BOX SET of THREE TOP 10 MEDICAL THRILLERS

by Ian C. P. Irvine

  He was parked just outside of the town of Peebles in the Scottish borders, in the entrance to a forest where no other cars would see him, or anyone would disturb him. Last night he had parked in the town of Galashiels and he had been moved on twice by the Police, both times just as he had fallen asleep.

  Rab was scared, because for the first time in his life, he had no place to stay. He knew that he couldn't live in the car. Already it stunk to high heaven, and it was beginning to drive him mad, being cooped up in there all day.

  He couldn't go out of the car, because he only had a couple of changes of clothes. It had rained for two days already, soaking him twice. This was his last set of dry clothes. The others were slowly drying spread out inside the car, and in the boot.

  He had spent all day trying to figure out what he should do next. He knew that he was at a really big cross-roads in his life and the choice that he was faced with had never been more clearly defined to him.

  Go straight, or become a serious criminal.

  There was no other way. He had to make something of his life. Whatever he chose to do, there would be no fucking around anymore: he had to make a success of it.

  Rab was on parole. Doing over Mr Wallace's place, he realised now, was completely insane. If he had been caught, they would have doubled his existing sentence, and sent him down for GBH, breaking and entry, theft, vandalism and breech of the peace: they would have thrown the book at him, and no doubt used him as an example to the rest of the idiots like him on the estate.

  He had meant it to be just one last job. One last bad act before he started his life of 'good'. And look what a mess he had made of it!

  Luckily, he was pretty sure that he had not left any fingerprints behind, or dropped any incriminating evidence. If he was right, and so long as neither of them had been able to positively identify him, -which they surely couldn't have, because he had had his hoodie up all the time-, then he would be in the clear.

  He will have got away with it.

  Which left the door open for him to return to the estate.

  In other words, he could go back home, get some grub and a decent bed to kip down on.

  The thing was, Rab was serious about trying to make a clean break. About trying to improve his life. Yesterday he had found a newspaper in a bucket, and he had spent several hours managing to read and get the sense of the words and stories on some of the pages.

  Slowly, he was improving. The librarian in the prison had shown a real interest in Rab. He'd given him private reading lessons, and in those short months, Rab had learnt more about reading than he ever learned in that big bastard school that he had attended in Portobello for so many wasted years. Michael, the librarian, had said that Rab had a disease or something, a condition or some sort of reading disorder, called 'dislexia' , or was it 'd-y-s-lexi-a', and he had shown him ways to try and cope with it. For the first time in his life, Rab had begun to understand why he had found it so difficult at school. Maybe he wasn't as thick as all the others had thought he was after all.

  Michael had been the first person to ever show an interest in Rab, and he had shown him a glimmer of hope, a piece of another world that Rab knew could open up to him if he really wanted to improve himself.

  Rab knew though, that if he went back to the estate, he would just end up back where he was. He hated being invisible, being a fucking nobody. Having nothing.

  But how could he get a job in Craigmillar? Nobody would employ him. "Fucking nobody."

  "Hi, I've got a wee criminal record, but it's nought mate. Give me a job. You can trust me. But don't turn your back...for too long..."

  There were two other places that Rab thought he could go, if he had enough money to get there.

  One was to head south to Newcastle. There was a bloke there that he had met inside, who had connections. Not the good sort of connections that Rab needed right now. Bad ones: connections that could help set Rab up in Craigmillar with a steady supply of good quality drugs. Whatever sort he fancied. Rab would be rich.

  However, Rab also knew that the moment he seriously went up against the Porty boys, they would hit back hard. If Rab didn't plan well, make a pre-emptive strike and go for them first, Rab would probably be dead within a month.

  The other place that Rab could think of was somewhere in Wales. There was some sort of retreat there, or club, or special program that Michael had said he could maybe join. It was run by some sort of church, and the program was free; free food, a free bed and free life guidance.

  All he had to do was give Michael a call and get the address.

  Rab closed his eyes.

  He would sleep on it. Make up his mind in the morning.

  Tomorrow would be the first day in his new life.

  For the first time that day, Rab smiled.

  And then his tummy rumbled, and a spasm of cramp shot up his leg...

  Chapter Thirty Three

  .

  .

  Edinburgh Airport

  1st March

  .

  .

  Peter hadn't slept much after his meal in the restaurant. He just couldn't forget the vision of the girl having her throat cut, the blood spurting all over him, the sound of the scream that had been silenced as she had choked.

  He was desperate to sleep. Desperate. But he was also scared. Very scared.

  Scared that he would close his eyes and dream again.

  Fuck! What was happening to him.

  Back in his Swiss hotel room he had stared at the four small bottles of whisky that he had taken out of the minibar for quite a long time. He needed something to help tip him over the edge and put him out cold before the dreams came. He wanted to drink them, but the fear of damaging his kidneys was even greater, so eventually he put them back in the minibar and closed the door.

  He lay down on the bed, and after a while he had started to cry. To sob. To shake violently as the emotion overwhelmed him and the pent-up stress and fear and worry sought release.

  He had cried for about twenty minutes.

  And then he had slept. Soundly. Not a single dream the whole night long.

  When he had woken up the next day it was eleven o'clock in the morning. Outside it was still dark, and it was only when he opened up the curtains that he discovered that it was snowing heavily.

  He shaved, showered, packed, and hurried downstairs just in time to check out before twelve o'clock.

  By 1 p.m. he was on the next train out of town.

  His plan was simple.

  To get the hell out of Switzerland as soon as possible.

  .

  --------------------

  .

  He landed at Edinburgh airport the next day, just after midnight. His ticket on the last flight out of Berne Airport that night had cost him a small fortune, but he did not care. He had paid the equivalent of four hundred pounds without thinking about it.

  As he had waited in the lounge in Switzerland for boarding, he had realised just how little he had eaten that day: just a couple of sandwiches on the train, and a hamburger at the train station in Berne.

  The restaurants were all closed, and the only thing he could find was a machine serving a collection of expensive snacks.

  As he surveyed the poor selection of unhealthy rubbish that was on offer, he suddenly had intense craving for spicy sausage. He could almost taste it in his mouth. Incredibly, the last thing he saw as he scanned the options available in the machine were little green packs of Pepperoni. He bought three.

  He had never really had much of a taste for spicy sausage before, but tonight they tasted like the best food he had ever eaten.

  Luckily on the plane he was able to buy another sandwich and that helped him survive until the taxi got him back to his flat on the other side of Edinburgh.

  .

  As soon as his head hit the pillow at 2 a.m. he went out like a light. He did not wake up until 1 p.m. that afternoon. He had dreamt of nothing.

  Upon waking he had called
the hospital almost immediately.

  He argued for a while with the receptionist at the Renal unit, trying to book an appointment with Dr Jamieson this side of Easter, but there was nothing available. Frustrated, he had hung up on the poor lady, but then he remembered that the consultant had given him his card, with his mobile number on it.

  The card was in his medical file in the his desk drawer. Peter got it quickly and Dr Jamieson answered within a few rings.

  "Dr Jamieson, hi! It's Peter Nicolson here. You operated on me a few months back...A double kidney transplant...? You said I should call you if I needed to, if there was anything I needed to discuss."

  "Yes," the doctor acknowledged. "How are you? Is everything okay?...Actually, hang on a second Peter, I just want to get your file down from my shelf...," the doctor said, putting the phone down. "Okay, I'm back. I've got your notes here...So, you were just about to answer, how are you physically...?"

  "Physically, I think everything is fine. I feel fitter than I ever have...," Peter replied. "But I need to see you, as soon as possible...I need to talk to you...urgently...I think I'm changing...something very strange is happening to me...I don't understand it. I...I have been having dreams...incredible dreams...visions in fact..."

  "About what?"

  "I'd rather not say over the phone. If I can, I would rather speak to you personally?" Peter asked. "...I've just came back from Switzerland this morning. I came all the way back to see you."

  "Switzerland? That's a very strange place for someone to go who can't stand heights! ...I seem to remember that in hospital you asked the nurse if it was possible to lower the bed because you hated being so high off the floor, and you were very apologetic about your acrophobia..."

  "Exactly. You see, I was an acrophobic. But not anymore. Not since the transplant."

  "Are there any other changes that you can think of?"

  "Spicy sausages...! Yesterday I had a craving for spicy sausages, and I have never in my life felt a craving like that before...but mostly, the dreams...I need them to stop."

  There was a few minutes silence at the other end of the phone.

  Although Peter was unaware of it, there was a reason that Dr Jamieson had given him his card, and there was a reason why Peter's file was sitting so close to hand on the consultant's shelf.

  It was the same reason why the busy consultant suddenly freed up his afternoon, and said, "Peter, I will see you in two hours. We'll give you an examination, run some tests, and talk. We’ll take as much time as you need. I'm here to help. Have you eaten yet today?"

  "No, not yet...I just got up actually..."

  "Then don't. But drink plenty of water. See you soon..."

  Peter hung up the phone, already feeling relieved from having got an appointment with the expert.

  .

  Dr Jamieson sat back in his chair. He picked up the email from inside Peter's file that he just received a few days before, read it again and then put it all down on the table.

  He had a bad feeling.

  He had personally conducted and then overseen the postoperative care for hundreds of transplant cases.

  This would be the third patient reporting something strange in less than four weeks. All using the same new treatment.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  .

  .

  Peter's Flat, Lochend

  Edinburgh

  2nd March

  .

  .

  The impromptu check-up at the hospital had gone a long way to reduce Peter's stress level.

  Dr Jamieson had confirmed that the initial examinations they had conducted had shown that the kidneys were performing fantastically well. He had had a physical examination, blood pressure, CT scan, ultrasound, and numerous blood tests. While they had waited for the results, Peter had had a long discussion with Dr Jamieson, then gone for something to eat and then come back. The results had been fast tracked and were all ready.

  They confirmed that everything was okay. Actually, they showed that everything was better than okay. Peter had had several blood tests done over the years for various reasons, and when these new results were compared with the blood work from years ago, it suggested that his new kidneys were performing better than the old ones, his own original kidneys.

  "The treatment you received for your transplant, and are continuing to receive now, is revolutionary Peter," the consultant had explained. "It's new, and very few other people in the UK have received it. You have been extremely lucky. The prognosis for your long-term survival is excellent. Congratulations."

  When Peter had discussed the other things...the transformation from acrophobic to mountaineer, the violent dreams and the sudden longing for spicy sausage, the consultant had tried to reassure him further: "As I think we discussed before, part of the treatment you have undertaken requires the use of immunosuppressant drugs which work to stop your immune system attacking your new kidneys. It is not unusual for the use of such powerful drugs to cause chemical changes in the body that could alter your behavioural patterns. We also have to consider the effects of psychosocial stress and a number of other factors. The bottom line is that your tastes and outlook on certain things may change as the body adapts to your new chemical makeup, or even as you adopt a new outlook on life, induced by your near death experience. Peter, you nearly died. You know that. And anyone who goes through that and survives, is bound to revaluate many things, establishing new values for what is important or not. If this doesn't occur at the conscious level, it can often be done by your subconscious. As for your dreams, there are five different stages of sleep. As your body goes from one phase to another, you experience different types of dreams. Some of these dreams make sense, have some meaning. Other types of dreams are just based on random thoughts, images, or feelings that may be floating around in the grey matter of your brain at the time, or are just totally made up."

  "Some of the dreams that you have as you drift down to deep sleep can be quite vivid. The description of one type, 'hypnagogic hallucinations', describes quite well what these are... they are simply hallucinations. Vivid, often memorable, but mostly complete and absolute nonsense."

  "Peter, try not to worry about them. Give it time. I believe that they will subside and go away as time passes by and your body in effect, acclimatizes to the medicine and your new physical condition."

  Peter had not described the dreams in detail. He had only told the consultant about the effect they had had on him. He never mentioned 'room 326', or the lady found lying on the bed with her throat cut.

  Towards the end of their consultation, Peter had said, "Dr Jamieson, I've never asked you anything about the donor whose kidneys I received... to be quite honest, I never wanted to know. But, now, I'm very interested. I was hoping you could tell me something about the person who saved my life..."

  The consultant smiled.

  "I've been wondering when you would ask. Most people do, eventually. But unfortunately, when they do, the answer is always the same. We can't tell you anything about the donor, unless they have specifically left instructions that we may. Or if we have the permission of the next of kin. Unfortunately, in this case, we have neither. To be honest though, we have not yet managed to contact the parents or any other next of kin. If you insist on knowing, then perhaps we could raise the question when we hear from them?"

  "Please. There are things I think that I might want to know...eventually. If not now. But can you tell me just now, was it a man or a woman?"

  "That much I can say," the consultant replied. "It was a man."

  .

  --------------------

  .

  Later that day, Peter had felt more relaxed. The consultation with the doctor had helped to relieve his fears, and he felt much better.

  So much so, that his thoughts began to wander back to work, and his job at the Evening News. He missed it.

  It was as he was thinking about work, that he suddenly remembered the call he had had with the Poli
ce Sergeant who had saved his life. It had been brief, and rather hurried as Peter was still in Switzerland when he received it. When the phone had rung, Peter was at the airport and he was trying to book a flight back to Edinburgh. His mind had really been on other things, and Peter couldn't remember much about the call, except that the Sergeant had asked him to do him a favour. Something to do with Mr Wallace from the Craigmillar Estate.

  After placing several calls to the station, he managed to track the policeman down.

  The Sergeant had explained the situation again, and for a while, as Peter listened, he forgot all about his own problems. He listened in disbelief and pleasant surprise as he first discovered that old Mr Wallace was the proud, although very humble, recipient of a Victoria Cross, the highest military medal of honour that any UK serviceman could receive. Then he listened in disgust and growing anger when he learned in detail how someone, probably Big Wee Rab, had broken into the flat and had been caught red handed with the medal in the act of stealing it.

  "Could you write something about it and get it out in the Evening News as soon as possible? No doubt the thief will have tried to sell it by now but maybe if someone knows anything about it, you can encourage them to hand it in or give us a call?"

  It was a long shot, they all knew, but worth a try.

  .

  When Peter had called Mr Wallace on the phone, he had picked up on the fifth ring. Mr Wallace seemed genuinely pleased to hear from Peter, and Peter promised himself that he would do everything he could to help the old man. He liked him. And it seemed that Mr Wallace also liked Peter. In their mutual endeavours to try and save the estate on which Mr Wallace lived, a bond of trust and affection had been formed, reinforced by Mr Wallace's frequent visits to Peter during his stay in hospital.

  Although Mr Wallace was reluctant to expound upon the circumstances which had led to the awarding of the medal, Peter had managed to get some extra details from him, and permission to learn more through the records. Mr Wallace had also granted permission for an article to be placed in the News as soon as possible.