Pestilence

by Ken McClure

  “It was the rain…it was the rain…David has always been such a careful driver but it was the rain. The car just spun, there was nothing he could do…it was the rain…”

  In the background Saracen saw one of the ambulance men shake his head. He said to one of the nurses, “Nurse, would you find a seat for Mrs?…”

  “Lorrimer,” replied the woman. “With two ‘r’s,” she added nervously.

  Saracen smiled reassuringly at her as she was led away to the waiting room then he turned to her husband.

  “I think he’s had it,” said the ambulance man who had shaken his head. He filled Saracen in on the details of the accident while Saracen examined the man. Saracen stood up from the table and said, “You’re right. He’s dead, ‘ribs probably punctured his heart. The PM will say for sure.”

  “Will you tell his wife?” asked one of the policemen.

  Saracen said that he would and went to find the woman. She had been taken to one of the side rooms by a nurse. She got up as Saracen entered and smiled nervously before starting to speak quickly as if in the belief that she could make something true by saying it often enough.

  “He is all right isn’t he? Just a bit of a bump. I thought so. This weather really is the limit. I was just saying to David before the accident…” Her voice trailed off as Saracen took both her hands in his. “I’m sorry,” he said, “Your husband is dead Mrs Lorrimer. There was nothing we could do.”

  The woman’s eyes widened then filled with tears as the bottom fell out of her world. She began to sob uncontrollably and Saracen held against his shoulder, raising his hand to stop the nurse who made to move forward and take her away. He let the woman cry herself out before lifting her gently off his shoulder and asking if there was anyone they could contact to be with her. A relative? A friend? “Nurse will clean you up and get you some tea,” he said, ushering her into the waiting arms of the nurse. Saracen returned to the main treatment room as a heavily built man lurched in from the waiting room.

  “I wanna see a doctor,” he demanded, his voice slurred with drink. He transferred his weight unsteadily from one foot to the other as he tried to focus on the scene in front of him.

  “You’ll have to wait your turn,” said Saracen. “Go back to the waiting room please.”

  “I wanna see a fuckin’ doctor now!” demanded the drunk. He brought his fist down on the edge of an instrument tray sending a shower of steel up into the air. He staggered back as if amazed at the consequence of his action.

  “You’ll have to wait your turn like everyone else. Go back to the waiting room,” said Saracen.

  “Who fuckin’ says so?”

  “I fuckin’ do,” said Saracen evenly.

  The drunk sniggered. “Are you gonna make me like?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “No, he is,” said Saracen matter of factly. He nodded to the porter, Jack Lane who had just returned from taking a patient to X-Ray. He looked down at the drunk from six and a half feet and said quietly, “This way my son…there’s a clever boy.” He led the drunk out by the scruff of the neck.

  Tremaine shrugged and said to Saracen, “Twenty minutes ago this place was full of policemen. Now, when you want one…”

  Saracen stitched up another cut head then walked over to the sink to wash his hands. He levered on the taps with his elbows and took in the sights around him as he washed. The clock up on the wall said twenty past two and exhaustion was inducing a cynical numbness. How different it all was from his pre-medical school view of medicine when family and friends had encouraged him in the notion that he was about to become one of God’s chosen people, or at least, society’s. He smiled faintly as he recalled the image he had nurtured through his student years, the one where he, dressed in a neat grey suit, was standing on the steps of a bright, modern hospital waving good-bye to a grateful family who looked as if they had stepped out of the pages of Homes and Gardens. “How can we ever repay you Doctor?” they were saying.

  “Oh, it’s nothing really…”

  Saracen saw the symbolism in washing his hands as he looked at the last of a Saturday night’s clientele at Skelmore General. “Barabbas it is then,” he said softly, but not so softly that a passing nurse did not hear. “Did you say something Doctor Saracen?” she asked.

  “No. nothing.”

  The stream of patients dwindled to a trickle and the last one finally limped out through the swing doors at twenty minutes past three. Saracen sat down slowly on one of the tubular frame chairs and tilted it back to rest his head against the wall. Alan Tremaine joined him and read aloud from the clip board in his hand. “Forty three patients, fourteen admitted to the wards, four palmed off on to the County Hospital, one dead on arrival, the rest discharged.”

  “Tea?” asked Sister Lindeman.

  “Please”

  Tremaine put down the clip board and stretched before putting his hands behind his head. “Only two more months of A amp;E to go,” he sighed. “How long have you been doing it James?”

  “Six years.”

  Tremaine expelled breath loudly and said, “You know, I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am to you for helping out tonight.”

  “Forget it,” said Saracen.

  “Something should be done about Garten,” said Tremaine, “How does he keep getting away with it? I’ve got a damned good mind to complain to the authorities about him.”

  “You will do no such thing,” said Saracen with an air of finality that took Tremaine aback, “You will keep your mouth shut, finish your residency and leave with a good reference. Understood?”

  “If you say so…But it’s so unjust.”

  “Don’t waste your time looking for justice. Keep your nose clean and get on with your career.” With that, Saracen got up and left through the swing doors.

  Sister Lindeman returned with the tea and looked surprised. She looked around her and then asked, “Has Doctor Saracen gone?”

  Tremaine replied that he had. He accepted the mug that Sister Lindeman held out and asked almost absent mindedly, “How come James is still only a registrar? He must be what, thirty five? thirty six? Come to that, why is he still working in A amp;E?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean Doctor,” said Sister Lindeman. Her voice was cold enough to ensure that Tremaine knew not to pursue that line of conversation.

  Tremaine sipped his tea, still deep in thought. “And as for Garten…”

  “Drink your tea Doctor.”

  Saracen pulled up his collar against the wind and walked up the hill to find the duty porter. The man emerged from his turreted gate-house when he saw Saracen approach.

  “Where did you leave my car?” Saracen asked.

  “It’s round the back, parked behind the bins.” The man dropped the keys into Saracen’s hand and said good-night. Saracen turned and walked back down the hill, taking care not to slip on the wet cobblestones. It had stopped raining but only recently for water still trickled down the hill through the joints and crevices of a surface that had been laid before the turn of the century.

  Unlike the front of the building which had an array of neon signs and direction indicators the lighting was poor at the back for the rear boasted no public buildings save for a small chapel attached to the mortuary. The lighting was therefore minimal and comprised solely of electric conversions to the original gas mantle holders on the walls.

  Saracen saw that a notice had been pinned to one of the two tall mortuary doors. He stopped to read it but had to manoeuvre himself till he achieved an angle where there was enough light to make it possible.

  MORTUARY CLOSED DUE TO REFRIGERATION FAILURE

  For transfer arrangements call ext. 2711.

  His curiosity satisfied, Saracen walked on past the row of large bins that held the Hospital’s refuse. Each was mounted on a wheeled trolley and fitted with a grab ring to fit the hydraulic hoists of the collection vehicles that called every other day. He took in breath sharply as a cat leapt from the top of one o
f the bins in front of him and disappeared off into the shadows.

  Saracen found his car squeezed into a small space behind the row for parking space was always a problem within the precincts of the hospital. He had to sidle between it and a wet stone wall to reach the driver’s door. As he fumbled for the lock in the gloom he dropped the keys and cursed softly as he found difficulty in bending down in the narrow space.

  As he groped for his keys Saracen became aware of a faint hissing sound. At first he thought it must be coming from one of the tyres but as it grew louder he realised that it was coming from the other side of the bins. Intrigued, he stood up and squeezed out from behind the car to peer through a gap between two of the bins where he could see out into the courtyard.

  The sound grew louder and Saracen recognised it as the noise car tyres made on wet cobblestones. A vehicle was freewheeling slowly down the hill from the gate. He waited for its headlights to illuminate the courtyard but nothing happened. Instead he saw the dim outline of a dark van come slowly round the corner without lights and stop outside the mortuary.

  The light coming from the single bulb above the mortuary doors enabled Saracen to see that three men had got out. He watched spellbound as they donned some kind of protective clothing that they took from the back of the van. The unlikely possibility that they were refrigeration engineers was totally dispelled when Saracen saw them put on hoods and full face visors and then pull on gauntlets.

  Looking like astronauts about to enter their space craft, the men approached the mortuary doors in single file. There was a brief pause while the lock was undone then they disappeared inside.

  Saracen began to wonder if he was hallucinating. Perhaps it had all been a vision brought on by tiredness. He even screwed up his eyes before looking again and finding the van still there.

  A few minutes later two of the men re-emerged carrying a long box that appeared to be wrapped in plastic sheeting. They loaded the box into the back of the van the turned to wait for the third man who was still inside. Through the open door Saracen saw the darkness of the mortuary become eerily light as if candles had been lit inside. The third man came out and closed the door. Saracen walked out into the open and approached the van. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  Three dark visors turned to look at him but no one spoke.

  “I asked you what you were doing,” said Saracen as he got closer. Still no reply. Saracen suddenly felt apprehensive. The lack of response and the fact that he could not see the men’s faces made him feel that it might be unwise to get any closer. “Just stay where you are!” he ordered and turned on his heel to make for the gate- house. He only made it to the foot of the hill before something hit him on the back of the head and unconsciousness swept over him like a black fog.

  Chapter Two

  It was daylight when Saracen came round and opened his eyes. The pain inside his head brought on a sudden wave of nausea when he tried to move so he lay quite still for a moment, trying to put his thoughts into some kind of order. He remembered the incident outside the mortuary and assumed, correctly as it happened, that he had been attacked from behind. But where was he now?

  The silence and cold, grey light suggested that it might be dawn but if the dull rainy weather had persisted from the previous day it could be any time, he reasoned. It was particularly hard to tell for he was not lying outside on the road. There was a ceiling above him and the air, although unheated, was perfectly still.

  “Nurse!” Saracen croaked, in the hope that he might be in a hospital bed but somehow he knew that he was not. It felt all wrong.

  Still unwilling to move his head for fear of awakening the pain dragon, he felt about him with his hands and discovered that he was lying on something hard. It was metallic…cold smooth metal…stainless steel perhaps?

  At intervals his fingers sank into narrow slots that ran longitudinally. Was that the word? Saracen found it hard to concentrate. Try as he might he just could not think clearly. Was it the head wound or was it something else, he wondered for there was a smell in the room, a heavy, sickly sweet smell, a smell that was now more of a sensation really, as if his senses had been overloaded with it after a long period of inhalation.

  Had he been chloroformed? No, he decided, it wasn’t chloroform, neither was it ether. It was something else, another chemical that he felt sure he should recognise but could not because he could not think clearly.

  Unable to make any progress through deductive reasoning Saracen tried moving his head. He tried shifting it slowly to the right but found it difficult, not because of the pain, but because the back of his skull seemed to be resting in some kind of mould. The mould was not metal for he could feel it warm through his hair and it was softer than metal though not much…He had it…It was wood!

  All at once Saracen realised where he was and the shock made him sit bolt upright. An agonising pain reminded him that this had been a mistake and momentary blindness followed a wave of nausea. Fear and pain vied inside his skull until he opened his eyes and peered out through the fingers that cradled his head. A long row of bone handled knives on the wall confirmed his worst fears. He was lying on a post-mortem examination table.

  It was another full minute before Saracen could bring himself to try moving his legs off the table. He slid the left one slowly over the edge of the steel table and let it dangle down while he brought the right one round to join it. Then, holding his breath, he attempted to stand up. It was a disaster. His legs buckled beneath him and, as he fell, his fingers caught in one of the channels that were etched into the table for the drainage of blood and body fluids. His wrist was wrenched painfully as he slid to the floor.

  Saracen cursed in frustration as he dragged himself up on to his hands and knees. He had to stop at that and hang his head for a moment as the pain increased in successive waves like an incoming tide. He knew that he was going to be sick but there was little he could do about it. He just had to let it happen and threw up on the floor. The involuntary convulsing of his stomach brought on an exhaustion that made him feel faint. He felt that consciousness was slipping away from him fast and his last act, before passing out, was to push himself to one side so that he would not fall into his own vomit.

  When Saracen came round for the second time he felt icy cold and was shivering uncontrollably but this time he could think more lucidly. He had to get to a telephone. There was one in the room and he knew where it was, it was just a matter of reaching it. He did not attempt to stand up this time. Instead he dragged himself across the floor, keeping as horizontal as possible to maintain the blood supply to his head and having cause to be grateful to the smooth, sluicable surface that minimised the friction factor in his progress. He reached the far wall and risked pulling himself up into a sitting position by reaching up and gripping a metal hose reel that was mounted low down on the tiled wall. He could see the pathologist’s telephone sitting invitingly on the desk above him. It encouraged him to make the final effort and he stretched up to take it from the hook.

  “It’s Doctor Saracen…I’m in the PM room…send someone.”

  The voices in the tunnel suddenly lost their echo and began to make sense.

  “So you are back with us!”

  Saracen understood the words but could not reply at first.

  “Care to tell us what happened old man?”

  Saracen opened his eyes and recognised Martin Saithe, the Physician Superintendent at Skelmore General, a man he did not much care for but contact between them had been minimal so this had not become a problem. Standing beside Saithe was Alan Tremaine and beside Tremaine a policeman in uniform. The face of Sister Vera Ellis swam into view and told Saracen that he was in Ward Four, the ward immediately above A amp;E.

  When the power of speech had returned, Saracen told the assembled group of the incident outside the mortuary and how he had been hit from behind. He was puzzled to find that no one seemed particularly surprised. Saithe nodded and said, “Yes, we had concluded as much.
You had the misfortune to disturb our intruders last night.”

  “Intruders?” asked Saracen.

  “Thieves,” said Saithe with an air of distaste. “Dr Garten informs me that a new compressor due to be fitted to the refrigeration system in the mortuary was stolen last night. A grubby little crime.” Saithe adopted the expression that Saracen associated with him most, a narrowing of the eyes and the adoption of a pained expression that was meant to convey to his fellows that an extreme sensitivity to things vulgar and distasteful. Saithe now betrayed a restlessness and obvious desire to be off. “Well,” he said, eyeing his watch, “I think it’s quite clear what happened. You got a nasty crack on the head but nothing too serious. Dr Garten will have to soldier on without you for a few days but then you’ll be back, right as rain.”

  The idea of Garten ‘soldiering on’ made Tremaine look at Saracen and cover his mouth with his hand. He was grateful that Saracen, in his present state, did not feel much like smiling.

  Saithe said to Saracen, “Perhaps you might tell the constable here anything that you think might be useful or helpful in the investigation.” With that, he gave a dutiful smile, said thank-you to the ward sister and left the ward.

  “If there is anything you could tell me sir,” said the constable. “Anything at all.”

  “Yes, I’m going to be sick,” said Saracen.

  “Nurse!” Sister Ellis conjured up a student nurse with a suitable receptacle before Saracen could even contemplate defiling her smooth blanketry or mirror shine floors.

  The stomach convulsions ceased and Saracen lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes until the throbbing in his head had subsided. When he felt better he turned to the young policeman and said, “There were three of them.”

  The policeman looked pleased and started to write in his notebook. “Did you get a good look at any of them?” he asked.