by C. P. Wilson
“Please, go on, Doctor.”
“The extensive damage to the liver most likely will prevent reparative surgery as a viable option. Combined with the high doses of antibiotics, blood loss and likely sepsis… well, it’s sort of a perfect, imperfect storm.”
The young doctor steps forward to lay a hand on Frankie’s arm.
“All we can do is support him at present and assist his body. How or if he recovers is entirely up to his own body at present.”
Frankie smiles flatly. “He’s a strong man,” she says flatly. It isn’t true, Dougie hasn’t been in rude health for several years, but it seems like the thing to say.
The doctor nods.
“We’re moving him to intensive care. Do you want to come up and sit with him?”
Frankie speaks without thinking. “Yes, please.”
“I’ll arrange that for you as soon as the officers outside have interviewed you.”
Frankie’s eyes close. The gesture does little to hold back the inevitable tears which flow freely along both cheeks. Frankie never suspected she was such a crier before today.
The doctor, moving to place a hand on one of hers, asks softly, “Are you feeling up to this?”
Frankie looks up to meet her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”
“You sure? I can make them go away, at least for a while?”
“No,” Frankie sits taller, her back straight. “I just want to get it over with.”
Regarding Frankie for several moments, Doctor Sweeney leans in, a conspiratorial expression darts her eyes to the door and back to Frankie.
“Ms Malone, don’t do this interview right now. You need time to process. Let me ask them to come back later.”
Frankie nods once, to herself as much as to Sweeney.
The young doctor exits the room. A few seconds later the sounds of retreating footsteps echo along the corridor.
Resting back once again, relief surges as Frankie realises that Sweeney had it quite right. Relaying the events of the worst day of her life to the police may well break her right now.
Chapter Five
Lewis Gilmour, following along behind DC Beth McCreadie, crosses the main plaza towards the school entrance. On their lunch break, many of the school’s two thousand pupils are outside in the bitter cold afternoon wind. Most look busy, several chase each other, groups of up to five stand around animatedly chatting or finishing off their lunch. A great number stare at phone screens. Gilmour senses a charged environment, which is to be expected in a workplace where a stray dog wondering in can cause high levels of drama.
“Quite different to the old school,” McCreadie offers as she scans the school’s exterior.
Modern, open-plan and made with lots of glass and polished steel, Cambuscraig High resembles an office environment crossed with the quirky exterior of the Scottish parliament building. McCreadie’s expression suggests she’s not a fan.
“You were a pupil here?”
“Yeah,” McCreadie replies. “Well, the old building.”
Gilmour’s eyes move over the building. Two years old, Cambuscraig is the flagship school for the local authority that runs it. MSPs, MPs and visiting foreign VIPs are brought to the school, which has been an example of the high-tech, modern school building since its opening.
To Gilmour’s eyes, the building, with its main central street and three wings, resembles an airport terminal.
As the automatic doors to reception swing open at their approach, the lunchtime bell rings. Almost two thousand pupils begin shoving and jostling their way from outdoors into the main street of the central building. Abruptly, the two detectives are caught in a green and black-uniformed tidal wave.
“Good timing, as usual,” Gilmour mutters, moving aside to allow the throng of teens past.
When the flow of pupils slows to a trickle, Gilmour and McCreadie approach the reception desk, which is staffed by a friendly but stressed-looking young man.
“DS Gilmour and DC McCreadie,” he introduces them. “Mr Storrie is expecting us.”
The receptionist, face solemn, passes the detectives a sign-in book before reaching for the phone. “I’ll get someone to come down and take you up to his office,” he says.
Gilmour thanks him and spends a few minutes watching pupils go about their day as he waits for his escort.
The school seems normal, on the surface, but a tight tension is palpable beneath. Kids huddle together as they walk, some screech-laugh loudly. A group of boys act out a stabbing motion. Many faces are turned down to a phone screen. Gilmour, lost in observing the kids, doesn’t sense Mr Storrie approach and is snapped from his people-watching by the head teacher’s soft voice.
“Officers, thank you for coming.” The head teacher, smartly attired in a grey suit, crisp white shirt and pinned tie, looks like a man out of his comfort zone, but appears to be shouldering the unexpected burden. No teacher, especially a head teacher, ever wants to experience an assault on a colleague or pupil.
Gilmour turns to face the approaching head teacher whose face wears a half-smile as his eyes fix on McCreadie.
“Bethany, a pleasure to see you,” he begins, before shifting awkwardly. “Despite the reason for your visit, of course.”
McCreadie returns his awkward smile. “Good to see you too, sir,” she replies motioning to Gilmour. “This is DS Gilmour. He’ll be leading the interviews today.”
Storrie offers a big shovel hand which Gilmour accepts.
“We have a room you can use, and the teacher’s present in A-wing at the time of the attack have been relieved of their classes so that you can interview them.”
Gilmour nods along.
Storrie continues, “The conference room is quite private, there are no classes nearby. The kids from Mr Black’s class are with a deputy head teacher. We’ve kept them together and have supported them since the incident. Some parents are present, others are making their way to school. You should be able to start interviews with Mr Black’s class very soon.”
“Thanks so much, Mr Storrie,” Gilmour replies warmly. “We’ll try to keep any impact on the school day to a minimum.”
Storrie’s face darkens and his eyes look off into the mid-distance. “Bit late for that, Detective,” he says absent-mindedly.
Snapping back, Storrie extends an arm indicating a nearby staircase. “I thought that you’d like to see the… crime scene.” Storrie’s face reddens and his eyes quiver at using the term to describe a part of his school. “Shall we?”
Leading the detectives up the staircase, Storrie goes into auto-pilot, describing the school as though guiding a tour.
“This is A-wing. We have two floors on this wing, three on wings B and C. Ground floor is the Maths department, first floor is English.”
Guiding them along the corridor, Storrie continues.
“Mr Black’s room is at the end of the corridor, first floor. One of our biggest classroo…”
Storrie’s voice tails off as they approach a large section of blood-soaked carpet.
Forensics technicians busy themselves with a variety of tasks, moving from room to corridor collating and storing evidence. One of the techs nods a greeting to Gilmour, which he returns.
Scanning their eyes along the scene, Gilmour and McCreadie take note of the broken door, the arterial spray on two walls as well as across the door, and the nameplate of Mr Black’s classroom. The iron tang of blood remains hanging in the air. A long, narrow plastic-paper walkway has been laid to allow the kids to leave Mr Black’s room without disturbing or contaminating the scene.
The tech, whose name has escaped Gilmour, hands him a preliminary report.
“Cheers,” he thanks the tech.
Noting that Storrie is still silent, he finds the head teacher staring at the bloodstained carpet.
“Mr Storrie?”
Storrie starts and faces Gilmour with distant eyes.
“Why don’t you take us to the interview room? We can come back here on our own later.
”
Storrie makes a gesture that is part agreement, part gratitude before leading them back along the corridor.
As the two detectives pass the large windows of each classroom, teenagers pop their heads up from their work, their eyes following Gilmour and McCreadie. Some of them look concerned, several nudge each other and smile before pointing out of the windows to the detectives.
Most of the young people appear subdued, quieted by the day’s events.
Gilmour wonders silently how many of them watched Mr Black taken from the school, or witnessed Jardine’s removal from the building. Gilmour looks over his shoulder, his eyes drawn back along the length of the hallway to the heavily-soaked carpet outside Mr Black’s classroom.
Nothing to be done to fix that now.
A mental shrug, Gilmour quickens his pace to re-join Mr Storrie and DC McCreadie.
Interlude
Radio Forth One
Max Steel reporting:
Reports of a serious assault at Cambuscraig High School have been confirmed in a statement by the school’s head teacher, Mr William Storrie. Whilst Mr Storrie’s statement reassured parents and pupils that there was no ongoing danger in the school, Forth One has learned that the school has since had one of the wings closed off and the pupils due to use the classrooms on the wing are being sent to the school’s assembly hall for lessons instead.
Police are in attendance and have begun an investigation into what we now believe is a serious assault on a staff member.
Several pupils, who cannot be named for legal reasons, spoke to our reporter on the site:
“My cousin wiz in an English room, and she’s being kept up in the rector’s office, along wi her class, to wait to get interviewed by the polis. She text me and telt me there was blood all over the carpet outside Miss Malone’s room.”
“My pal was in Mr Black’s room and he said that some fourth-year kid came into Mr Black’s room and Black just went totally mental and started punching the boy.”
“Naw, my mate Billy told me the boy had a knife and went for Mr Black.”
We will bring you more from the scene as it comes to us. Back to Boogie and Arlene in the studio.
Chapter Six
“This one’s us.” Nurse Fletcher reaches for the handle. Changing her mind, she pulls back, turning to face Frankie. Both women are dressed in sterile scrubs and wear gloves and face mask.
She cocks her head to the side a fraction, assessing Frankie.
“Look, it’s a little overwhelming in here if you’re not used to it.”
Frankie’s eyes are drawn to the ICU sign on the frosted glass door.
“There are a lot of noises and cables and needles on display so it can be quite frightening, but they’re all there to help Mr Black.” Nurse Fletcher gives Frankie a few moments to decide if she intends to enter the room.
Subconsciously stepping back a few paces, Frankie’s eyes dart from Nurse Fletcher’s face to the waiting door.
She spends several eternal moments wondering where Dougie’s family are and why it has fallen to her to be here for him. She knows that Dougie’s wife can’t be here, but is certain that Dougie has mentioned a daughter.
Fletcher closes the short distance between them. “It’s up to you, Frankie. He won’t know you’re there anyway.”
It’s an easy out for Frankie, it’s supposed to be. She ignores the opportunity and nods at the door behind Nurse Fletcher, who spins around and guides Frankie into the ICU room.
Immediately Frankie’s senses are overwhelmed by lights, blips and warning sirens.
Dougie is the room’s only occupant. Laid on a bed, his top half inclined, Dougie is surrounded by technology. In his robe, his face slack, his awareness elsewhere, he looks completely at odds with the lively, busy machinery around him. Rather than assisting Dougie, each monitor, screen, device or scanner seems in conflict with his still form. Cables, wires and tubes snake to and from Dougie, zigzagging across his body, face, arms and neck. It reminds Frankie of a movie she watched in which the hero is buried alive with his girlfriend in a chamber filled with snakes.
She hears someone gasp then realises that the involuntary sound has come from her own mouth.
Nurse Fletcher lays a gentle hand on her forearm.
“Sometimes it helps if I show people what everything does?” Fletcher suggests.
Frankie nods her agreement and follows the nurse with her eyes as she moves from one device to the next, a practiced hand and evaluating eyes moving over each of them as well as assessing Dougie.
“This is the cardiac monitor.” Nurse Fletcher lays a finger lightly on top of a monitor that looks like a computer screen with lines moving across it. The monitor has electrodes that are attached to Dougie’s chest with sticky pads. Tracing her finger just above the wires as she speaks, Fletcher continues.
“They’re used to monitor the electrical activity of Mr Black’s heart.”
Fletcher checks that Frankie is still following her before continuing. Pointing at Dougie’s right index finger, she indicates a clothespin-looking clip on the finger. “This is the pulse oximeter. It allows the critical care team to monitor the saturation of oxygen in the patient’s blood.”
Frankie begins nodding along, slowly becoming lost in Fletcher’s descriptions.
“This is named the Swan Ganz catheter,” she says, pointing at a tube which disappears into Dougie’s neck. “It looks a bit brutal but we use this to measure the volume of fluid filling the heart and to determine how the heart is functioning.”
As Fletcher’s monologue continues, Frankie zones in and out. Mostly aware of the nurse’s voice, she also considers Dougie’s condition.
Fletcher’s voice becomes a background noise that drifts to and fro, washing over her consciousness and away again.
“Arterial lines…. Monitoring of blood pressure.
“IV in arm… Antibiotics administered.
“Urinary catheter…. Food tube….”
Frankie scans the length of her colleague’s body; moving her eyes feels like a task in itself. Laid in the bed, Dougie looks pitiably small, withered. Not at all her colleague, her friend. A notion that Dougie’s true self has departed tugs at Frankie’s mind. She discards it and continues her examination. Dougie’s face, aside from the pallor, also looks saggy, lifeless. The many laughter lines and smile creases life has given him are still present but lie flat and flaccid. Instead of invigorating his face as they normally do, in his current state they age him drastically.
Frankie feels tears bubble as she attempts to reconcile the withered, lifeless, so very damaged little man in the room with the jovial, bombastic mentor with whom she has worked for so many years.
The acronym ‘DNR’, spoken by Fletcher, brings her thoughts back to the room. Frankie blinks dumbly several times. She notes that she has taken Dougie’s hand, but cannot recall having done so.
Turning to face Fletcher, she asks, “Could you repeat that please?”
Fletcher cocks her head. “Which part?”
“The DNR,” Frankie replies distantly.
“Oh. Well Mr Black’s notes have a clear instruction to not resuscitate him in the event of his dying.”
Frankie’s mouth forms a large O.
Turning back to look at Dougie’s slack face, she asks no-one, “Why would he do that?”
Fletcher allows a silence to hang. Finally, Frankie turns again to face her, standing this time.
“Why would a man like Dougie do that?”
Fletcher’s eyes flicker with an emotion the professional nurse pushes away almost before Frankie notices it.
“I couldn’t really say,” she replies softly. “Some patients request DNRs because of religious beliefs. Others because they feel that it’s better to pass on than to continue in a body that can’t live by its own volition.”
Frankie, who has turned back to scan Dougie’s face, can feel Fletcher’s eyes on her.
“Some just don’t have a reason to
go on, sometimes they simply want it to end.”
Frankie shook her head.
“That’s not Dougie Black. He’s one of the most vital people I’ve ever known. He lives for those kids he teaches. He… he’s too strong a man to just give up like that.”
Fletcher sighed. “Sometimes, Frankie, the reason why someone chooses a DNR, well, we just don’t know, but according to his records Mr Black was very clear on his wishes.”
The tears Frankie has been holding finally flow. Nurse Fletcher takes a step closer. “It doesn’t mean we won’t care for him. We’ll treat him, we’ll give him the best chance to survive, but we can’t resuscitate him if he goes into cardiac arrest if some other complication arises.”
Frankie nods, not a sign of acquiescence, simply a signal that she is finished with the conversation.
“Would you like me to leave you alone for a while? I’ll be right outside, monitoring his vitals.”
“Please,” Frankie replies, her voice a shade of a whisper.
Listening as Fletcher leaves, Frankie squeezes Dougie’s hand tightly.
“What the hell have you done, Dougie?” she asks a man who can’t hear or respond.
Chapter Seven
The car jolts to a stop. Its sudden loss of momentum plops Harry forward and to the side, bumping his right temple against the handhold above the door.
His hands cuffed at the front, his eyes clouded over and distant, almost every thought in his head in another place, Harry Jardine does not register the impact. He pays no heed to the uniformed police officer sitting to his left alongside him on the rear seat as the man’s eyes move over him.
“Are you okay there, Harry?”
Harry does not respond. He hears the officer, but his voice is filtered through layers of red and grey fog. It seems a task akin to communicating with another world to simply reply to the officer. The boy’s dim eyes merely remain staring a foot in front of him.
