Rabbit fever, p.1
Rabbit Fever, page 1
Rabbit Fever
Glen Tooke
Copyright © 2024 Glen Tooke
Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Glen Tooke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
The images for the novel cover was generated by Bing, the chat mode of Microsoft Bing, with the authors direction on Wed, 03 Jan 2024 15:28:59 GMT+00:00
All rights reserved.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Rabbit Fever
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
In memory of my Grandma, Pamela Ann Tooke (1932 – 2023).
We often talked about writing this book, but I didn’t manage to do it while she was alive.
I believe she would have liked reading this..
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I want to express my deep gratitude to the amazing individuals whose contributions were vital to the creation of this book:
I’m very grateful to my partner, Peter, who supported me and helped me with this project. He gave great feedback, helped me with grammar, and encouraged me to keep going. He believed in me and my work.
I also want to thank my dog, Saucisse, who often kept me company while I was writing. If you read carefully you may find a reference to him within the text!
Finally, a big thank you to my family and friends who helped me choose the best book cover. Your opinions were very important to me.
Thank you all for being part of this journey. You made it better in many ways..
Rabbit Fever
(Tularemia):
Pronunciation: /ˈræbɪt ˈfiːvər/ (rab-it fee-vuhr)
Definition: Rabbit Fever, also known as Tularemia, is a bacterial disease caused by Francisella tularensis. It can infect various animals, including rabbits, rodents, and birds, and can be transmitted to humans through contact with infected animals, contaminated food or water, and insect bites (especially ticks and deer flies). Symptoms may include fever, swollen lymph nodes, skin ulcers, and respiratory issues. Early treatment with antibiotics is crucial to prevent complications. The name “Rabbit Fever” stems from its association with rabbits, which can carry the bacterium.
Chapter 1
1991 - Dudley
The small brown mini metro jostled to a stop outside the time-worn, pebble-dashed terraces. The buildings, sombre and dilapidated, echoed the gravity of the social worker’s task.
Taking a deep breath, she rummaged through her bag for the necessary documents. She had visited to retrieve this specific child multiple times, and the unsettling routine of the child being shuffled among relatives had become all too familiar. Despite their initial eagerness to care for the child, various family members grew indifferent over time, always then seeking assistance to place the child elsewhere.
The social worker mused aloud,
“This is no way to raise a child,”
She was also aware of the constraints budget cuts imposed. Aware if a non-threatening relative were willing, the child wouldn’t become a state responsibility.
She reviewed the file, her dismay audible:
“Shifted five times in three years, and now back to a home that once rejected you...”
She had a limited role: to verify the child’s basic well-being and ensure continuity in their schooling through her reports.
Resigned, she stepped out of her car, navigating a cracked path to the faded door, where a small, blond boy stood, already dressed ready to leave, shoes on, coat done up. The home’s inhabitants had clearly decided the boy was going to leave. The packed suitcase on the floor next to him reinforced this point.
The boy’s aunt opened the door, dishevelled, and overwhelmed, in a dressing gown even though it was past midday, confessing her inability to integrate him into her household.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t deal with him,” she shrilled out of the doorway, “I thought I could, but with three of my own, he just doesn’t fit in.”
It wasn’t lost on the Social Worker how the aunt’s face screwed into a look of disgust as she continued her appraisal of the small child, stood motionless on the doorstep.
“He’s a good boy, really, but he’s ‘odd’ “, the aunt continued, “he doesn’t like to interact with others, and he makes my children misbehave. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have agreed to this.”
The social worker interjected, appalled that not only had the child been left on the doorstep waiting but also that this aunt was now discussing the boy while he stood in front of her.
“I think it’s best we do this conversation in private.” She then turned to the boy, “hey Ewan, I’m Claire. How about you go and wait in the car? I’ll have a quick chat with your aunt.”
With a mixture of relief and resignation, the aunt watched Ewan head towards the car, his suitcase in tow.
This brief interaction, a mere snapshot of Ewan’s turbulent life, left an imprint on the social worker’s heart. She knew there was little she could do, but she also pitied this small, reclusive child, who obviously misunderstood, was being used as a family hot potato.
Chapter 2
Present Day
In a dark, cramped office, an oppressive cloud of cigarette smoke hung heavily, casting a distinctive atmosphere. She exhaled deliberately, guiding the swirling smoke towards the open window in a desperate effort to mask its acrid presence.
To an outsider, this scene might seem peculiar - an office at 3pm veiled in shadow, blinds drawn, with the rain-soaked air freely entering through open windows on an October afternoon. These details hardly occupied her thoughts. She knew if they disapproved, they could sack her, but she was aware no one would, for nobody would willingly take her position. She had been assigned here under duress; with a clear message this would be her existence until her career ended.
Her idle hand fiddled with the nameplate gracing her desk, pushing it along with a half-chewed pen as she pondered its purpose. In this small institution, where her image greeted visitors with a forced smile not only at the front door but also at reception and on various information boards, why did anyone crossing her threshold require any further introduction? She reluctantly fastened the institution’s mandated name tag, a minor irritation serving as a constant reminder, she was ‘Dr. Gillian Kauffmann.’
A sudden exclamation escaped Gillian,
“Shit!”
Her wandering mind had caused her to push the nameplate too far. Knocking the 1970s-style pub ashtray she defiantly displayed for all visitors to see, off the desk and onto the floor. She had always spun a yarn for any visitors about the ashtray, claiming it reminded her of a cherished, long-lost relative who used to run a pub. The truth was, she had no such relative, and the idea of being associated with anyone running a pub was abhorrent to her. The ashtray served a functional purpose and also expressed the disdain she felt about her assignment here.
Cigarette ash filled the air, and the sound of glass hitting the lino-covered concrete floor reverberated throughout the office and adjoining hospital ward. The fact her office had a lino floor, like the rest of the hospital, had always annoyed her, it looked cheap and unloved.
Due to the noise, she expected someone to arrive and disrupt her peace. In haste, she rose to her feet, squeezed them into her well-worn stilettos, and clicked around to the front of her desk. Fortunately, it wasn’t as bad as it sounded - the ashtray was intact, and most of the cigarette ash could be kicked under the desk until the cleaner visited later in the day. The only real problem was some ash landed on top of the numerous piles of medical records strewn around the room.
Gillian retrieved a tissue from a gaudy silver box on her desk, knowing the staff ridiculed her for it. She didn’t even like the box, but she kept it there again to make a point. Beginning to dab at the ash-covered papers, her numerous gold rings glinted in the shards of light breaking through the blinds, making the diamonds sparkle. Suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of painfu
Gillian’s introspection deepened,
“How have I fallen so far?” she sighed.
With a deliberate stroke, she wrote a note to herself on a scrap of paper, to remember to instruct a subordinate to fetch cigarettes for her later. There was no way she was going back into the town again. It was also a small act of retaliation; the staff could, at the very least, serve a purpose beyond their routine tasks and contribute some value to her world.
After all, she had not chosen to be ensnared in this dead-end provincial hospital. There was also a certain irony in sending a nurse or junior doctor to buy cigarettes for the department head. Especially when their day was dedicated to promoting healthy living to their patients.
Her eyes darted back to her desk as her phone came to life, vibrating against the stack of medical records, now damp from the rain that had infiltrated through the open window. A wicked thought danced through her mind:
‘Imagine if they could see my true thoughts,’ she mused, ‘imagine if they could witness me grappling with wet cigarette ash on their cherished notes.’
Gillian began to question herself, wondering if she had always been this unkind, or if, ever, she had harboured a sense of compassion. She was certain, at one point, she had been a competent doctor, caring for her patients and participating in the extracurricular activities the young upstarts she now managed enjoyed. Contributing to research papers, running personal errands for patients, and ensuring families were kept informed. All those duties had once been part of her daily life, but the thought of those actions now made her shudder. They were tasks for people who cared, for individuals who had not been consigned to suffer in this dead-end place.
Picking up the phone, she glanced at the messages that had arrived, inquiring about her day during another junior doctors’ strike. Gillian chuckled to herself, finding people remarkably gullible. The media and the government had done an excellent job of spreading the word about these strikes, keeping patients at bay. She longed for more junior doctors’ strikes and hoped the current situation would persist as long as possible. These days were a welcomed respite, having already informed Ambulance Control her department was operating at full capacity.
Another doctor might have tried to squeeze in a few more patients, reconfigure corridors, or discharge patients early, but not her. Who would want to see people occupying beds in the corridor as she walked each day from the car park to her office, or listen to someone’s coughing right outside her door? Gillian believed her approach was the best way. No doctors meant no patients and another easy day for her.
Her curiosity piqued about the strikes and their progress, Gillian sank back into her chair, leaned back, and lit another cigarette. She reached for the one-metre ruler she kept near her desk. This ruler, in all its time under Gillian’s ownership, had never been used for measuring or drawing straight lines. However, she had figured out, with her desk positioned in the centre of the tiny office, flanked by external windows on one side and internal ones on the other, both equipped with Venetian blinds, the ruler was just long enough for her to reach over, create a slit in the blinds, and obtain a clear view of either the outside world or her domain. Extending the ruler to the blinds covering the external windows, she angled it to provide her with a view of the outside. She sighed at the scene,
“What a grim little town,” she muttered with a touch of disdain as she observed the landscape.
The hospital used to hold a prominent position in the town of Porthaven, occupying an impressive Victorian building made of yellow bath stone, set atop a hill overlooking the town centre. A grand main road had been purpose-built, leading directly to the hospital. This establishment, a treasure of its time, was erected by a philanthropist to offer free medical care to mariners, warehouse labourers, and their families, funded by affluent local merchants. Gillian recalled having read that the hospital had also served the wider community, with people travelling from all over South Wales, whether on foot or by horse and cart, to seek treatment for various ailments. A quick web search had even shown her workplace had played a role in significant scientific discoveries. It led her to suspect there was a degree of cynicism behind her placement here—both she and the hospital had been downgraded.
Now the once sprawling hospital complex had disappeared, replaced in the 1970s by a squat, single-glazed building with a flat roof, erected with speed and on a tight budget. Suspected asbestos in the building materials severely limited any potential improvements to the rundown structure. Yet, due to budget constraints, it had remained. A lone maintenance worker attempting to patch it up, much like trying to fix a patient with multiple stab wounds with a box of plasters. The expansive grounds had been repurposed to accommodate poorly designed social housing blocks with minimal amenities.
It was almost as if the developers believed the residents of these units only required a hospital. To some extent, this was true, as the local council often moved the elderly into these properties, citing the proximity of Gillian’s hospital as a ‘strong reason to relocate there.’ Consequently, she spent most of her time caring for the elderly, which she didn’t mind, as they still held the belief ‘the doctor knows best,’ making her work more straightforward.
Using the ruler to adjust the blinds for a better view, she peered deeper into the town. She remarked to herself that they had downgraded and belittled the hospital in the same way Porthaven had downgraded itself. The docks, warehouses, and industries had long since closed, and those inhabitants who could afford to had moved away. The once lively road from the hospital to the short seafront, was now either boarded up or occupied by fast-food joints, betting shops, and discount stores.
The town had attempted to rebrand itself as a ‘British Seaside Destination,’ but tourists naturally preferred travelling abroad to more affordable, sunnier destinations with all-inclusive resorts, rather than visiting a dilapidated former port. As such, many hotels had been converted into pay-by-the-day bed and breakfasts, while numerous houses had been transformed into multiple bedsits. Nobody wanted to live there; it felt like purgatory.
Like Gillian, many had been placed here, either by the local council because it was the ‘only place they could be accommodated,’ or due to their financial circumstances, which limited their options. Even the elderly local priest who had visited a few weeks ago, in need of a boil to be lanced, told Gillian he was seeking an alternative posting. The church had informed him no other priests were willing to accept the position, leaving it to him to recruit a novice to succeed him. Gillian sympathised with the priest’s situation but found his naivety somewhat amusing. No one would willingly choose to relocate to Porthaven to live out their days. The likelihood of finding someone willing to become a priest in this town was laughable.
The last time she’d set foot in the town, as opposed to driving through on her way to her isolated farmhouse, was far from pleasant. She had needed some cigarettes, and in the brief ten-minute walk from the hospital to the shop and back, she had been approached by numerous characters. The most notable being a drunken man with no more than three remaining teeth who leered at her, offering her a ‘good time in the bushes over there.’
She was also referred to as a ‘posh cow’ by a teenage girl with a collection of children that were likely not all hers. Lastly, she was scolded by the shopkeeper for attempting to pay for her cigarettes with her card. This was not a place where anyone would willingly abide.
Shifting her focus back to the scene immediately in front of her, she noted there weren’t as many striking doctors outside on their picket line today, likely due to the inclement weather. At least, she hoped it was the weather and not because they were growing weary or unable to afford to strike. The current pattern of one day off and two days on strike was proving most convenient. It left no room for recovery between strikes, allowing Gillian to consistently argue her small department couldn’t cope. This persuasive argument often convinced ambulance and hospital managers to divert the more challenging cases elsewhere.
