Stirling roars into the hotel car park and leaves a black mark on the tarmac as she brings the Triumph to a sudden stop. She's muttering indecipherable words under her breath as she marches into the hotel, her crash helmet under her arm and her doctor's bag swinging from her hand. People get out of the way as she strides purposefully through the hotel reception area and down the hall to the radio station. She barely pauses as she opens the door and walks in.

Caroline looks up from her news briefs, a startled look on her face. "Have a care Doc!" she says sharply. "Good thing we're on break right now or you could have walked in on me live!"

"No, I wouldn't have," Stirling says calmly. "I did notice the red light was off before I came in."

Caroline makes a harrumphing noise and gestures for her to take a seat on the opposite side of the table.

"Do you have any idea how much time you're going to need?" Caroline asks.

Stirling considers the question. "Probably about five to 10 minutes. I can explain the illness, how it's suspected to have spread to Portwenn, the symptoms, the importance of seeking treatment or obtaining protective antibiotics. You can ask me a few questions if you wish or I'd even be willing to take some phone calls from the public."

Caroline's eyes shine with excitement. "Really? You'll take live questions on air?"

Suddenly Stirling's worried she's made a big mistake. "Certainly. I'm here to help and inform the public and ease their concerns. If they have questions, I'll answer them."

Within minutes, she finds herself with a microphone in front of her and a half hour slot dedicated to discussing Portwenn's current health issue. Damn, she thinks, feeling a slight queasiness in her stomach. She doesn't have time to deal with nausea at the moment, dreading the idea of vomiting live on the radio. Of course, there's nothing left in her stomach so it would most likely be retching instead. Either way, she needs to get it under control.

"I'm going to need a pitcher of ice water," she says to Caroline, who soon has some underling running for his life. He manages to deliver the supply just in time. Stirling pours herself a large glass as Caroline announces the live segment and introduces her.

For the next 10 minutes, Stirling dominates the radio waves. She describes the illness currently affecting the village and surrounding area, the symptoms to be cognizant of, the treatment program required, and the seven-day preventative antibiotic regime needed by anyone caring for someone who is ill or coming into close contact with anyone displaying symptoms. She explains where people can go to receive treatment or prophylactic doses, where they can call if they need home visits, the importance of seeking treatment if symptoms appear.

"This isn't an illness where you can drink fluids, rest, take over-the-counter drugs and get better," she stresses. "You must contact the Portwenn surgery if you feel you or a loved one is ill. It's vitally important you receive the necessary antibiotics as soon as possible."

For the next five minutes, Caroline lobs questions her way, which Stirling answers to the best of her ability. She outlines the involvement of Public Health England and the Health Protection Agency, the three nurses currently assisting in delivering the treatment and prevention programs in the community, how to contact them or herself, even after hours; every piece of information she can possibly think of she shares with the public.

And then Caroline opens the phone lines to the station's listeners.

The first caller is Gwen from Portwenn. "Hello? Doc Stirling? I was wondering whether you and Sergeant Penhale are registered anywhere for wedding gifts. The hubby and I are having a hell of a time deciding what to get you two. I'm leaning toward a gift basket of preserves but he thinks we should go with smoked fish. Can you help us out?"

For possibly the first time in her life, Stirling is struck speechless. The seconds of dead air tick by as she – the woman who seriously thought she had an answer for everything – grapples with the last question on Earth she is expecting during a phone-in show in the midst of a public health issue. Caroline is waving madly, gesturing for her to talk. "Uuuhhhh," she stutters, horrified by the uncertainty in her voice. "Gwen, is there anything you want to ask me in regards to the illness currently affecting Portwenn?"

"No, it sounds like you have it well in hand. I'm just concerned about finding you a suitable wedding gift."

Stirling closes her eyes and silently curses.

"I'm sure whatever you give us will be wonderful," she manages to spit out, staring wide-eyed at Caroline.

"Oh, that's so sweet of you to say," Gwen gushes.

After the call is disconnected, Stirling leans toward the radio show host. "Is there any way you can screen these calls?" she whispers. "There must be people waiting on the line with legitimate questions?"

Caroline looks through the glass into the control room where her technician is shaking his head.

The next call is from Lester at Knotty Root Farm. "I'm wondering if we should be out with our shotguns killing rats?" he asks. "When I was a boy, we was told the plague was spread by being bitten by fleas living on rats. I was thinking, if we could get a big hunting party together, we could probably kill all of the rats in the Portwenn area in a couple of days, maybe even a couple of hours."

"Well, that's an interesting idea, Lester," says Stirling. "The problem is, pneumonic plague isn't spread by rats or fleas. It spreads by being in close proximity to someone with the illness who is coughing. The bacteria move through the air in water droplets, which can be breathed in or picked up from a surface where the bacterium lands. One advantage we have is the bacteria responsible for pneumonic plague can only survive in the environment for about 60 minutes and they are easily killed by using ethanol-based cleaners or antibacterial soaps."

"So you're saying there's a big group of coughing and sneezing rats running around Cornwall?"

"No!" says Stirling, wondering how he possibly came to that conclusion. "You can only get this illness from another person. Perhaps somewhere down the line, someone was bit by an infected flea from a rat but the illness manifested itself in the respiratory system rather than the more traditional route of the lymphatic system."

"Nymphs are involved too?" asks Lester. "Those little insects?"

"NO! There are no nymphs involved!"

The third caller is Bryce from Long Lane Farm. "You know, I think Lester might have the right idea. We should get a group of farmers together and just kill all the rats. Or maybe use poison bait. We could get rid of some badgers at the same time. You know, no one respects the hard work farmers put in to producing food and caring for the land. They just want to dictate to us what we can shoot and when. And this is a perfect example of what can happen when we allow special interest groups to tell us what we can and cannot do on our own property. The rat population builds and the plague is back."

Stirling can actually feel a scream of impatience building in the back of her throat. It's either that or she's going to vomit out of pure frustration.

"Bryce, I'll explain it again. Rats are not responsible for the pneumonic plague currently affecting the Portwenn area. The theory is it spread into the area via a gentleman visiting from Tanzania who inadvertently spread it to a school age child who then spread it to his siblings and classmates. No rats or fleas or nymphs were involved."

Bryce is silent for a moment. "You know, this is a perfect example of what can happen when we allow our government to get lax on immigration controls. We allow just anyone into this country …."

Stirling can't control herself any longer. With a panicked look in her eyes, she glances around the room until she spots what she needs. Jumping up from her chair, she seizes the waste bin and vomits in it.


It's midnight by the time Stirling parks the Triumph at the front of the surgery. It's been a good day; well, it improved immensely after she honked into the waste bin live on the radio.

She and Anise managed to visit every home bound patient in the surrounding area showing symptoms of pneumonic plague. Those capable of swallowing on their own were given oral antibiotics while a list was compiled of those requiring injections. All family members also received prophylactic antibiotic treatments. Doris had a busy day at the primary school and day nursery as well. Every student and staff member at both locations was assessed for the illness and appropriate treatments provided to them and their families.

Meanwhile, Sophie and Morwenna staffed the surgery, providing antibiotic treatments to those needing them plus handing out dozens of prophylactic dosages.

The three nurses are staying at The Crab and Lobster overnight and will continue to assist tomorrow.

Thank god, Stirling thinks, unlocking the front door.

Before coming home, she stopped in next door to visit James Henry and dispensed his second antibiotic shot. It had provided her an opportunity to confer with the Chief. After putting her through a 20 minute debrief on the health of his son, he asked for several ampules of streptomycin. He would be administering the little boy's treatment from that point forward.

She understood his feelings on the matter. If the roles were reversed, she'd probably do the same thing. "You know where to find more," she said, handing him all the supply she had.

"How many people in the area are actively sick?" he asked.

"Forty-eight."

"Of that, how many are mild cases?"

"Thirty."

"So you basically have 18 serious cases?"

"Actually, 10 of those 18 are what I would describe as typical or average cases," Stirling says. "Eight I would describe as critical. Of those, three are at Truro hospital, all children, and all among the first ones to become ill."

"I've been to visit them," the Doc says. "They are improving daily under the antibiotic treatment."

"The five at home are also showing improvement since the injections were started. It will be interesting to see how they are in a week's time."

"How many prophylactic doses have you distributed?"

"Two hundred and fifty-seven."

He gives her an appraising look. "In a week, we'll see how successful your antibiotics program has been. If you have no more cases, you'll have beaten it."

"I hope so, Chief."

"Stop by tomorrow around this time and we'll discuss how the situation is progressing."

"Goodnight," she said, walking toward the door. "Oh, and don't forget to take your own antibiotics as well."

The Chief had merely grunted.

Now Stirling staggers through the front door with her doctor's bag plus the saddlebags from the Triumph. She needs to repack them with antibiotic supplies for tomorrow. She leaves the bags on her desk in the consulting room to deal with in the morning and wanders into the kitchen. She's starving. She opens the refrigerator and is surprised to be greeted by a large slab of lasagna that appears to have been carved into the shape of – something, she's not sure what exactly.

"It's supposed to be a rat," a male voice says from the dark piano room. "But it ended up looking more like – I don't know what the hell it looks like. I'm not very artistic. Sam inherited all those genes."

"A rat?" Stirling asks, closing the refrigerator and walking into the dimly lit piano room. Joe sits in the big padded chair in the corner, his feet up on the matching footstool. "I take it then you were listening to my educational and highly entertaining interview on Radio Portwenn this afternoon."

"I wouldn't have dared miss it," Joe says. "I particularly liked that parting comment you made when you threw up in the waste bin – I'm guessing it was a waste bin since that is your current favourite container to honk in."

Stirling blushes in embarrassment.

"Don't worry, Cheeky, you got your point across. Of course, tomorrow I'll be dealing with increased public complaints about rats in the streets and farmers shooting in the fields."

Joe gestures her over and she curls up on his lap, her head against his chest, cushioned by his blue pullover. "Cheeky?" she asks.

"I told you this morning, I'm going to call you Cheeky Tart. But I thought I'd shorten it to just Cheeky. It suits you better."

"Okay, Lover Boy," she says with a smile, giving him a kiss which he enthusiastically returns.

"What are you doing down here still in uniform?" she asks. "Why didn't you go up to bed? You didn't have to wait for me."

"Well, actually I did because I'm probably going to need your help getting up the stairs."

She looks at Joe with some concern. "Why?"

"I hurt my back today."

"When did you do that?"

"Just after you spewed gravel in my face driving out of the police station car park in a huff."

"Your back was hurt by flying gravel?"

"No, I was angry and tried to kick the ground but missed, resulting in me falling over backwards and landing on my back in the gravel."

Stirling tries desperately not to laugh but a few snickers and snorts manage to escape.

"Luckily, Nigel was there to help me into the office at the station. I've taken some paracetamol but it still hurts like hell."

"Let me look at it," she says, standing up.

"You can look at it later. Now, I'd feel a lot better if you had something to eat. I put a lot of effort into that lasagna and I'd really hate to see it go to waste."

"Want to share some with me?"

"I'd love to but you're going to have to help me up and over to the table."

Stirling pulls Joe up out of the chair and supports him as he stiffly shuffles to the kitchen table. She gently helps him sit down in a straight-backed chair. "I feel like an old man," he grumbles.

"Well, let me look at it, Gramps." She reaches down to pull up the back of his pullover so she can examine his back but he swats her hand away with a gasp of pain.

"Don't be such a doctor!" he says. "You can look at it later. Heat up your rat."

She laughs as she pulls the lasagna out of the refrigerator and puts it in the microwave to heat up. She takes two plates out of the cupboard and sets them on the table along with glasses and cutlery.

"Would you like the usual?" she asks, opening the refrigerator.

"Yes, please," Joe says with a smile. She sets the milk container next to him and puts a jug of water near her place.

She checks on the lasagna and takes it out of the microwave, setting it on the table between them.

Stirling takes her knife and carefully slicing through the centre of the lasagna, both sides separating and falling over.

"You should have been a surgeon, Cheeky. That was perfectly done."

"I do know how to use a knife," she says with arched eyebrows.

"I've never doubted that for one minute."

As they sit and enjoy their very late dinner, Stirling watches Joe. "Are you still angry with me?"

He looks up at her and thinks for a moment before nodding his head. "Yeah, I'm still a bit cheesed off at your behaviour."

"Why?"

He chews thoughtfully. "I had a lot of time to puzzle over it this afternoon as I reclined in my office chair in immense pain." He looks her in the eye. "I think you're coasting. You're not really planning ahead or even thinking of the future. And I haven't been able to figure out why."

Stirling looks up from her meal, concerned. "I don't understand. What do you mean, coasting?"

"You want some examples? Okay. You finally agree to marry me but it takes weeks – and constant hounding by me – before you decide on a date. We're getting married in about 30 days and you still haven't done anything about your wedding dress. It's still sitting right over there in its sealed storage box where I left it weeks ago. You haven't even tried it on. You don't even know if it fits, how much altering needs to be done to it or whether it can even be finished in time."

Stirling looks at the large box sitting against the far wall of the piano room and feels a sense of panic settle into her stomach. He's right; I've had that dress for weeks and has done nothing with it.

"We've had no discussion about the future, including where we are going to live. Here; the police station? When do we make the move? How are we going to combine two households into one? What stays, what goes? And where are we going to put that?"

Joe points at the Steinway, which makes Stirling feel even more apprehensive.

"I don't even want to really talk about the baby," he says quietly, picking at his food. "It's become a bit of a sore point with me. To be honest, I'm just glad you finally told me because since then, you haven't wanted anyone to know about the pregnancy. You haven't even said anything to the Doc yet, someone who really needs to be told. You don't want to see a doctor, have an ultrasound, or even tell anyone the news. And it is exciting news, Stirling. I know I'm very excited."

She can feel tears beginning to sting her eyes. Have I been coasting? Avoiding? But it's been so busy. And yet, has it? Sure, the past few days have been crazy but what about before? There's been lots of opportunity to discuss future living arrangements, find someone to alter the dress. What the hell am I doing?

Suddenly she feels incredibly exhausted – and incredibly ill. She presses her hand over her mouth and runs for the waiting room loo. On her knees in front of the toilet, she loses her dinner. By the time she's done, her stomach is empty. She lowers the lid and flushes the toilet, before sitting back on her bum, unsteady and emotional. She puts her face in her hands and sobs.

"Come on Cheeky, stand up," she hears Joe say. "If my back wasn't killing me right now, I'd pick you up. But I can't so you're going to have to work with me."

She feels him pull her up onto her feet, putting his arm around her waist and hobbling slowly toward the stairs. One step at a time, they somehow make it to the hallway upstairs and finally to the bedroom. He sits her on the edge of the bed and removes her clothing, slowly and gently. The entire time she is crying. He lays her down and covers her with the duvet before grunting and groaning his way through the removal of his own clothes. He lies down next to her and shuts off the light.

He pulls her to him, holding her tight against his chest as she sobs. She can feel his hands rubbing up and down her back, trying to soothe her. "It's okay," he whispers, over and over again. She feels like she will never stop crying. Eventually, she finds her voice, telling him how sorry she is. "It's all been so overwhelming," she hiccups. She wraps her arms around Joe and tries to pull him even closer than he already is. "I am excited about the baby," she whispers in his ear. "And I was so excited to tell you. I even planned out how I would do it."

He hugs her tighter, kissing her neck and shoulder.

"But the morning sickness makes me nervous, tense. And the tenser I become, the worse the nausea is. I've found that if I stay busy, avoid thinking about the baby, I don't have the nausea the same."

He pulls back from her and brushes her hair from her forehead, wiping her tears from her face with his thumbs. "You can't just avoid something in hopes the problem will go away on its own."

"I know," she whispers, her nose rubbing against his. "But I thought if I can just get through the outbreak, I can deal with it then."

He kisses her gently. "What about the dress, Stirling?"

She feels the tears rising again. "I don't know," she says in a wavering voice. "I don't know why I've been avoiding it. Maybe it's because it reminds me of my parents, of my mum. I don't know."

She sniffles against Joe's chest, leaning against him as he tightens his arms around her. "But I do know one thing," she says.

"What's that?"

"We should move into the police station, the sooner the better."

He props himself up on his elbow in surprise. "You want to move into the police station?"

"Yes. It's bigger there, more room. And I think it will be easier to attract a doctor to cover for me when the baby comes if there's a place for him or her to live."

"You'd be willing to move to the police station?"

"You're having a difficult time with this," she says, smiling at Joe's surprise through her tears. "Why do you find it so hard to believe?"

"I thought you wouldn't want to move from here. I thought you'd want to be closer to your patients, to your work."

"And I thought the same about you. I knew there would have to be a compromise and I decided I would be the one to do it. We can easily arrange for the after hours emergency phone line to be forwarded to the police station. I was also thinking, if you need a policeman, sometimes you need a doctor; if you need a doctor, you don't usually need a policeman."

He shakes his head in disbelief. "Sometimes you surprise me," he says with a laugh. "I thought that would be the biggest battle of them all."

Stirling smiles, pulling him to her for a kiss. "Not even close. We haven't started discussing baby names yet."

They are kissing ardently when Joe stops suddenly, pulling back to look at her. "The piano isn't going to fit in the police station," he says quietly.

"I know," she answers. "I'll keep it where it is at the surgery for now. I can still play it before and after work, even lunch. I would like a piano at home though. Maybe we can fit an upright in somewhere?"

"Definitely," he says, returning his lips to hers.