So while Sinead and most of the casualty staff are busy with a man who has had a cardiac arrest, Rory sits, staring at his hands, rather than at the teenager in his direct line of vision with the blood-soaked bandage around his head. Or the grey-haired man behind him who has removed his shirt and is having electrodes applied to his chest by a nurse. Or the elderly woman whose daughter is trying to explain to her that they will be home soon and she can have her regular medication then. They have been in casualty eight hours and have yet to see a doctor. She has already missed a dose.
Two pairs of clean black shoes appear at Rory’s feet. He looks up to see a duo of policemen. (When the Lithuanian told him to call 999, he had listened.) He wonders if they are going to question him right here in front of everyone, then reminds himself that privacy is something everyone else has sacrificed. One of the guards suggests going somewhere quiet. Rory opts to stay put. Better to sacrifice his privacy than his place in line.
He goes through everything, thinks he’s doing a good enough job of remembering, until they ask for details: brand names on any of the clothes or runners, flashes of colour on the hoodie, any distinguishing features. They are patient. They tell him not to worry. He is probably in shock. He’ll remember more tomorrow. Shock or no shock, Rory knows he won’t. He doesn’t have the level of detail they need. The ‘youth’ he has just described could be one of a thousand skinny, run-down, drug addicts. One of the guards, the older of the two, pulls out a business card and writes on it, telling him that he will be the investigating officer. However, as it’s Sunday night, he will be going off duty at six and won’t be back until Wednesday afternoon. Rory should call to the station in the morning to make a full statement. Rory, more concerned with his medical treatment, thanks the guard, takes the card and pockets it. He needs those vaccines.
At last, he is called to the treatment area. He squints in the glare of the light, notes how serious everyone looks, how fast the pace is, things that have never occurred to him before. How different it is when you’re on the other side, how out-of-control you feel as a patient, powerless, afraid. He sits on the side of a trolley in a cubicle and waits. Again.
Sinead comes to him. Apologizes for the delay. Gets ready to take blood.
Looking down at his bare, pale, extended arm to which a tourniquet has been applied, Rory watches the needle go in and dark blood ooze into a rubber-topped tube. He has never found that sickening to look at – until now. He watches Sinead work with silent, calm efficiency. She is a good doctor, he decides, then realizes he has never once stopped to consider what that might be, or whether he himself qualifies.
He trusts Sinead. She is taking this seriously. Thanks be to Christ.
Having filled a variety of tubes, she slips the needle out, covers the injection site with cotton wool and releases the tourniquet. Rory holds the padding and bends his arm while Sinead collects the tubes and starts filling forms. That’s when he notices that she is wearing gloves. He tries to shake off the hurt he feels, telling himself it doesn’t matter – she has to protect herself, he’d do the same.
‘Hep B and C and HIV, right?’ he asks.
‘Yeah. Listen, Rory…’ She puts the bloods down on the bench, folds her arms. ‘I was on to the Viral Reference Lab…’ She pauses. ‘It’s not great. We can vaccinate you against Hep B. It’ll provide good, but not full, protection and we can start anti-retrovirals to help prevent HIV, but there’s nothing we can do to stop Hepatitis C if you’ve been infected.’
Of the three diseases, it is by far the most prevalent among the city’s heroin addicts, as high as sixty per cent. Rory had seen a headline in the Irish Medical Times a week earlier. He’d have read the article if he’d thought it would be relevant. Already, he feels ill.
‘How soon will you know if I’ve been infected?’ he asks, trying to keep his voice calm.
‘If you had the needle and syringe, we could test them and have results quickly. But without them…’
He curses himself for not thinking to collect the syringe, but then doubts that it was dropped. After all, it’s a useful tool – weapon and instrument.
‘We’ll get an early result on Hep B from the bloods we’ve taken. Hep C and HIV will take longer. In six weeks, we can send bloods to UCD for molecular testing. They’ll give us results of ninety per cent certainty within forty-eight hours.’
‘Only ninety per cent?’
‘It will take four to six months to get results that are one hundred per cent certain. I’m sorry, Rory.’
He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. If someone were to select a torture for him, this would be as good as any.
All Rory wants is to get home to Louise, to hold her, say nothing, just hold her. He takes a taxi to collect his car from the Doctor on Duty office. By the time he gets home, it’s four am. She is asleep. Of course she is. What did he expect? Still, he’s disappointed. He’d put her down as his next of kin when asked at the hospital, but had declined the offer to call her. He didn’t want to wake her, worry her, especially as she’d been working so hard. But now he wants her to be awake, though he knows it’s unfair. He sits on the edge of the bed, gently smoothing back hair that has fallen across her face in waves. He loves its thickness, its colour, a rich red that she calls auburn, a colour he has always associated with sassy women. Louise is sassy, but also vulnerable, a combination that has him hooked. She is wearing his navy pullover, the tips of her fingers peeping out from sleeves that are too long for her. He smiles, imagining the spongy sports socks she will be wearing under the duvet. How is she always so cold? And how has he allowed himself to get to know her so intimately and feel so strongly? It wasn’t the plan. But here they are, after four years, still together. Weird, considering how commitment-phobic they both are. But maybe that’s the explanation – neither puts pressure on the other with talk of marriage, kids. No. It’s more than that. He loves her. Her funny laugh. Her ability to make him laugh. Her gutsiness in setting up the business despite inner self-doubt. Her determination to make her life her own. Hell, the way she brushes her hair. He stops himself. Suddenly, he is tired. All he wants to do is get in beside her, snuggle up to her. Maybe then he’ll feel safe.
He undresses, dropping his clothes in a weary heap on the floor. He slips in beside her, relieved to be home, away from all that’s happened. He inches closer, careful not to wake her, closes his eyes, listens to her breathing and begins for the first time to relax. He’s done what he can. All that remains is to take precautions with other people. Louise, especially. If he has caught something, he’ll sure as hell keep it to himself. He’ll take his medication, forget what happened, get on with his life. He feels himself slipping into sleep. And welcomes the oblivion it will bring.
Then it is happening again. He is back. At the flats. Confronted by that face, those eyes. The syringe. Oh God. He wakes, sitting up, breath irregular, heart pounding. It’s OK, he tells himself. It was a dream. A very real dream. But a dream. It’s over. He’s home. He lies back down. Half an hour later, he is still awake, afraid to close his eyes.
He gets up. In the kitchen, he roots out Paracetamol for the headache that is gripping his head like a vice. He zaps a glass of milk in the microwave. Throwing on a coat, he wanders out onto the balcony and looks down onto Dun Laoghaire’s deserted and poorly lit west pier. Bizarrely, he thinks about Orla having to give her dog away. It is cold and he goes back inside. He burns his tongue on the milk and curses. Checks his watch. Almost five. He has to sleep.
Back in bed, he tries not to worry, but knows too much. Will his future include long-term liver disease, cancer, cirrhosis, liver transplantation? AIDS?
Louise turns in the bed. ‘What time is it?’ she asks, groggily.
‘About five,’ he whispers, expecting her to turn over and go back to sleep.
She does turn over, but then turns back again. ‘What are you doing back so early?’
‘Finished early. Go back to sleep.’
There
is something in his voice. She reaches for the bedside lamp. ‘Jesus, Rory. What happened to your face?’
His hand goes automatically to the cut. ‘Nothing.’
‘Rory. That is not nothing.’ She is sitting up now.
‘Some kid. Wanted the bag.’
‘The doctor’s bag?’ Her eyes widen. ‘Drugs? You were attacked for drugs? You were attacked by a junkie?’
Rory sits up beside her. ‘He was a kid.’
But she’s not listening. ‘AIDS.’
‘Louise, stop panicking. I’ve been to the hospital. I’ve had blood tests. I’ve been vaccinated…’ But he is glad of her reaction, glad of her concern.
‘Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I just wanted to get it done, get home.’
They’re silent for a moment.
‘Hang on,’ she says. ‘You can’t get a vaccine against AIDS. If you could, everyone’d be getting it, wouldn’t they? And there wouldn’t be the problem there is. What are you talking about, a vaccine?’
‘Sorry. Against hepatitis.’ Rory was hoping he wouldn’t have to bring that up.
‘But what about AIDS?’
‘I’m going to take medication, just in case.’
‘And that’ll protect you? Fully?’
‘Yes.’
‘Definitely?’
‘Definitely.’ He wishes he’d been given that assurance. Still, he is glad that Louise has skimmed over hepatitis, the real problem. Why worry her? Why have her inhabit the same limbo he will be in for the next four to six months?
4
Rory calls the ward to say he’ll be late. He doesn’t say why, just that Rounds will be delayed by an hour. For five months, he has been acting consultant, ever since the neurologist he worked under suffered a massive stroke, a condition he had been treating all his life. Professor Henry will not be returning. Applications have been sought for his post and though Rory has submitted his, he felt guilty doing so. Disloyal. Especially as he would like the job so much. Becoming consultant and staying on the ward he has become attached to would be the realization of a dream.
Dreams are far from his mind now, though. Arriving on the AIDS unit, he has never been more awake. The consultant examines him, takes a full medical history and prescribes a course of medication. He knows the drill. Then she offers him an appointment with a counsellor. He’ll think about it, he says, planning to do the opposite. He’ll take his medication, and get on with life.
At work at last, he strides into the nurses’ station, anxious to get things going. News of his arrival spreads and members of the neurology team, at various locations around the ward, gather. As do three medical students who have been hanging around, going through patient charts, waiting as though for a performance to start. Together with a staff nurse, the group of white coats converge on the bed of the first patient.
The first few examinations run smoothly. Then they come to a man admitted three days previously with a cerebrovascular accident – in layman’s terms, a stroke. He is unconscious, lying on his side, his pale face gaunt. Two women sit with him, one holding his hand, the other close to sleep. Rory knows them as his daughters. They have been here all night. When they see the team, they perk up, as though the presence of the doctors will improve their father’s condition. Sadly, that is not the case. Rory listens to their questions (one of them has made a list). He patiently takes them through the answers, few of them positive. Finally, he asks if they would mind allowing the team to examine their father. He suggests they go for coffee. They want to wait in the corridor.
Team members take their place around the bed. Someone pulls the curtains for privacy. Rory commences the examination, explaining to the med students what he is doing at each stage, sometimes asking them questions so they feel included. At one point, he removes his pencil torch from his top pocket and explains that he is about to check the patient’s pupils to see if they are equal and reacting to light. Gently, he lifts an eyelid and flashes the torch across one eye. The pupil constricts to a point. Rory freezes. He is looking into the eyes of his attacker, seeing his face, smelling the bitter reek of cigarette smoke.
He tries to shut down his senses and carry on. He tells himself it’s mind over matter and proceeds to check the other eye. It too reacts. As does Rory’s body, heart thumping, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He can’t seem to get enough air. Needs to get out from behind the curtain. Everything is closing in on him. Palms wet, he hands the torch to the nearest med student.
‘Patrick, isn’t it?’ He is breathless.
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you get in a little practice?’ His voice is choking.
Bemused, Patrick takes the torch.
And Rory is gone.
Over at the open window, he holds on to the sill with both hands, leaning forward, trying to control his breathing – slower, deeper. He tells himself to ‘cop on’, ‘get a life’. He’s at work. In charge. He has to be professional. He can’t let this get to him. After a few minutes, still shaken, he rejoins the team.
He manages to get through Rounds without further incident, but as the day progresses, every so often, he is ambushed. Something triggers a flashback. A needle and syringe lying on a tray in the nurses’ station. Laboratory forms. Tourniquets. The AIDS medication he has to take. He washes his hands more than he needs to. Avoids physical contact with patients. Finds more and more reasons to delegate. When he meets the eyes of other medical staff, he thinks they know, which they probably do – in hospitals, news spreads faster than a virus.
Sergeant O’Neill is a bear of a man with steady, unwavering eyes, the kind of man who when confronted by a junkie wouldn’t stand rooted like a fool. They sit across a Formica table in a small, sparse ‘interview room’ at Dun Laoghaire Garda station. Rory has given his statement, gone over everything again. He wants them to get the bastard, make him pay, but given his inability to identify anything that would single him out, he is not optimistic.
O’Neill opens a file. ‘From the description you gave last night, we have some photos for you to look at. A certain number of these youths would be known to us, others the computer selected, matching your description.’ He pushes a small pile of ordinary colour photos across the table to Rory.
Rory is suddenly hopeful – maybe they already have a suspect. He pulls his chair forward, or tries to. It is nailed to the ground.
He goes through shot after shot. With each one, his enthusiasm fades. He turns over the last, more despondent than if there had been no photos in the first place. He shakes his head at the guard.
‘Take your time,’ O’Neill says. ‘We’re in no rush.’
Rory goes through them again, more slowly this time. He hopes he missed one, knows he didn’t. He pushes them back across the table with a ‘No.’
O’Neill starts to clear things away, giving the impression that the interview is over.
Rory’s not ready to stop. If they talk some more, maybe they’ll stumble on something. ‘What happens next?’ he asks, stalling.
‘Well, as there are no CCTV cameras at the flats, we’ll check cameras in Dun Laoghaire for anyone matching your description. We’ll talk to intelligence sources in the community, check for eyewitnesses. If there are any developments, we’ll keep you abreast.’
Rory can’t let it go. ‘What would the charge be, if you caught him?’
‘Possession of a syringe, assault, theft. If we make someone amenable for the crime –’
‘Sorry?’
‘If we arrest someone, it will be Under Section Six of the Non Fatal Offences Against The Person’s Act. He could get five years in prison.’
Non fatal? For all Rory knows, it will be fatal. Just might take a while. ‘What about attempted murder?’ he asks. ‘He jabbed me deliberately with an infected syringe.’
O’Neill eyeballs Rory for an uncomfortably long moment, until he begins to regret opening his mouth. Over the guard’s head is a camera, pointing directly at Rory. He presu
mes it’s not on. For the first time, he is relieved to be the injured party, not the accused under scrutiny.
‘We don’t know that the needle was infected,’ O’Neill points out. ‘Sometimes they use ketchup.’
‘His pupils were constricted. He was high.’
‘Even if it was his blood, we don’t know that it was infected.’
Rory thinks about that. ‘If you caught him, could you access his medical records?’
The guard is pumping the top of his pen with his thumb. ‘No. Legally, no.’
‘Could you have him tested for AIDS or hepatitis?’
‘No. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, here. We have to apprehend him before we can charge him.’ O’Neill is standing, replacing his pen in his pocket. ‘If there are any developments, we’ll be in touch. In the meantime, if you remember anything, please call me.’ He hands Rory his card.
Rory follows him from the room. At the door to the waiting area, they shake hands. Rory doesn’t want to go. If he could, he’d supervise the entire operation personally.
Outside, it is dark. He’s nervous. Walks quickly to the car, and locks it as soon as he’s inside. He sits for a moment, going over their conversation. How different it would be if the weapon had been a knife and he had died on the spot. Murder, it would be then, requiring a full-blown murder hunt, house-to-house enquiries, extra police drafted in, maybe. Rory grips the wheel, his jaw tight. The flats are only ten minutes away. He could go there, find him, beat him to a pulp, syringe or no syringe. What could he contract now that he hasn’t already? But the thought of the flats, cloaked in darkness, the sound of his echoing footsteps, the syringe coming down on him, makes him feel like vomiting. Disgusted with himself, he turns the engine and pulls out, forgetting to signal, forgetting to check his rear-view mirror. He drives through the streets of Dun Laoghaire oblivious to the fact that the news on the car radio is in Irish, a language he no longer understands. This time yesterday, he’d have switched channels. This time yesterday, his life was normal.
Do You Want What I Want? Page 3
