of multi-coloured wool to disguise the absence of her own hair. It framed her face and gave a warm tint to her ash-white skin.

‘A pony?’ I asked. ‘Is it a pony hat?’

Silence from Marnie. The noise of children playing or grizzling while nurses and parents murmured to each other penetrated the curtains round our cubicle. The normal buzz of the ward.

‘A unicorn.’ Her mother’s voice filled the gap. ‘Tell Nurse Josephine, Marnie. You’re a unicorn.’

Of course she was. A white knitted horn stuck out between the ears.

‘Granny knitted it for you, didn’t she, Marnie?’ Her mother’s voice cracked. She smelled of exhaustion. Of clothes worn once too often and hair not washed enough.

‘You’re a beautiful unicorn, Marnie,’ I said in my best cheerful voice as I rubbed cleansing gel into my hands. Sharp and acid, it brightened the thick air for a few seconds before vanishing. I snapped on gloves. Marnie started to whimper. She knew what was coming. She’d been here too many times before.

The noise of vomiting reached us, followed swiftly by the comforting words of one of the other nurses. It sounded like Christine, her voice warmed by the lilt of a Scottish accent.

I leaned forward to give Marnie the reassurance she needed too, expecting the words to arrive automatically but nothing came.

What was happening to me?

I ransacked my suddenly empty brain for something to say.

It won’t hurt. True enough but she’d feel it nevertheless.

It’ll be over in a flash. Sort of true. But there’d be another procedure and then another, all adding up to hours of misery.

There’s nothing to be frightened of. The big lie. There was everything to be frightened of. Beware the cancer eating away at your body. Beware the treatment. It might cure the cancer. In Marnie’s case, it more than likely would. But it’d make her feel sick and weak as it rampaged through her body, killing everything in its path as well as the cancer cells. Its lethal effects would linger in her blood for years.

A feeling of utter blackness caught me by surprise. I needed to snap out of this.

The little girl looked at me as though sensing something was different. I smiled back. This wasn’t helping her at all. From somewhere I dragged up the right air of comforting cheerfulness and found the right words. As I fixed and checked the drip, the good nurse that I was – like the smiling angels who visited every day while Mum was dying – came back.

Afterwards I leaned against the wall outside the ward and breathed in the familiar smell of detergent mingled with hints of coffee from the machine down the corridor. We all had bad days when the stresses of the job got to us. No point dwelling on it. The clock on the wall opposite told a depressing story, though. I had hours before my shift finished.

A toddler whizzed past me, followed by his mother, one hand on his jumper and the other dragging the stand with his drip behind them. She gave me a smile as she went by, happy because her son was happy. I smiled back.

Coffee. Maybe that would help. I had green tea sachets in my locker. They were much healthier but… Fuck it. I wanted coffee and, anyway, some new research showed it could protect against liver cancer. However, the machine swallowed my money and gave nothing back in exchange. A bland green message told me to take my non-existent drink and have a nice day. I kicked it, startling a trainee who was scuttling past me clutching a pile of files.

‘Top tip,’ I called after her. ‘Never put money in this thing. The odds are worse than fruit machines.’ I banged it with the flat of my hand as she turned to answer.

Meghan put her sleek head out of the ward office and caught me assaulting the machine.

‘It’s a thief and a liar,’ I said by way of explanation.

Her lips twitched as the trainee took the opportunity to slip away.

‘Nurse Wistman,’ she said. ‘Could you punish it quietly?’

‘Yes, Sister March,’ I said, and gave a sardonic curtsey.

I thought she was going to laugh but she stuck her tongue out at me instead. Its gold stud glinted in the cold light of the corridor. She came out and shut the door behind her. Sweet and spicy, the traces of her perfume warmed the air. Her amusement showed in the dark eyes she’d inherited from her mother although her stocky figure marked her out as her father’s daughter. Her black hair could have come from either side of the family but her Midlands accent and determination were entirely her own. She was my best friend – had been since we first met in primary school – as well as my boss.

‘Phiney,’ she said. ‘I was going to come and find you.’

‘Well, Meghan, here I am.’ I gave the machine a last smack and it vibrated for a few seconds as though moaning about its treatment.

‘You OK?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You seem pretty grumpy.’

‘No, I’m not.’

She raised an eyebrow at the annoyance in my voice.

‘You are, you know, Phiney. And you have been for quite a while!’

I looked away from her and at the clock. The one in the corridor was the old-fashioned type with hands whose movement was imperceptible.

‘Work getting to you?’ she asked.

‘I’m fine. I love my job,’ I said. ‘I mean, who’d do it if they didn’t?’

Meghan narrowed her eyes but let me off further interrogation.

‘Going to netball tonight?’ she asked as she leaned back against the door to push it open.

‘I guess so.’

‘How about a drink afterwards?’

I wasn’t sure. My momentary inability to deal with Marnie had shaken me and I fancied a bit of time to myself to think about it. Meghan was right. I had been a bit irritable for the last few weeks. I guessed the worry about the tests had been nibbling away at my unconscious mind.

She saw the doubt in my face and misunderstood its source. ‘We could go to the Zanzibar if you like,’ she said.

The Zanzibar had fabulous non-alcoholic cocktails and a great range of teas plus smoking was forbidden – even outside on the terrace. Meghan knew me well.

‘All right,’ I said.

Maybe keeping the whole thing secret had been a mistake. I could have told Meghan and made her promise not to tell Grandad. She’d have done that for me. In fact, she still would. I’d tell her tonight.

‘I mean, great.’

‘You are OK, aren’t you?’

‘Sure. I didn’t sleep so well.’ This, at least, was true.

The hours of my shift ticked...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 7.11.2023
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Historische Romane
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror ► Historische Kriminalromane
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror ► Krimi / Thriller
• Schlagworte: British crime fiction mystery literature • coventry polio epidemic 1957 1950s fifties • historical mystery dual narrative character driven • jen shaw on the edge cut adrift adventure • medical malpractice investigation science lab • pandemic coronavirus vaccine antivaxxer covid19 • women sleuth family investigation detective
• ISBN-10: 0-85730-850-5 / 0857308505
• ISBN-13: 978-0-85730-850-4 / 9780857308504