by Ken McClure
In a series of events that appeared to Jamieson to occur in agonising slow motion he ripped out the bath plug completely with his foot, flung away the chrome bar that he was still holding and raised his hands to meet the heater. It seared his palms and the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils as he turned violently to wrench hard.
Mains voltage shot through him, locking his jaw and throwing his entire body into spasm but Jamieson’s desperate gamble had paid off. The momentum of his body in the turn had been sufficient to tear the heater from its wiring and interrupt the current.
The fear of permanent damage or disfigurement to his hands made Jamieson ignore the pain and the fact that the heater, although now disconnected was setting the bathroom carpet alight. He tore at the handle of the cold tap and held his hands under the flow, his body juddering violently from the combined effects of shock and pain.
There was a knocking at the door but Jamieson continued to sit in the bath holding his hands under the torrent of cold water.
'Are you all right in there?' a muffled voice inquired.
Jamieson could not reply for his teeth were chattering as his whole body continued to tremor.
The knocking grew louder as did the voice. 'I say! There's a smell of burning. Are you all right in there?'
Jamieson tried to force his lips into the right shape to speak. He managed a croak but then improved on it with agonising difficulty and managed a weak cry for help.
The door flew open as a shoulder crashed into it and a thin man with red hair looked in on the scene in the bathroom. 'Good God!' he exclaimed as his eyes took in the wiring hanging out of the wall and the smouldering carpet. The man used a towel to protect his hands and lifted the heater up to dump it safely in the hand basin. He quickly trampled out the smouldering carpet and came to Jamieson's aid. 'How bad is it?' he asked, trying to get a better look at Jamieson's hands.
Jamieson shook his head as if to indicate that he did not know.
'Let me see' said the man.
Jamieson withdrew his hands slowly from the flow and the man turned off the taps. Jamieson prepared himself mentally for the surge of pain he felt sure would return to his burns in the air but was mildly surprised when it was not too bad. It was painful but certainly not the agony of second degree burns or worse.
'I think you've got away with it,' said the red haired man examining Jamieson's hands gently. Jamieson, still in partial shock, found himself concentrating on the man's profile. A hawk like nose, hollow cheeks and the very fair skin that invariably went with red hair. In this case the residual scars of bad teenage acne compounded the problem.
'Mainly superficial, you must have got your hands under the cold water in time,' said the man.
Jamieson nodded. He had flashback to childhood when he remembered playing on a rope swing by the river. At one point he had slightly lost grip and slid down the entire length of the rope, using his hands as a brake. The rope burns on his hands might have been serious had it not been for the fact that his fall had ended in the river and the sudden immersion in cold water had saved him from lasting damage. It was a lesson about burns treatment that he had never forgotten.
Jamieson closed his eyes in relief as a sudden wave of tiredness hit him. The red haired man saw the signs and said, 'I think we better get you over to the hospital old son. You've had a bit of a shock… if you'll excuse the pun.' He picked up the towel that was lying on the floor beside him and put it around Jamieson's shoulders before helping him up.
At this point both men had overlooked the fact that, although the heater had been disconnected from the wall, the wires that serviced it were still live and protruding from the conduit channel at the back of the bath. As the red haired man helped Jamieson to his feet Jamieson's thigh brushed against them and once more, mains voltage shot through his body to throw him violently over the side of the bath. He landed in a heap on the still smoking carpet. The red haired man, protected by the dry towel he had been holding between himself and Jamieson, fell to his knees beside Jamieson and cursed his own stupidity between profuse apologies.
The relief that knowing his hands were going to be all right had removed a great deal of the worry from Jamieson's mind, in fact, so much so that, as he lay on the floor looking up at the look of anguish on the red haired man's face, he managed a wry smile.
'Are you all right?' asked the man, fearing that Jamieson's smile might have been an indication of some kind of mental aberration.
Jamieson looked up at him and said hoarsely, 'Frankly… I've had better days.'.'
'The man with the red hair smiled and said, 'I'm Clive Evans.'
'Scott Jamieson. You will excuse me if I don't shake hands.'
Jamieson's bed was surrounded by visitors. The thin, stick-insect like figure of the hospital secretary had been joined by a smaller, more dapper man with silver hair and a clipped, white moustache who introduced himself as Norman Carew, the medical superintendent of Kerr Memorial. A third man, grizzled and thickset was introduced as John Richardson, consultant bacteriologist.
'My dear Doctor, what can we say, this is absolutely awful,' began Crichton, the hospital secretary. 'What a thing to have happened. I just don't know what to say.'
'It was just one of these things,' replied Jamieson, wishing that Crichton would stop being so effusive in his apologies. For some reason it was making his injuries seem worse than they were and this was irking him. Carew started making the same kind of noises and Jamieson had to insist again that it was a totally unforeseen accident that could have happened anywhere and that, apart from a few superficial, albeit painful burns, no real damage had been done.
'And I was looking forward to my sherry too,' said Richardson and immediately lightened the atmosphere. Jamieson smiled and so did the others.
Crichton glanced sideways at Carew and then said, slightly uncomfortably, Jamieson thought, 'Mr Thelwell regrets that he could not manage to get here this evening. He asked me to convey his sympathy and say that he looks forward to meeting you when you are up and about again.'
Jamieson said one thing and thought another. Thelwell was the one who had been described as being 'difficult' he remembered. He was happy to have their meeting delayed. He had had enough 'difficulty' for one day. The sooner today was ended and consigned to the past the better.
'Is there anything we can get you?' asked Crichton as the three prepared to leave.
'I'd like to call my wife,' said Jamieson.
'Of course. Nurse will bring in the phone trolley. We'll say good night.'
Jamieson watched their backs disappear out the door. A few moments later a nurse wheeled in the phone and Jamieson called Sue.
'Scott! Where are you calling from?' asked Sue's delighted voice.
'Actually I'm in bed.'
'At this time?
'I've had a bit of an accident.'
Jamieson gave Sue a suitably understated account of what had happened but she was still very alarmed. 'But you could have been killed!' she protested.
'But I wasn't and everything is all right,' soothed Jamieson.
'But your hands, you said…'
'Superficial burns, that's all,' interrupted Jamieson.
'I'll come up to Leeds right away,' said Sue.
'No you won't,' said Jamieson. 'I am perfectly all right and I want to get on with the job as soon as possible. I don't want this silly little affair to build up into anything more than it actually was so stay there and I'll see you when I come home at the weekend or whenever. OK?'
There was a long pause before Sue agreed. 'I miss you already,' she said.
'I feel the same,' said Jamieson.
Jamieson had just put down the phone when there was a knock on the door and it was opened by Clive Evans.
'I thought I’d pop in and see how you were,' said Evans.
'That was good of you,' smiled Jamieson, now more able to take a good look at his visitor. He was of average height, somewhere in his early thirties and Jamieson th
ought he detected a faint Welsh accent in his voice.
'I didn't explain,' said Evans. 'I have the room next to yours in the residency. That's how I smelt the burning.'
'I see, so you're on the staff?'
'I'm the assistant bacteriologist in the microbiology department.'
'Dr Richardson's department?'
'That's right.'
'Been here long?'
'All of three months.'
Jamieson smiled. He was pleased to have found someone outside of the hospital hierarchy to talk to. 'You must be very much involved in the investigation of the infection problem then?' he asked.
Evans nodded. 'We're doing everything we can but we're not having any success and we're getting the blame for not finding out the cause.'
'Any ideas of your own?' asked Jamieson.
'It's a complete mystery,' said Evans. 'All the swabs we've taken from the surgical wards and theatres — and we've done hundreds — have been negative but Mr Thelwell won't accept this. He thinks we are incompetent and doesn't try to hide it.'
'And what do you think?'
'Dr Richardson is one of the best.'
'And Mr Thelwell?'
'It's not for me to pass comment on a surgeon, not my field I'm afraid.'
Jamieson nodded, pleased at the loyalty and common sense of his visitor.
'When do you think you will be up and about then?' asked Evans.
'Tomorrow,' said Jamieson firmly. 'I'll get the dressings changed in the morning and then I'll get started.'
'Then I'll probably be seeing you tomorrow,' said Evans. He held out his hand to shake Jamieson's and suddenly realised that it still might not be a very good idea. Both men laughed and Jamieson noticed that Evans had what looked like a red burn mark on the back of his right wrist. 'You must have got that from the heater in the bathroom,' he said with concern.'
'It's nothing,' Evans assured him, pulling down his sleeve and getting up from the chair.
'But you should have it seen to,' insisted Jamieson. 'Burns get infected so easily. You must ask one of the nurses to dress it properly.
'Really, it's nothing to worry about,' Evans assured him. It hardly broke the skin.'
Jamieson looked at him doubtfully and said, 'I'm very grateful to you for your help.'
'Don't mention it,' said Evans. 'I'd best be going. I'm on call tonight.'
As the door closed behind Evans, Jamieson lay back on the pillow and looked at his bandaged hands. He reflected on the day. 'What a start,' he murmured. 'What a bloody awful start.'
THREE
Outside in the courtyard between the block where Jamieson was sleeping and the old stone building that housed the Obstetrics and Gynaecology Department the rain continued to fall. Sally Jenkins heard it pattering down on the cobble stones. She had been unable to get to sleep for the pain in her stomach. 'Perfectly natural after any operation, the nurse had assured her. They would give her a pill and she would feel much better in the morning.
Keith, her husband had been equally reassuring. He had spoken to Mr Thelwell and everything had gone well in theatre. The surgeon had located a blockage in her fallopian tubes that had been preventing her from falling pregnant. The big fear that her tubes might have been too damaged to be repaired had been shown to be groundless. Mr Thelwell had successfully cleared away the obstruction and now there was no reason why she should not have children.
She would have a son for Keith, a boy he could take fishing on the canal on Saturdays while she and their daughter — yes she would like a daughter too — while she and Alice would have a nice day at home. They would call her Alice after Keith's mother. Keith's mother would like that. There had always been a frostiness between them, nothing serious, but Sally knew that old Alice blamed her for the fact that she still did not have any grand children after five years of marriage.
Alice would have preferred Keith to have married Stella Gorman, the girl he had been going out with when Sally had first met him. Stella Gorman's father owned a garage business in Trafalgar Street and Alice had already started to pencil in plans for Keith's future when it had all gone wrong for her. As it turned out, Keith had married her and as her father did not own a garage business, or any other kind for that matter, Keith was consequently still working as a mechanic in the council bus depot.
Sally managed a smile in the darkness despite the fact that her pain seemed to be getting worse not better. She did not want to bother the nurses again but it was becoming really bad. Perhaps if she thought some more about children it would take her mind off the pain or maybe even if she concentrated on the sound of the rain outside.
Sally liked the sound of rain. For some reason it always made her think of a time many years ago when she had gone camping with the Girl Guides. They had gone to the Forest of Dean and it had rained non stop for the entire week. They had spent hour after hour lying in their tents just listening to the sound of the rain on the canvas while their leader thought up endless variations on word games to keep them amused.
Sally had been glad to escape the games by being sent each morning to collect fresh milk from the nearby farm. Her wellingtons had squelched through the mud and the rain had pattered on the hood of her anorak just like it was pattering on the awning below her window.
A new stab of pain shot through her and wiped out all thoughts of rain and children. It made her gasp and reach out for the buzzer. Her fingers closed round it like a claw as the pain seemed to seek out the most sensitive nerve ending in her body. Her back arched in a sub conscious attempt to escape it but this only put unfair pressure on the stitches in her lower abdomen. Sally Jenkins added to the call of the buzzer with a scream.
The night staff-nurse in charge of Princess Mary ward called out the duty houseman who was reluctant to come at first for what he felt sure was probably normal post-operative discomfort but the nurse insisted. She won with a veiled threat to call Mr Thelwell directly. 'I think it might be another problem case,' she said.
'But it can't be,' insisted the houseman. 'Mr Thelwell used one of the orthopaedic theatres today. There's never been any trouble with infection in orthopaedics.'
'Well maybe there is now,' said the nurse, putting down the phone as another scream tore the air and wakened the rest of the ward. Sleepy voices were seeking reassurance as she hurried to Sally Jenkins' assistance. 'Nothing to worry about Mrs Elms… It's all right, Mrs Cartwright, we're dealing with it… Go back to sleep Mrs Brown, Nothing to worry about…'
The houseman, white coat pulled on over a hastily donned shirt which still had three buttons undone, arrived within five minutes and ran his fingers through tousled hair while the nurse briefed him. A cursory examination, established that Sally Jenkins' temperature was touching one hundred and two and she was showing all the classic signs of bacterial septicaemia. If this had been an isolated incident, he might have prescribed the normal front-line antibiotics and felt confident of their efficacy but with the current problem-infection in the unit he was reluctant to do this.
If there was a chance that the Pseudomonas was responsible for the infection then penicillin, always the safest drug to prescribe because of its safety and lack of side-effects, would have no effect. On the other hand, none of the other drugs at his disposal had had much effect on the bug in the previous cases. The houseman swithered for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons of seeking assistance. It was now after midnight but the desire to pass the buck on this one was overwhelming. He called Thelwell at home. Thelwell's wife answered.
'I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour Mrs Thelwell but could I possibly speak to your husband. It's Graham Dean at the hospital. I've got a bit of a problem.'
'I'm sorry Graham, Gordon isn't home yet. He's been attending a dinner this evening. Would you like me to give him a message?'
Dean gave Marion Thelwell a brief outline of Sally Jenkins' condition to relay to her husband when he came home and said that he would try to contact Thelwell's number two. After reading the numbe
r from the chart on the wall behind the phone, Dean called Thelwell's senior registrar, Phillip Morton and had more luck. He explained the situation to Morton and the buck passed to him. Morton said that he would be there within fifteen minutes. In the meantime, Dean was instructed to start chemotherapy immediately on the assumption that it was a Pseudomonas infection like the others. 'Start her on Pyopen.'
'And the pain?' asked the houseman.
'Omnipon, usual dose,' said Morton.
The door to the basement apartment opened and heavy curtains were drawn across rain splashed windows before it was closed again and locked twice from the inside. The man inside stood still for a moment in the darkness with his back against the door, listening to the sound of his own breathing and feeling the cold and damp surround him. A slight smile crossed his face for to him it felt good, it felt right. He clicked on the light, not that a forty watt bulb made much inroads into the gloom, and walked slowly through to the bathroom where a rubber apron hung over the bath and a row of surgical instruments were lined up along the back of the sink where he had left them. They were clean and dry and ready to be used again.
He took down the apron and folded it neatly before packing it into a briefcase. The inside of the case was protected by a polythene lining because the man prided himself on detail. There were to be no tell-tale blood stains, no blood anywhere there did not have to be.
In a separate compartment in the case he had a number of plastic bags. He counted them and decided to add a few more. There was still plenty of adhesive tape. He put down the case for a moment and went to the fridge in the kitchen to open the door. There, lying in two plastic bags was what he had removed from the Spooner woman. The man gave a satisfied grunt. There was one less bitch to spread her filth, one less to snare and entrap the unwary with her silks and perfumes. What fools men were not to realise what vile creatures lay hidden behind the smiling faces and the pretty clothes. But they were not entirely to blame. Nature had equipped the bitches well. It was so easy to succumb to their wiles. He knew that only too well.
