Pestilence

by Ken McClure

  “They said that she had had a heart attack. I can’t understand it; Myra was always as strong as a horse. She’d never had a day’s illness in her life.”

  “It can happen like that,” said Saracen.

  “But it was all so cold and callous as if Myra was some vagrant they had found dead on a parking lot. They wouldn’t even let me see her.”

  Saracen was puzzled but very much aware that Archer was on the verge of breaking down again. “Did they give you a reason why not?” he asked gently.

  “They said that an autopsy had been carried out on Myra and it would not be ‘appropriate’ for me to view the body. They said that they hadn’t realised that she had had a husband or indeed any relations and had arranged for her body to be cremated.” Archer’s voice fell to a whisper as he said, “But I managed to stop them doing that. Part of our reason for coming back to Skelmore was that we bath wanted to be buried in St Clement’s churchyard when the time came. We had gone to Sunday school there when we were kids and we were married there. I managed to fix that yesterday for Myra.”

  Saracen nodded but was still puzzled. If the woman had died of a heart attack the post mortem would have been confined to the thorax. The site of incision could easily have been concealed and the body displayed in the viewing area of the mortuary chapel. Why had Archer been treated so shabbily? Had it really been too much trouble for someone to arrange for him to see his wife? “Who did you speak to at the General?” he asked Archer.

  “Dr Garden, I think he said his name was.”

  “Garten,” corrected Saracen.

  Yes, that was it. You know him then?”

  “I work in Dr Garten’s unit at the General,” replied Saracen.

  “I see.” said Archer quietly. Saracen remained silent, letting Archer come to terms with the information.

  It suddenly occurred to Archer that Saracen might actually have seen his wife at the hospital. He was anxious to find out.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Saracen, conscious of the disappointment he was causing. “It must have been my night off.”

  “She was admitted on Monday the twelfth.”

  Saracen confirmed that he was not on duty on Monday night.

  Archer face fell and he said, “I know it probably sounds silly but I just want to speak to someone who might have seen her since she got here, someone who might have spoken to her. Twenty three years married and I end up standing in an office being handed a plastic bag with some of her things in it…they even asked me to sign a chit…” Archer put his hand over his face and held his fingers lightly against his eye-lids for a moment.

  Saracen was aware of the landlord’s curiosity. The man was wondering what was going on. Saracen spread his fingers silently in a gesture that said that everything was all right. He could not help but appraise the situation professionally. Archer, he concluded, was not the type to respond to platitudes about time being a great healer and the like so he came straight to the point and said, “Mr Archer you need some help.”

  “Pills you mean,” answered Archer with scorn in his voice.

  “Yes pills,” said Saracen flatly. “There is nothing noble in going through agony unnecessarily. Your wife is dead and feeling the way you do is not going to bring her back. What you need is a breathing space before you start getting your life in order. Medication can help.” Saracen had made his gamble with a firm, almost bullying approach. He waited for Archer’s response, not at all confident of the outcome.

  Archer capitulated. “I suppose you are right,” he conceded.

  “Good. Have you registered with a doctor since your arrival?” asked Saracen.

  Archer replied that he had not and Saracen told him how to go about it then he wrote down the phone numbers of his flat and the A amp;E unit at the hospital before saying, “If you have any trouble or even if you just want someone to talk to, call me.”

  Archer accepted the beer mat that Saracen had written the information on and slipped it into his pocket. “Doctor I don’t know how to begin to thank you. Up there on the cliff I was seriously thinking of…”

  “I think I know what you were considering,” said Saracen.

  “At least let me pay for lunch,” said Archer.

  Saracen agreed.

  Saracen tried to rescue what was left of the day with a slow walk round the harbour but thoughts of Archer remained uppermost in his mind as he found a smooth stone to sit on near the mooring wall. He found it hard to believe that Nigel Garten would have treated a dead patient’s relative in such an off-hand way for being charming to strangers was one of his fortes as it was with many shallow people. Perhaps Archer’s account of what had happened had been distorted by grief or, even more likely perhaps, the truth of the matter might lie somewhere in the middle.

  It was sometimes difficult for a doctor, however well meaning, to adopt the proper degree of sensitivity or concern over the death of someone he or she had scarcely known, or in the case of a ‘dead on arrival’ someone they had not known at all. People expected too much. He didn’t blame them; he understood.

  When he got home Saracen decided to return to duty on the following morning and telephoned Nigel Garten to tell him so. The news was greeted enthusiastically by Garten who wondered perhaps if Saracen

  ‘could possibly’ take over his period of duty with Chenhui Tang as he had been called to an all day meeting of the Skelmore Development Committee at the Council Chambers. Saracen bit his lip and agreed. Involvement with the Development Committee was rapidly becoming the jewel in Garten’s crown of excuses for avoiding work. This would be the third all day meeting he had attended in the past month.

  Saracen sensed political ambition awakening in Garten and thought the man well qualified. All front and no substance. He was the right age and held the right status in the community to present well in the political arena. The more usual background of business success was provided, in Garten’s case by his father-in-law, Matthew Glendale, a wealthy and prominent local builder. It was a connection that had cost Garten dear for, for Mildred Glendale, Garten’s wife, had achieved uniqueness in Saracen’s mind as the most unpleasant woman he had ever met. Tremaine, on meeting her, had summed her up succinctly with the comment, ‘sensitivity of a dead pig, manners of a live one.” Saracen might have argued with the ethics of such a remark but not the accuracy. From time to time Saracen had wondered if Garten might have been different had he not married the malicious Mildred but he concluded not. To be so lazy and parasitic demanded congenital short-comings not just acquired ones.

  Chenhui Tang smiled when she saw Saracen come through the swing doors of A amp;E. She touched her head with her hand and said with a strong accent, “Your head…it is all right now?”

  “Fine,” smiled Saracen. Conversation with Chenhui invariably involved a lot of smiles. They filled in the gaps where words should have been. “Are we busy this morning?”

  “Yes, yes, busy,” said Chenhui with an exaggerated series of nods and smiles.

  Saracen liked Chenhui and thought that she would make a good doctor. He respected her for that and would have liked to have known her better but the communication barrier between them was just too great. He had visited her once in her room at the doctors’ residency and had found it full of tutorial books on the English language. They had occupied an entire shelf along one wall, a monument to complete failure, he had thought at the time.

  Alan Tremaine, who had been on duty during the night, signed off officially and handed over responsibility to Saracen with a report on the night’s ‘business’. There had been an accident in the local brewery resulting in several cases of severe scalding, a motor-cycle accident resulting in a fatality, the pillion passenger. The Police were still trying to contact relatives. They would probably turn up during the morning.

  Saracen nodded and checked up on the present location of the burns cases in anticipation of phoned inquiries. “Anything else I should know?”

  “The Police brought in a man at
three this morning. He had ‘collapsed’ in the cells; hit his head on something…”

  “Did it wash?”

  “No other bruises on him.”

  Saracen nodded.

  “The X-Rays were OK, just knocked himself out.”

  “Good. Off you go then.”

  As the doors closed behind Tremaine, Chenhui came up to Saracen looking harassed. “You come please!” she said.

  “I come,” smiled Saracen and followed her to the treatment room to begin another day.

  The mid-morning admission of a housewife who had overdosed on Valium made Saracen wonder about Timothy Archer and how he was getting on. He had decided not to ask Nigel Garten about the Myra Archer case lest this be misconstrued, or more correctly, construed as unwarranted interference or even implied criticism. He did however resolve to check up on the case details recorded in the admission book when he got the chance.

  He got the chance in the early afternoon when a lull developed. Nurses were chatting as they polished and tidied instrument trays and re-stocked cupboards and shelves. Chenhui sat with one of her English language books, her mouth moving silently. Saracen flicked through the pages of the admissions book and scanned down the entries for the evening of the twelfth. His index finger stopped on the entry for Myra Archer. Medic-Alpha Alert…Myra Archer, Flat 2, Palmer’s Green Court…Dead on Arrival…No known relatives…Medical Officer, Dr Chenhui Tang. There was no mention of a Post Mortem report.

  Saracen closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. He went and sat down beside Chenhui who looked up from her book and smiled. Saracen glanced at the page she had been studying. It was headed, ‘At the Seaside’…How is the weather? The weather is fine. What colour is the sky? The sky is blue.

  “Chenhui, do you remember a Mrs Myra Archer?” asked Saracen. He fully expected her to smile, repeat the name slowly and then look thoughtful. Instead her smile disappeared instantly, her eyes filled with something that looked like fear and she became so nervous and agitated that she dropped the book she had been looking at. Saracen picked it up and handed it to her.

  “No…No Myra Archer,” said Chenhui, looking more and more like a frightened mouse.

  “But…” Saracen stopped himself. “No matter,” he smiled, “It must have been a mistake. Forget it, it wasn’t important.”

  Chenhui got up and excused herself leaving Saracen to look thoughtfully after her as she left the treatment room. “Now what was that all about?” he said quietly. It suddenly appeared as if Archer had been right. There had been something odd about the way his wife’s case had been handled. The question was what? He considered everything he knew about the affair. According to Timothy Archer there had been some kind of mix-up over which hospital his wife had been admitted to and, with Chenhui involved a misunderstanding was certainly on the cards. Had that been it? Had some failure in communication been responsible for a delay in admitting Myra Archer to hospital and, if so, had it been a serious delay? Could it have been responsible for her death?

  If it had then there had obviously been a cover-up and Nigel Garten must have been involved for he was the one who had spoken to Archer. Saracen felt a hollowness creeping into the pit of his stomach. This was exactly the kind of situation he did not need in his life, not a second time.

  His inclination was to do nothing and he tried to rationalise this course of inaction by telling himself that whatever he did it was not going to bring Myra Archer back to life. Any kind of enquiry would be sure to cause embarrassment, anguish and a great deal of unpleasantness. Chenhui might end up being dismissed; maybe even Nigel Garten too after a sacrificial inquiry by the Health Board for the benefit of the Press. He himself would establish his credentials beyond doubt as a viper who would never find another nest in medicine…Was that the real reason for doing nothing? he wondered. If someone had really died because of Chenhui it could happen again and, if it did, would it not be as much his fault as hers for having said nothing? “Shit,” said Saracen out loud.

  As business began to pick up in A amp;E Saracen did his best to pretend to Chenhui that nothing was amiss. He had still not decided what to do for the best for both options seemed equally unattractive but, by tea time, he had come up with a third alternative. He would carry out an investigation on his own and reach his own conclusions about the death of Myra Archer. If he concluded that a foul-up had contributed to her death then he would speak out. If, on the other hand, he felt that she would have died anyway he would be content to let the matter rest.

  The question now for Saracen was how to go about making enquiries discretely, how to find out what he wanted to know without having to make any direct approaches. That, he concluded, meant paperwork, always assuming that it existed for there was nothing more to be gleaned from A amp;E records. Myra Archer had been admitted as ‘Dead on Arrival’, no file would have been opened on her. That left the Post Mortem report which would record the exact cause of death, something that might or might not prove useful for Saracen’s purpose, and, as an afterthought, Medic Alpha’s log book. If there had been any untoward delay or mix-up it would be recorded in the log.

  Nigel Garten appeared in the Department at six thirty pretending that he had just had an exhausting and demanding day. He had ‘popped in’ to ensure that everything was running smoothly. Saracen assured him dryly that it was and smiled thinly when Garten announced that he would have to rush off again. “Dinner with the in-laws, old man. You know the form.”

  Garten checked quickly through the mail lying on his desk before leaving and Saracen kept watch out of the corner of his eye to see if Chenhui would make any kind of approach towards him. To his relief she did not although he could not be sure whether this was because Garten appeared to be in such a rush or whether he had managed to convince her that his question about Myra Archer had been quite innocent. With a bit of luck, thought Saracen, her lack of English might have pushed her towards the latter view.

  Soon after Garten had gone Tremaine and Prahesh Singh arrived to take over the night shift in A amp;E. Saracen went through the report with Tremaine and made a conscious effort to appear humorous and relaxed for Chenhui’s benefit for he could sense that she was watching him in what he feared might be a text book case of guilty conscience. When it was time to leave, he said good-night to her with an extra big smile then waited round the corner in the car park till Chenhui herself had left then he walked down the hill to the ambulance depot to look for a member of the Medic Alpha crew.

  When he got there he found the rest room empty, the only signs of life being a thermos flask sitting in the middle of the table with its lid screwed on the wrong thread and a piece of grease proof paper that had recently held sandwiches. He looked out of the window and saw an attendant cleaning the windscreen of one of the vehicles.

  “Where is everyone?” asked Saracen.

  “Try the duty room.”

  Saracen walked slowly through the corridor to the back of the building. He passed a room emitting bursts of static noise and looked round the door to see the sole radio operator engaged in conversation. He continued along to the door marked, ‘Duty Room’ and heard voices coming from inside. They were arguing about football. Saracen knocked and went in. The talking stopped.

  “Can I help you?’ asked a short bald man in shirt sleeves.

  Saracen looked around for a familiar face and picked out Leonard Wright, a driver he knew to be on the Medic Alpha rota. “Could I have a word,” he asked.

  Wright followed Saracen out into the ambulance yard and asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to examine Medic Alpha’s log book if that’s possible,” said Saracen. Saracen thought he saw the smile on Wright’s face waver but it was only for a second and it could have been his imagination.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “No problem really. I just need some information about the time of the smash up on the ring road a few days ago. I forgot to make notes at the time.

  Wri
ght appeared to hold his gaze for a moment before saying, “I’ll get it.”

  Saracen was aware that his pulse was racing. Lying was hard work when you weren’t used to it and the guilt of knowing that you were lying changed your perspective on everything.

  Wright returned with the log book and Saracen smiled in what he hoped was relaxed fashion but he felt the strain at the corners of his mouth. Wright had opened the book at the correct page for the ring road accident. That made it more difficult for there was no excuse for thumbing through the pages. Saracen pulse grew even faster.

  “I’ll just make a note of these,” he said stalling for time. He fumbled in his pocket for a pen and found an excuse instead. He left his pen where it was and said, “What a twit. I don’t seem to have a pen with me. I wonder…”

  Wright held his gaze again and Saracen read accusation in it, or imagined that he did before Wright said that he would fetch one and turned to go back inside.

  Saracen flicked through the pages with what he felt were five thumbs and found the entry he was looking for. Call to Flat 2, Palmer’s Green Court. Patient Myra Archer…severely cyanosed…suspect cardiac arrest…medical officer on board, Dr Tang. Alarm raised by neighbour, Mrs M. Le Grice. Time of call, 21.34 hours. Arrival at Palmer’s Green, 21.47 hours. Arrival at Skelmore General, 22.04 hours.

  Saracen felt a strange mixture of deflation and relief. There appeared to be nothing wrong at all with the response of Medic Alpha, no suggestion of delay or mix-up. So why had Chenhui Tang behaved the way she had when the name of Myra Archer had been mentioned?

  Saracen noted that the driver on the night of the twelfth had been Leonard Wright whom he now saw returning with a pen. He let the pages fall back but as he did so he felt the one he had been looking at come loose. There had been no reason for it to have done so apart from the one that flew into Saracen’s head. It was not the original page! It was a substitute that had been lightly glued in!

  Saracen accepted the pen from Wright and wrote down some details of the motorway accident before returning it to him. “Good, all done,” he said, closing the book and handing that back too. “Much obliged.”