The Pharmacist

by Rachelle Atalla

Genres: Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A beautifully-written dystopian thriller set in an underground bunker.

The bunker is a place of safety.

Wolfe is the bunker's resident pharmacist. While the inhabitants wait for the outside world to heal, she doles out ibuprofen, sanitary towels and Xanax - all under the watchful eye of the increasingly erratic and paranoid leader.

The bunker is a place of hope.

But when the leader starts to ask things of Wolfe, favours she can hardly say no to, her world is thrown off its axis once again. Forming an unlikely alliance with the young Doctor Stirling, her troubled assistant Levitt, and Canavan - a tattooed giant of a man who's purpose in the bunker is a mystery - Wolfe has to navigate the powder keg of life underground, knowing her every move is being watched.

The bunker is a place of survival.

It's not long before Wolfe is forced to question the sacrifices she's made for her own personal survival, and how much more she is willing to give to stay alive.

The bunker is a place of danger.

(P) 2022 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: May 12, 2022

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter 1

In the recreation room a man was lying on the concrete floor. He was gripping his stomach, while his grey boiler suit, identical to the ones we all wore, hung loosely from his body. Some of the Velcro strips had come undone and you could see the hairs on his chest, the growth thickening towards his groin. I didn’t know his name, nor did I recognise him. But there were so many faces in here, and I tried not to linger on any of them for too long.

Some of the kids who had been playing a board game surrounded him, and the adults who had bothered to follow the noise stood perplexed. The doctor on duty was Stirling and he was kneeling beside the man. What’s your name?

Templeton, he managed through gritted teeth.

Can you stand?

Templeton let out a slow and stifled howl before he thrust his fingers into his mouth. He bit down and dots of bright red moistened his lips. For a brief moment I would perhaps have done anything for red meat.

Stirling turned to us. Help me get him to my surgery, he said, and four men flocked forward, desperate to exercise some of their fading and wasting muscles.

What happened? I asked.

A boy of maybe thirteen years old replied. We were just playing Monopoly and he came in and ate the houses.

He swallowed most of them, and the hotels too, one of the girls chimed in.

I glanced at the Monopoly board. The little metal dog was on its side and the top hat upturned. When did he eat the pieces? I asked.

They looked at each other.

He swallowed them maybe thirty, forty minutes ago, the girl said.

And you didn’t think to do anything?

They shrugged in unison. He wouldn’t let us leave, the boy said. Kept talking about little fish.

Fish?

Yeah, the fish that eat the dead skin off your feet.

It made him feel clean, the girl added. Said he wasn’t clean in here.

Go back to your bunks, I said. Let your parents know you’re OK.

I turned and looked at one of the bookcases behind me. The literature had been carefully censored: children’s books, light romance, travel and craft magazines made up the bulk. I picked up a book called Upper Fourth at Malory Towers and on scanning the blurb wondered if anyone actually read this. The spine of the book had snapped in the middle and was only really held together by its cover. I opened the book randomly and my eyes traced over a few lines but I couldn’t concentrate. There was no shock left in watching someone attempt a suicide but I was struck by Templeton’s originality, impressed even. I doubted it would be something I was capable of. My whole life had been made up of these moments – envious of other people’s convictions. I felt feeble in comparison.

I made my way to the bathroom blocks. The only segregated space in the bunker – male and female, any hint of inclusivity from our previous world completely eradicated. Fluorescent lights shone brightly regardless of the hour, and the toilet and shower cubicles were hidden behind plastic curtains so it was difficult to determine if anyone was behind them. It was only during the night and very early in the mornings that I found the bathroom blocks bearable. Sometimes I fantasised about creeping over the bunker’s boundary line and using the opposite side’s blocks just to break routine. Perhaps I’d discover something different, like more toilet paper or better water pressure.

Trying my best not to let my thoughts linger on Templeton any more, I sat down on the toilet seat and stared at my knees. They were hairy. Everything was hairy – coarse and itchy, and I enjoyed clawing at my skin, opening up buried follicles, forcing ingrowing hairs back through the surface.

There was the noise of my urine hitting the pan but nothing more and I decided I was alone. When I wiped I imagined there was a glow of light rising up from the seat. Like when my husband Daniel and I had been on a train in Malaysia and the toilets were only holes that opened out on to the tracks below. There was something liberating about urinating across the land, as though somehow you were fertilising it and hoping it would prosper. The flush was weak. It cleared my urine but the toilet paper stuck.

Placing my toothbrush under the toothpaste dispenser, I waited for the white blob to slither out. I found myself wondering if you could overdose on fluoride. My brother used to worry my niece was receiving too much in her toddler toothpaste, fretted over the white milk spots that might appear. The ritual of brushing enamel was still strong with me. The strongest substance in my body – I challenged myself to keep them healthy. Many seemed to have given up their brushing, perhaps acknowledging it as the chore it had always been, but I considered that short-sighted, since extractions were being carried out now without proper anaesthetic.

After spitting I brought my face close to the metallic sheets screwed to the walls that offered me something of a reflection, but I was blurred and distorted, like in mirrors at a funfair. Peering at this image of myself, I could make out the bushiness of my eyebrows and the growth above my lip. I could see the mass of white that covered my scalp.

I used to think I had nice hair – black with a natural wave – but I’d started going grey young, maybe even as early as seventeen, eighteen. At thirty, I was dyeing it every six to eight weeks to hide the colourless strands. And now at thirty-four I thought I looked older than I was. I’d been granted a small hairband and I tied my hair up in a knot, scraping strands back from my face. I considered booking an appointment with one of the supervised hairdressers and getting my head shaved, but, as I ran my fingers across my scalp, I decided I didn’t have the right shape of head. Too lumpy and asymmetrical.

The sensible thing would have been to go to bed, but, as I looked at the clocks displayed in the main chamber, I knew Stirling had a long night ahead of him. The lights above flickered then, the generators surging with power and the bulbs momentarily brightening before returning to normal. I was aware of footsteps in the distance, slow across the concrete with nowhere really to go. Our leader’s young wife had made exercise videos in her previous life, and when we’d first arrived she’d wanted everyone to join in with her boot-camp-style regime, but it hadn’t lasted long. There weren’t enough calories to sustain everyone who was running around the bunker. One of the inhabitants had a heart attack while she was marching and died on the spot. She was the first to go and it had only dawned on us then that we had nowhere to put dead bodies. She was wrapped in a black bag and placed in one of the two exiting airlock chambers. I suppose the logic was that she’d hopefully be nothing but bones by the time we were due to leave. But both airlock chambers held bodies in them now. I was already wondering where this potential new one would go.

The door to the doctors’ surgery was closed and I stood, staring and hesitating before knocking.

What? said the voice of one of the nurses.

It’s the pharmacist.

The door opened and a small woman inspected me with a tilted head. Dr Stirling is busy.

I’ve come to help.

Beyond the waiting room I could hear Templeton’s cries of pain in Stirling’s examination room. I’d witnessed a man jump in front of a moving train once while I waited on the platform and could still remember the noise of bone and flesh meeting metal and momentum. It had felt like a great inconvenience at the time, to be burdened by a stranger’s pain. So why was I here now?

Stirling emerged from his examination room and stood at the threshold. His stethoscope was still hanging from around his neck and he forced his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. He was the son of the health secretary and appeared to benefit from the privilege. But even so there was something likeable about him – right from the start, when we’d worked together in the military hospital, I had been drawn to his kindness. He was only twenty-eight years old but he’d visibly aged since arriving in the bunker. The smile was still there, though, honest and warm.

Fuck, he said, looking from me to his nurse, before glancing back to his patient. He gestured for me to follow him and I entered. Templeton was spread out across the examination bed, his boiler suit opened to the waist. Stirling stopped beside him, crouching so that their faces were nearly touching.

Did you do this to die? Stirling said.

Templeton opened his mouth but only a piercing noise escaped.

Stirling pressed closer towards him. Nod your head if you want to die. I need to know this is what you wanted . . .

I moved forward too, peering from behind Stirling. Templeton’s head did something of an involuntary jolt forward but it didn’t seem definitive enough.

Stirling looked at me and I stared back.

What did the other doctors say?

A laugh escaped from his lips. What do you think? I asked Nurse Appleby to go and get some of them but they just said it was a lost cause and I was the one on duty. I was to make an executive decision.

What does that mean?

What do you think it means?

We both turned back to look at Templeton. The noise of his agony was slowly beginning to lose its effect on me. Was it merging into background noise, like the television or radio? What I would have given then to hear an advert or even a song – my niece humming The Wheels on the Bus.

Stirling took me by the elbow and led me out into the waiting room, where his nurse was sitting, checking stock. She was licking her index finger and filing through a wad of sealed dressing pads, seemingly unaffected by what was taking place in the room next door.

Appleby, you can go, Stirling said.

She glanced at the small clock that ticked above our heads. But I still have two hours left on my shift . . .

Luckily this isn’t a real hospital – and the man in there isn’t a real patient. He’s a figment of your imagination. No one else has noticed him.

But there’s nothing for me to do out there.

It’s better out there than in here, Stirling said.

Appleby placed the dressing packs back inside a green first-aid box. She closed the lid over and pulled the plastic tongues down until there was a click. She rose to her feet and was almost at the door when she stopped and turned towards me. I’ve got a sore throat, she said. Dr Stirling was kind enough to check my tonsils and there’s no infection but it is very painful. Do you think you could offer me a throat spray or lozenge?

Of course, I said. I’ll be back in the pharmacy tomorrow morning. I’ll give you something then.

You couldn’t just give it to me now? It would only take a minute . . .

Appleby, is this an emergency? Stirling said.

Well, no, I don’t suppose it is.

Then Wolfe will be happy to deal with your request when she starts her shift tomorrow.

Stirling closed and locked the door behind Appleby. He managed a smile but it was awkward and not a happy one. He’s got a perforation, he said. Suffers from ulcerative colitis. I’d need to open him up to see the true damage.

I was in Appleby’s seat and it was still warm. I had a growing urge to unclip the plastic hooks of her first-aid box just to hear that clicking noise again.

But can he be treated? I said.

He ate too many.

I was hoping he’d just be able to shit the little houses out and go back to normal.

They’re too sharp to pass through his gut now. Judging by the pain he’s in, it has to be a bad perforation, and then it’ll be blood poisoning and we can’t go back from that.

Quick or slow?

It’ll be slow. Really pretty slow.

I wish this hadn’t fallen on you.

Stirling was quiet for a moment. The other doctors have done it before but not me. They say it’s like putting the family pet down. That it’s cruel to prolong the suffering . . . His hands began to shake and he forced them back into his pockets.

I’ll stay with you, I said.

I can’t ask you to do that.

You didn’t ask.

There was silence in the other room and it stayed like that.

Maybe it’s already over? I whispered.

Stirling shook his head.

Will you give him an injection or something?

Stirling shook his head again.

What should I do when I get in there?

Maybe just hold his hand . . .

Stirling walked back in first. Templeton had rolled on to his side and was facing us. He didn’t blink, and hope started to stir within me. I was praying for him not to blink, for his eyes to already be glazed and cold, but then I caught the motion of his eyelashes flickering. He blinked again. I thought he looked peaceful, perhaps even grateful.

Stirling lifted Templeton’s head slightly and removed a pillow from behind. Templeton’s breathing quickened, his nostrils flaring, and I came closer, clasping his hand as Stirling had suggested. He gripped my hand tightly and it hurt but it didn’t matter. I wondered who this man had been and why I hadn’t noticed him before. It was difficult to gauge his age. I thought he was maybe in his early forties – staring blue eyes, and handsome before coming here. He started moving his lips, tracing silent words, but I couldn’t determine what they were. Maybe he was trying to tell me his first name, letting me know who he really was. It was probably something simple – perhaps Peter or John.

I inched closer towards his body. Everything’s going to be OK, I said, but I didn’t know for whose benefit I was saying it.

Templeton blinked and tears started to slide down his face.

Stirling cleared his throat. Try not to struggle. It’ll all be over soon. And suddenly he thrust the pillow down on to Templeton’s face and was forcing his own body weight on to the frame of the examination bed. I looked at Stirling’s hands, gripping either side of the pillow, then at the arch of his back; I couldn’t equate this with the person who treated his patients with such care and sensitivity.

Templeton started to resist and fight. The balls of his feet rolled from side to side, his toes too curled inwards, but I refused to release his flapping hand from my grip, all the while whispering words I couldn’t remember. Stirling pinned him down harder, as though his own life depended on it, using the whole weight of his body. And he was crying too, letting the tears stream down his face, begging with Templeton for it to be over.

And finally it was.

Stirling fell to the ground but I just stood there, gripping Templeton’s hand for what felt like a long time, his fingers still warm from life. When I eventually prised my hand free, it was throbbing, and it occurred to me that he might have broken some of my bones. His hand fell away and I saw a wart on his index finger, next to the nail bed. I imagined him as a patient in my previous life. I would have given him Salactol lacquer and told him to be persistent. I would have told him to keep going until he’d reached the blood vessels of the wart and not to stop until they were dead and eradicated.

When Stirling got to his feet his eyes were dry. There was a change: something professional had come to life within him. He was pulling a fresh sheet over Templeton, running it gently along his body, letting it float for a second before it rested across his face, the projection of his nose visible and prominent. Stirling took a step back and observed the scene.

Your hand, he finally said. I need to give it the once-over.

I cupped it in my other hand, shielding it from him. It’s fine.

No, it’s not. He came to where I was standing and paused, perhaps contemplating whether he should touch me. Let’s go back through to the waiting room, he said.

I followed him and he closed the door behind us, leaving Templeton alone. Stirling’s hands wouldn’t settle as he moved, running them up and down the chest of his lab coat. He pulled a seat out for me and then sat down opposite so we were facing one another.

I carefully offered my throbbing hand up to him.

Does this hurt? he said, lightly applying pressure to my fingers.

I flinched but managed to straighten them.

What happens now with the body?

He focused on my hand, his touch soft and gentle, as a doctor’s should be. I’ll write a death certificate and the soldiers will take him away. That should be it.

What will you say is the cause of death?

He hesitated. I’ll write perforation, organ failure. No one else will check.

I think you should take his boiler suit, I said. It’s about your size and it’s only going to get colder.

He nodded. That’s probably a good idea.

Chapter 10

There was no sleep the night before Daniel left. Perhaps I had never really slept properly since. This is over, isn’t it? he’d said, and I couldn’t reply. We sat next to each other on the sofa, the light starting to shine in through the slats of the blinds. I kept staring at them, wishing I’d turned them the other way – maybe the room would be darker still if I’d swivelled the cord the other way. And then we would have been able to sit longer, pretending that there didn’t have to be any outcome in daybreak. He lifted his feet and placed them on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. The socks didn’t match. I kept running my hand across my neck. The clock in our living room ticked loudly. Sometimes I wouldn’t notice it, and other times I’d want to take it off the wall and place it in another room.

I thought we’d make it, he said. I never thought it would be us.

I tried to think of words that might reverse us in some way but nothing came. I’d always been a defeatist by nature.

Sarah?

We had a good run, I said.

What do we do about the dog?

Did you even want to be a father? I said.

He hung his head over the back of the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. It shouldn’t have hinged on this, he said. This shouldn’t be the only way to be happy.

I turned to look at him before shifting my gaze. We’d made a beautiful home. Had spent so long trying to get the right shade of grey for the room. I could feel a tear running down my cheek and I didn’t bother wiping it. I let it slide to the bottom of my chin before swallowing the other tears away. Daniel . . . Don’t leave me. Please.

We can’t bring happiness to one another any more. Once it’s gone you can’t get it back, he said.

And I nodded because I believed it too. We’ll have to make a clean break, then, I said. I can’t watch you make a life without me.

Yes, clean break.

You take the dog, I said.

OK.

 

I rolled on to my back and pulled the blankets down from my face. There was the white canvas and Canavan’s body bulging from the seams, but it didn’t look as though it was about to give way any time soon. Below, I could hear the Foers whispering to one another. Merry Christmas. Love you, she said.

There was a pause before I heard him say, Merry Christmas. Try and enjoy it.

Canavan turned above me and suddenly his green eyes were staring down. Is today the day? he said.

By that do you mean the day our Christ was born?

I have no intention of getting up today, he said.

Apparently the food pouches are Christmas-themed.

He dragged his body forward so his head was dangling uncomfortably close to mine. I filled my boots at ND’s yesterday, he whispered.

What did you have? I asked, already visualising Alistair pulling a steaming dish from the oven.

Tinned beef with all the trimmings, he said. I think they’re having goose today. He’s not a fan of turkey. Did you know that?

No.

He smiled, showcasing a mouthful of yellow teeth. He shifted his weight back on to his bunk and although I couldn’t see his face any more I knew he was staring at the ceiling, perhaps counting some of the rivets that sat in his line of vision. He cleared his throat.

I’m sorry I introduced you to him, Wolfe. All I wanted to do was help you feel safe. He shrugged through the fabric, seeming to hesitate before speaking again. I didn’t mean for him to take a shine to you. He reached out with his hand and waited for me to take it.

What should I do, Canavan?

He squeezed my hand. Have you sorted out your little stomach condition yet?

I paused. Yes, it’s sorted.

Good, at least that’s something.

 

Two bare artificial trees had been set up on each side of the bunker, close to the boundary line, another perfect mirror image. I was wondering whose job it had been to remember these on the inventory when Alison’s voice came over the speaker system.

Attention all inhabitants. We are holding our first ever Christmas-tree-decorating competition. North versus South and our leader will be the judge. Conversation broke out then through the bunker, distorting her voice above, and there were collective calls for quiet. She continued. The recreation rooms will be converted into craft centres for the day so the children can make decorations. Supervised. It is up to you all to work as a team. You will collectively decorate the trees. Judging will commence this evening and the trees will remain in place until the New Year.

Her voice cut out, leaving a deafening static before the chamber erupted in noise.

Did she say the leader was judging? one man asked.

That’s what she said, someone replied.

So we’ll see him . . . a woman said.

I backed away from the main compartment, thinking it was perhaps a good opportunity to collect my food pouches. I’d never especially liked Christmas; in a way I was almost disappointed that the leader and his advisors were even trying. Was it meant to boost morale, or remind us of the faith and traditions we considered superior?

 

I thought the 5mg diazepam tablets were the perfect shade of blue. Like a summer’s sky, with little flecks of white lactose interspersed for clouds. Everyone seemed to be on diazepam. The supply would not last our duration and I contemplated what would happen when everyone was defrosted back to reality. The female patient who was waiting tipped two of them into her mouth and sipped water, already looking calmer as she returned the cup to me. Thank you, she said, opening her mouth wide. As she made to leave she looked past me, smiling oddly at Levitt, and I began to wonder if she suspected something in her appearance.

I turned to Levitt, my eyes searching for a bump, but the boiler suit swamped her.

Which sweet pouch did you get today? I asked.

Crumble, I think.

Do you want to swap? I’ve been given mince pie flavour but I hate mince pies. Too many spices.

No, you’re OK, she said. I don’t like them either. I used to think they were made of actual minced beef as a kid and I’ve never really been able to shake that off.

I stole another glance in her direction. She was careful not to behave in the way I imagined a pregnant woman would. They usually placed their hands on their backs and forced their stomachs to protrude, or they were forever running fingers across bumps, following the movements of their unborn child. I wondered if there were stretch marks – a reason for me to finally use the oil we kept in stock. A friend had suffered from anorexia and the stretch marks from her weight gain had startled me. To see someone who was still unbearably thin have stretch marks seemed more unnatural than the weight loss itself. But then my sister-in-law had had a tiger’s coat stretched across her stomach after childbirth and I used to worry that would happen to me. Would I wear bikinis again? Would I still fit into my old clothes? It had all seemed to matter so much at the time.

Wolfe . . . Levitt said. There’s a soldier outside staring in at us.

I came to where she stood. It was my soldier with the birthmark, hunching to see through the artificial windows. His hand rested on the barrel of his rifle.

You haven’t told anyone else about me, have you? Levitt said.

I stared at him. No, I said. No one.

What about Stirling? Her voice was low, as though she could barely get the words out.

I could feel another coarse hair poking out from my neck. It wasn’t long enough yet to pull on. He wouldn’t, I said.

But how can you be so sure?

I’m sure.

She raised her hand and offered him an awkward wave. Maybe he thinks we’re closed . . . she said.

But he pretended he hadn’t seen her and lingered there a moment longer before walking off.

Those soldiers really give me the creeps, she said. There’s no need for them to carry guns. They could so easily murder us all in our sleep. She paused, as if she was expecting me to say something. What do you think he wanted?

I don’t know, I said, trying to sound relaxed, unfazed.

Well, he was definitely watching us, she said.

 

I made my way to the recreation room and lingered outside, listening to the thrum of adult conversation, not at all the noise of children I’d expected. Inside, it seemed as if the entire population of our side of the bunker was in attendance. Two soldiers guarded the door and as I walked through they were patting down a man, removing something that resembled a crayon from behind his collar.

On the floor were colourful foam mats patchworked together for the children to sit on, and like an island in the middle the disused ping-pong table masqueraded as a supply station. I recognised Alison straight away, handing out supplies, with two more soldiers standing guard on either side of her. She looked terrible in her boiler suit, but perhaps that was just because I was used to seeing her in beautiful clothes. People thronged around her and she appeared stunned, as though we were vultures ready to attack. I had to push my way through to see what was on offer: there were stacks of coloured paper sheets, squares of felt, blunt scissors, thread, glue, and a hole punch chained to the frame of the ta. . .