Tick tock, p.10
Tick Tock, page 10
He could tell she was tense. She sat staring at the screen, waiting for the presenter to come to her. She shifted in her chair, poked and prodded her hair, licked her lips. She tilted the screen towards her, adjusted the laptop’s position on the desk. From its speakers, a conversation about the weather, some incoming high pressure and the Gulf Stream. Kit assumed they would come to Whitlock next. He felt his stomach churn.
Then the clicking started to play on the laptop, and they were on. Kit sat upright: another adrenaline surge. The presenter, male, Scottish, summarized the content of the clicking videos. His tone was one of mild amusement. Kit couldn’t see the screen but he could almost hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. Whitlock fidgeted in her seat, tried to smile at her screen. The presenter was now speaking to her.
‘Dr Jan Whitlock is the principal of Marylebone College School in London, where some students have reported experiencing this extraordinary phenomenon. She joins us now. Good morning, Dr Whitlock.’
Whitlock nodded, tried a different smile. ‘Good morning.’
‘Tell us what you saw yesterday. Did you have students clicking, like we saw in that film just now?’
‘We did, yes.’
‘Tell us what you heard.’
Whitlock folded, then unfolded her arms. ‘So,’ she started, ‘yesterday a student had a clicking noise coming from her ears. She was, understandably, worried. We asked around the other students and discovered five more also making this clicking sound.’ She opened her mouth to say more, then appeared to change her mind and closed it again. She pressed her lips together.
‘Can you describe the sound?’
‘So it’s the same as in the clip you played earlier. A tapping sound. A snapping, maybe – like an elastic band. Something like that.’
‘Was it rapid-fire, Dr Whitlock, or just an occasional sound?’
‘What I heard was occasional. Two or three a minute, something like that.’
So far so good, thought Kit. Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts.
‘And what’s going on, in your opinion?’ asked the presenter. ‘Have you ever come across this before?’
Whitlock shook her head. ‘Never. No. But I am told that there is a rare type of tinnitus that is audible to others nearby. It could be that.’ Her expression said that she was out of her depth and was willing the interview to be over.
‘And how are your pupils and staff reacting? I understand you had a protest outside the school this morning. A strike. Is that correct?’
‘Oh,’ said Whitlock. ‘There was a brief misunderstanding, but it has all been cleared up now. We have closed the school. The students are doing OK, but we took the decision to close as a precaution.’
Kit’s insides turned to water. He could hear the surprise in the presenter’s voice. What he’d clearly thought was a quirky health item had taken a different turn.
‘You’ve closed the school?’ he said. ‘You must be worried about infection to take such action?’
Whitlock’s eyes were glassy. ‘As I said, it seemed a safe, precautionary measure to take.’
The presenter sensed he was on to something. Blood in the water. He circled closer. ‘In case anyone else starts experiencing this clicking?’ he said.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Might other students and staff be experiencing it already?’
Kit shook his head, mouthed a big ‘no’. Whitlock wasn’t looking.
‘It is possible, yes,’ she said.
‘So what should parents be thinking, Dr Whitlock? And should other schools also close?’
There was perspiration now on Whitlock’s upper lip. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘they should consult … they should contact … I can’t really advise other schools, I’m afraid.’ Her tone had a finality to it, clearly indicating that she had nothing else to add.
‘Dr Whitlock, thank you,’ said the host.
‘Thank you,’ said Whitlock.
A pause.
‘And our best to your students,’ said the man. ‘Actually, before you go, one last thing. I should have asked how they’re getting on. How is that first student? Is it true she’s in hospital?’
Kit shot to his feet, waving his arms. How on earth did he know that?
Whitlock was wide-eyed with shock. She hesitated, swallowed hard. ‘Yes, I’m afraid she is.’
Kit clenched his fists. He considered slamming the laptop shut. Etiquette, manners and deference held him back. It would be the wrong choice.
‘And, Dr Whitlock, is it true she’s gone deaf?’
Whitlock said nothing.
‘Dr Whitlock? Has one of your students who was experiencing this clicking gone deaf?’
Kit thought Whitlock was going to faint. She glanced, unseeing, at Kit, then back at the screen.
‘Yes, I’m afraid she has.’
Within minutes, the panic began.
8.50 a.m.
For the next hour, Marylebone College School was the centre of the storm. The first journalists arrived in minutes, the first television crew soon after. The first news site to run the story gave it the headline ‘Deafness: the New Contagion’. It had been updated within minutes with a question mark at the end, but the damage had been done. The tone on social media sites pivoted from whimsy to catastrophe in minutes. The clickers had been reported in eight countries, but now that one of them had gone deaf, hashtags declaring #deafepidemic #deafpandemic #newpandemic appeared everywhere.
In the staffroom, small groups of teachers huddled around laptops and coffee.
Lilly rang first. Kit hesitated, then answered.
‘I know,’ he said wearily before she had a chance to speak. ‘Trust me, I know.’ He was slumped on one of the old, dilapidated staffroom armchairs.
Lilly was incredulous. ‘How did they know about Harriet?’ she said. ‘Who would have told them? Also, it seemed like the presenter changed course midway through. As if someone gave him that information during the interview. If he’d known about Harriet going deaf, he’d have started the interview with it, surely?’
‘One of the hashtags at the protest was “for Harriet”,’ said Kit, ‘so presumably it was from that. And Whitlock says she thought the interview was over because he said thank you. Then, when she realized it wasn’t over, that it was still going, it was too late.’
Across the room, Kit saw McKay take a call, then slowly stand.
‘And,’ continued Lilly, ‘most importantly, where is Harriet? Which hospital did she go to? Because they need to put out a statement pretty damn fast.’
Still on her phone, McKay sat down again, seemingly drained of strength and colour.
‘All we know,’ said Kit, ‘is that she’s in isolation and everyone is in PPE.’
Lilly’s reply came in a low whisper. ‘You. Are. Kidding.’
Kit had hauled himself to his feet. ‘Sadly, I’m not. And I need to go, Lil. Call you straight back.’ He hurried across the staffroom. McKay had her head in her hands. Her shoulders were trembling. Kit crouched at her feet. Heads turned, conversations paused.
‘Joanne, what is it? What’s happened?’
McKay dropped her hands to her lap then wiped her eyes with a sleeve. She struggled for words. Kit prompted her. ‘Who was that on the phone?’
She took a deep breath. ‘It was Marcus Graham’s father,’ she said. Her voice was thin, fluttering. ‘Marcus has gone deaf. Ellie Howard too. Her mum had called him. Obviously extremely upset. Actually, he said she was hysterical.’
Gasps and strangled cries from around the room.
‘Where is he taking him, Joanne? Did he say?’ asked Kit. McKay shook her head. ‘Sorry, no.’ He hung his head briefly, then forced a reassuring smile. Stood up. He glanced at his colleagues. ‘Anyone else think we should all go home?’ he said.
A moment’s silence as everyone looked at everyone else. ‘I mean, clearly we don’t know what’s going on here, but if three students have gone deaf, who’s to say there won’t be more? And who’s to say we won’t be affected?’
A few nodding heads. Some gathering of coats and bags.
Kit watched as his colleagues’ worry bloomed into outright fear. The genie was out. Startled eyes, nervous words. A stepping-away. A separating-out. Suddenly, everyone was two metres apart, then laughing self-consciously about it.
‘Well, where have we seen this before?’ muttered Kit. One of the new teachers raised a hand. ‘Shouldn’t we wait for Dr Whitlock to close—’
McKay spoke from her chair. ‘In Aisha’s absence, Kit is the most senior member of staff here. Take a vote. Then tell Whitlock. That’s it.’
Kit couldn’t argue with that. ‘Agreed.’ He already knew what the vote would be from the buttoning of coats and the drift to the door, but a vote would give him some cover. ‘Who wants to go home? Hands …’
Everyone raised a hand.
‘… up.’ Kit shrugged. ‘OK, I’ll tell Dr Whitlock. Use the back entrance, unless you want to be on the news. Stay in touch. Watch the WhatsApp.’
He strode from the staffroom. He needed to get home, needed to talk to Rose and Lilly. His phone vibrated constantly, but he ignored it. One more talk with Whitlock and he should be out.
As the corridor turned towards the principal’s office, the school’s glass entrance revealed a solid line of reporters, their heads pressed to the door, like children in a nursery. Phones, cameras, microphones. When they caught a glimpse of Kit, they hammered on the glass with their hands and yelled incomprehensible questions. He knocked quickly on Whitlock’s door and entered.
For a moment he thought the study was empty. Her desk was deserted, the computer screen dark and the laptop gone.
‘Oh,’ he said, hesitating.
Whitlock’s voice from somewhere: ‘I’m here.’ Kit walked the length of the room to a small alcove behind a pillar he’d never noticed before. She was perching on a chair, open laptop on her knees. Handbag at her feet, phone on the floor. Her hair had flattened, her shoulders slumped. She seemed diminished. ‘They appeared at my window,’ she said. ‘This is the only place I can’t be seen.’
‘Well, they’re at the front door now,’ said Kit. ‘It’s like a scene from The Walking Dead.’
‘Maybe,’ said Whitlock, ‘but we need to say something. To make a statement. And I …’ She pressed her lips together. Exhaled through her nose. ‘I can’t do it. So I was wondering if you could, Kit.’ The weakest of smiles. ‘It would be so hugely appreciated.’
He was dumbfounded. ‘To say what?’
‘To say that we have closed. Briefly. While health needs are assessed. A precautionary measure. That kind of thing.’
‘They’ll tear me apart,’ said Kit.
‘They’ll be fine,’ said Whitlock. ‘You’ll be fine. Treat them like your Year Elevens.’ Another humourless non-smile. ‘Please, Kit. For me. For the school.’
9.20 a.m.
Jim Sutherland had the keys; Kit had the statement. In front of them, a glass wall and what looked like thirty, maybe forty reporters, spilling all over the school steps. A TV truck had parked at a bus stop, its side doors open. An engineer spooled out cable. Kit decided to take Whitlock’s advice. He shouted through the glass. ‘Off the steps, then I come out!’ He could see a few reporters pass on the message, but others carried on pushing, carried on shouting.
Kit caught the eye of the blue-scarfed man he’d seen talking to Rose earlier. Kit beckoned him closer. ‘You all have thirty seconds to get off the steps. Or no statement.’ The reporter pulled a face. Exactly like a Year Eleven kid, Kit thought. ‘Anyway,’ he shouted, ‘how close do you really want to be to me anyway?’
He saw the light dawn in the reporters’ eyes. They backed off. The steps were clear.
‘Genius,’ said Sutherland. ‘Ready?’
‘No,’ said Kit.
‘Off you go then,’ said Sutherland.
As the door opened, cameras were hoisted, microphones and phones held aloft. Kit clutched the statement he’d written with Whitlock and stepped outside. Bright sunshine, biting wind. A barrage of questions was fired his way, but he answered none of them. He stood on the top step, waiting for silence.
Year Elevens.
There were more reporters now, spilling off the pavement, between the parked cars and on to the road. Two men were standing on a car bonnet. Three police officers appeared. The men hastily climbed down.
Kit had their attention. It wasn’t going to get any quieter. He looked around, found the reporter with the blue scarf, addressed the comments to him. ‘I have a brief statement,’ he said, his words producing clouds in the cold air. ‘And I won’t be answering questions.’ He dropped his eyes to the text. His hands were steady. ‘Marylebone College School has this morning taken the decision to close the school temporarily. A number of our students – we think no more than six – have an unexplained hearing condition.’ He could hear his voice bouncing off the buildings opposite, hoped he wasn’t shouting. He wondered about looking up but was afraid he’d lose his place in the statement. He kept his eyes down. ‘This morning, three of the six reported that they have lost their hearing altogether.’ Kit heard many of the reporters repeat the number. He sensed a mood shift, a hushed silence now. He had argued with Whitlock for full transparency on the numbers and had won. ‘We do not know what has caused the hearing loss, we do not know what is causing the clicking noise. So, as a precaution, and with the safety of our students and our staff as our priority, we will be closed until further notice.’ Now, he looked up. He remembered the last part. ‘Our message to concerned students and parents is this. If any of you experience this clicking noise – a sound that is coming from the ear – please seek medical attention as soon as you can. Thank you.’
Kit turned, Sutherland opened the door. Three shouted questions followed Kit inside. ‘Should all schools close?’ ‘Are you going to isolate?’ and ‘How’s your family, Mr Chaplin?’
Instinctively, Kit turned to see who had asked the last question, but Sutherland hauled him in.
‘What the fuck,’ said Kit. ‘How did he—’
‘You’re on the MCS website,’ said Sutherland. ‘And your daughter was manning the barricades earlier. As you know.’
‘“How’s your family, Mr Chaplin?”’ Kit repeated. ‘Of all the questions to ask …’
Sutherland pushed him along the corridor. ‘Maybe it’s the only question anyone’s going to ask,’ he said. ‘How are your family, Kit?’
Kit pulled up, turned. Irked with his friend. ‘If you mean Rose, she’s fine. If you’re including Lilly, she’s fine too, and at home with Jess. But the other two questions need answering. Should all schools close? Yes, I think they should. Are you going to isolate? Yes, I suppose I am. Until we know what the hell we’re dealing with. Don’t you think?’
Sutherland was thinking about his reply when the principal’s door opened. Whitlock looked out, beckoned both men in. Her face was ashen, eyes watery. She led them over to the alcove then faced them. It was clear she’d been crying.
‘Are you OK?’ began Sutherland.
Whitlock raised a hand. ‘Wait, Jim,’ she said. ‘Wait.’ She was summoning her strength, Kit realized. She cleared her throat. ‘Aisha just rang. She’s looking after her kid, as you know, but in the night she heard an unusual clicking sound …’
‘Oh God,’ said Kit, heart sinking fast.
More tears pooled behind Whitlock’s glasses. ‘Her son is clicking. And, as of one hour ago, so is she.’ She straightened, regained some poise.
‘Go home,’ she said. ‘Walk. Take a cab. Cycle. Avoid Tubes and buses. Just like before. You know the drill.’
CNN was interviewing two of Professor Harris’s students. They both click live on TV. The governor of California calls Harris for a briefing.
In Cardiff, the First Minister of Wales was calling headteacher Chris Black. Black advises immediate school closure.
Rose was on the number 253 bus.
Lilly was climbing out of her cab.
9.40 a.m.
Lilly was relieved to be out of the Uber. She’d opened the windows and pulled her scarf over her mouth, but still she was edgy. She’d seen Kit’s statement, then followed the reaction. She’d seen reports of at least twenty schools and colleges taking MCS’s lead and closing ‘as a precaution’. It was a reasonable assumption, she thought, that the majority of other schools would follow suit as soon as they could.
Kit had messaged, Closing school. Heading home. Standing on the corner of Baker Street and the Marylebone Road, she messaged him back.
Meet outside Gray’s ENT Harley St 5 minutes? Something you need to hear.
She ran across the double zebra crossing, jogged right into Harley Street. The pavement was almost clear of frost but in the shadows, where the sun was yet to reach, smudges still glistened. Watching her step as she weaved her way through the usual throng, she almost ran into the familiarly gaunt figure she had come to see.
Jeremy Casey, senior consultant at the Gray’s Ear, Nose and Throat Hospital, was standing, steaming coffee in hand, outside the main entrance. He was white-haired and stooped, wire-rimmed glasses, Crombie coat, black scarf. They shook hands.
‘I can give you five minutes, Lilly. We should walk around the block. Stop us catching our death. How is life at your shiny new biotech company? GSL – is that it? Have I got that right?’
He was teasing, but she thought he was still impressed. ‘It’s fine, thank you. You should drop by some time.’
He smiled. ‘Of course. One day. When things have calmed down.’ A glance at his watch. ‘Where’s this teacher friend of yours?’
She bristled but let it go. ‘He’s round the corner, at MCS. You know it?’
Casey nodded. Eyes narrowing. ‘Of course. My daughters went there. Back in the day. When it still counted for something.’
