Death Before Time

by Andrew Puckett

“A week today?”

  “That’d be fine - but don’t you have to give more notice than that?”

  “I gave provisional notice as soon as I knew about Mark’s job,” Jo said, and told her how he wasn’t moving for a month. “It’ll give me a chance to look at the housing situation.”

  When Helen saw her off a few minutes later, she was feeling so pleased with the way things had gone that she had to stop herself joining in Helen’s greeting to Fraser when he passed them in the corridor.

  *

  Ten minutes later, Fraser stuck his head round Helen’s door. “Busy?”

  “Do I look busy?”

  “I can never tell with you,” he said, smiling. “I’ve been thinking - let’s eat out tonight, shall we?”

  “But I was going to make a lasagne, I’ve got all the ingredients …”

  “I thought it might make a change, that’s all.” The truth was that eating out made it easier to avoid sleeping with her – not that he had done any actual sleeping yet.

  “Oh, all right,” she said, “So long as it’s not curry.”

  “I’ll pick you up at eight, then.” He made to go, then said, “Who was that you were with just now? New rep?”

  “I might have known you’d notice her,” Helen said. Then - “No, as a matter of fact, she’s our new senior staff, starting next week.”

  “That’s good news …” He looked at her more closely - “Isn’t it?”

  “Ye-es … it’s just that she’s almost too good to be true.”

  “Oh?” He tried to sound casual. “In what way?”

  “Oh, it’s probably just me. I’ll be checking on her references, though.”

  “I’ll see you at eight, then,” he said, deciding to leave it there, although he was itching to know more.

  Half an hour later, he went to his room and phoned Jo’s mobile. She answered after three rings.

  “It’s Fraser,” he said. “Can you talk?”

  “So long as you don’t expect intricate answers, I’m on the train.”

  He could hear the rhythm of the wheels and background chatter. He told her quickly what Helen had said.

  “Oh, Lor’,” she said. “I wonder what I did …”

  “She’s probably just not used to such enthusiasm. I take it your references are OK?”

  “Of course they are.” She lowered her voice … “I wonder whether I ought to produce my fiancé, Tom’d probably stand in.”

  “Won’t he seem a bit old?”

  She laughed. “I won’t tell him you said that.” She continued more seriously, “You’d better tell him what you’ve just told me, though.”

  “What can he do?”

  “He’ll want to know, he’s very good at assessing risks.”

  Fraser rang Tom’s number and told him what had happened.

  “Probably doesn’t mean anything,” Tom said after thinking about it a moment. “Just natural cynicism, a lot of nursing sisters seem to have that now.”

  “I’m seeing her tonight, d’you want me to try and find out some more?”

  “No, for God’s sake don’t do that,” he said quickly, “It’s just the sort of thing that might start her wondering.”

  “What if she brings it up?”

  “Oh well, you could express mild interest then, I suppose. But be careful…”

  Mildly nettled, Fraser rang off.

  Chapter 12

  But Helen didn’t say anything more about it, so neither did he.

  He’d been worried he’d find it difficult talking to her now that his relationship with her was so false, but to his surprise, he didn’t – it was almost as though she, too, realised that something had changed and had adapted herself to it. She’d always been interested in his past life, especially regarding Frances (morbidly so, he thought sometimes) but tonight, he managed to get her to talk about herself and some of the places she’d worked in. London, Reading, Southampton, Coventry …

  “You’ve certainly been around,” he said, watching her face in the candlelight, aware of her beauty, aware that it no longer moved him. “Where would you say you came from?”

  She smiled. “I wouldn’t say I came from anywhere.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “London. Although we moved around quite a bit.”

  “We being you and your mother?”

  She nodded, concentrating on her food for a moment.

  “What about school, didn’t it make that difficult?”

  “Oh, I went to a succession of private schools until I was eleven, then she sent me to boarding school – her father had set up some sort of fund for me to do that.”

  A bell rang in his head – hadn’t she said a couple of weeks earlier that her mother had died when she was six?

  “Was it better or worse than all the moving around?” he asked.

  She took another mouthful of food, taking her time to answer and he wondered if she’d realised what she’d said herself ... “Neither, really,” she said at last. “Some of it was good, some not so. A bit like life. I got three decent A levels out of it, so I’m not complaining.”

  Sodding awful then, he thought. “What made you choose nursing?”

  “What made you choose medicine?” she shot back.

  “The nurses, the money? Because it was there? I don’t know.”

  Her face dimpled as she smiled again. “Because it was there,” she said,” That’s as good an answer as any.”

  Session over, he thought.

  *

  The next day, Tuesday, he got chatting to the pair of nurses on the drug round and casually asked whether there always had to be two of them.

  The senior of them, a buxom hussy called Carrie with big red hair and blue eyes was only too eager to help.

  “If it’s only oral drugs, then one SRN can do it on her own,” she told him. “Or his own, of course,” she added archly, “Mustn’t be sexist, must we?” She grinned, continued, “But if there’s anything intravenous, there have to be two.” She shrugged. “There nearly always is, so there’s nearly always two of us.”

  “So you sort of check each other out?”

  “Yeah” she said, standing very close as she showed him … one of them read from the list and took the drug from the trolley, while the other gave the drug to the patient and signed the chart ... “That’s me, today,” she said, her sex, like her scent, hanging around her like a cloud.

  “But it could be either of you?”

  “Sure. As it comes, really. Anything else I can do for you?” she asked coquettishly.

  “I’ll let you know,” he said, grinning inanely back at her.

  He fled to his office to recover.

  Later, in the evening, while he was sitting in his usual corner in the Social club nursing his usual pint and watching the darts match, one of the home team was suddenly called away. The rest of them looked at each other, then round the room and one of them made eye contact with him. He came over and asked him if he’d stand in.

  He won the game for them with a Shanghai. They cheered, clapped his back, called him Jock and asked him to be a permanent member. He told them it was a fluke (only partly true), but left in a better frame of mind than he’d arrived.

  *

  Here we go …

  He’d got in the next morning and found that one of his patients, Roger Trainer, had developed a chest infection in the night and been put on ampicillin.

  He went to see him. His temperature, heart rate and blood pressure were all up.

  “How are you feeling, Mr Trainer?”

  “A bit shivery, bit wheezy, you know … otherwise, not too bad.”

  Fraser nodded slowly.

  What to do?

  The thing was, Roger Trainer wasn’t what he’d thought of as an “at risk” patient; he was 72 and had come in with a fractured pelvis which was mending nicely. Other than that, he’d been healthy. There was no reason (officially) for him to interfere with the treatment, so he decided not to.
>
  By late afternoon, he realised Roger was getting better.

  In the evening, he went over to Helen’s for the postponed lasagne. It was perfect, as was the syllabub to follow, and the wine, and the way she dressed, everything.

  They chatted comfortably over the wine, then went to bed, where ironically, he found that by not making so much effort himself, the sex seemed to be better for her.

  “Mm,” she said, snuggling into him afterwards, “That was nice.” Then, pulling her head away, she looked at him, her eyes like lamps in the dark “Stay with me Fraser, please ... ”

  “I haven’t brought my toothbrush,” he said, trying to make light of it.

  “You can borrow mine.”

  Perhaps he ought to at least try … “All right.”

  She used the bathroom before him. Waiting for her, he found himself looking at the locked junk room. As she came out, he said,

  “Why d’you keep it locked?” He nodded at it. “Valuable Junk?”

  “Oh, I’ve got some personal stuff in there.”

  He thought a locked room would be more likely to attract a burglar than otherwise, but didn’t say so. He thought about the keys Tom had given him …

  He knew the moment she turned the lights out he couldn’t stay. He decided to wait until she was sound asleep, then leave without waking her.

  Her arms were around him. When her breathing deepened, he gently disengaged himself and turned over. She mewed a little in protest, then settled again with her hand round his waist.

  He waited. The electric clock by her bed ticked. A car drove away, its lights making patterns across the ceiling. He lay there, wide awake, itching to be away ...

  After about twenty minutes, her breathing was deep and regular and he began easing himself away. Her hand flopped onto the mattress.

  He slithered out of bed and over to his clothes. A floorboard creaked. She mumbled in her sleep … to put them on here or out to the landing? He crept out and had started pulling them on when her door opened.

  “You’re going?” She looked like a hurt child.

  “I can’t sleep. I’m sorry, Helen.”

  Her expression changed to something thinner, meaner – “Didn’t try very hard, did you?” She picked his clothes up from the floor and threw them at him. “You’d better get out, then,” she shouted, went back into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  He quickly finished dressing and went in after her. She was in bed, turned away from him but he could see the glint of tears on her cheeks in the light from the streetlamp outside.

  He said, “I’m really sorry, Helen.”

  “Just go, will you?”

  He went. As he drove away, the relief and guilt curdled in his stomach.

  Oh, you bastard Marcus, he thought ... ten thousand quid was beginning to seem like not so very much …

  The next day, he bought some flowers and, feeling rather cheap, left them on her desk with a note saying “Sorry”.

  On the ward round, there was another chest infection that had been put on ampicillin. Edwina left the treatment as it was. Fraser watched all day, but by evening, it was obvious that this one was getting better too.

  *

  “Fraser - “ He looked round as Helen caught up with him in the corridor - it was the day after that, Friday.

  “Thanks for the flowers.”

  “Apology accepted?” he asked.

  “Of course it is, and I’m sorry I was so … non-understanding.”

  “That’s all right,” he said, “I’m sorry too.”

  “Are you going back to Bristol tonight?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “One of these days I’m going to persuade you to stay the weekend. You never know, it might help.”

  He didn’t say anything and she went on: “See you tonight before you go?”

  “Sorry, I’ve arranged to meet someone when I get back. My mother-in-law,” he added. “We could lunch if you like.”

  “I can’t, not today,” she said.

  Back in his office, he started putting together a list of the “at risk” patients, Rose Parker from Monday and another he’d spotted the day before: Cedric White, 77, with heart disease.

  Then he turned on the computer and looked over Ranjid’s patients - there was one possible: Daniel Pope, 74, with MS and a broken neck of femur. He was mentally alert, but the MS had got a lot worse since he’d been in hospital. He added him to the list.

  A couple of hours later, he found out why Helen couldn’t lunch with him - he’d gone back to his flat to get something and saw her with Ranjid, driving away in his car. They didn’t see him.

  What was it with them? He wondered about following them … then realised the MG was a bit too recognisable.

  During the afternoon, he thought about the three patients on his list and it occurred to him that most of the suspicious deaths had happened over the weekend. He was going up to London in the morning, so why not stay here tonight and keep an eye on them? There was a patient in a side room, Mollie Perkins, with C. Difficile, the hospital diarrhoea bug that can cause anything between a mild case of the runs and death. He’d put her on antibiotics and she’d make a perfect excuse for calling in God, you’re becoming a cynic, he thought.

  He checked them all at half five before he left. They were fine. He went to his room, showered, had a meal in the canteen.

  The hospital library was open until eight, so he went there and looked up all he could find on the transmission of pneumococcal pneumonia. The only thing of interest he found was confirmation of what Stones had told him – that it used to be known as “The Old Man’s Friend”, because of the painless death it brought about.

  When the library closed, he went back to the unit. The sister, who was called Terri, looked at him curiously. “Hello Dr Callan.”

  “I’ve been a wee bit worried about Mrs Perkins,” he said. “How is she now?”

  She shrugged. “Fine when I last saw her.”

  “Good. I’ll just take a keek while I’m here.”

  Mrs P, or at least her insides, were settling down nicely and the three “at risk” were all still fine as well.

  Terri was on the phone as he left. “No,” she was saying, “I told you, I’ve looked there - Dr Callan,” she called after him, “You haven’t seen the on-call bleep anywhere, have you?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  Rolling her eyes in exasperation at him, she returned to her caller.

  When should he check on them again? He wondered as he walked back to the flats. Certainly not while Terri was still there, maybe after the shift changed at midnight.

  Back in his room, he tried reading for a while, but couldn’t get into it. He was wondering about a drink at the Social Club when it suddenly occurred to him that now he had Tom’s keys, he’d never have a better chance for a snoop in Ranjid’s office – Edwina’s and Philip’s too, for that matter …

  The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to be criminally negligent not to…

  Chapter 13

  He found the keys and went out. It was dusk and no one was around. He slipped through the main door of the unit - the lobby was lit but there was no sign of the orderly. He crossed quickly to the office wing, the down stroke of the T; unlike the wards, the door didn’t have a combination lock on it.

  He went silently along the corridor to Ranjid’s room.

  Although it wasn’t dark outside yet, there was hardly any light and he had to peer at the keys to find one the right size. With the third, the lock turned with a satisfying snick. He went in and re-locked the door behind him.

  To use the light or not?

  He had to, if he wanted to see properly, and the window faced away from the wards … better pull the blinds, though.

  He surveyed the room. Ranjid’s medical degree hung framed on one wall, a picture of an Indian temple on the other. A spider plant descended like a waterfall from the window sill - now that he was here, he realised he had no idea what
he was looking for … well, he’d know if he saw it.

  There was a box of vinyl gloves on the side bench. Might as well - he pulled a pair on.

  Tried the desk drawers. Locked, but one of the keys soon opened them. The top ones held pens, a stop-watch, a spare stethoscope and a diary.

  He flicked through the diary, but found nothing of interest. He recognised one or two names – Lunch with Patrick presumably meant Fitzpatrick and Helen spoke for itself.

  In the bottom drawers, there were some files, patient files … was this it? His heart beat harder as he went through them … but they all seemed to be “fallers”, patients with broken bones, maybe a special interest of Ranjids …

  He noted down all the names nevertheless.

  Underneath the files, he did find something unexpected – a girlie mag. The girlies portrayed inside were Asian, as was the writing, but otherwise, it was depressingly similar to the ones he remembered seeing as a boy – well, nothing changes, the world over ...

  It was somehow pathetic in a medic of Ranjid’s standing.

  He replaced everything and then went through the filing cabinet and cupboards, but didn’t find anything of interest.

  The computer? No – anything incriminating would be covered by a password. He re-locked everything and let himself out.

  No sound, other than a phone ringing somewhere in the distance. Feeling slightly foolish, he wiped the door handle before going to Edwina’s room.

  He locked it behind him, closed the blinds and began as before with the desk drawers.

  Nothing in the top ones, but again, the bottom one held a surprise, this time a bottle of vodka. He gingerly lifted it out and set it on the desk. It was half full – or half empty, depending on your state of mind. So maybe Edwina needed help in keeping up her easy going image …

  He checked the rest of the drawers and made a quick search of the room, but as before, found nothing.

  Philip’s office, to his surprise, wasn’t even locked. Well, unlike the others, maybe he had nothing to hide – in his office, anyway …

  He nevertheless re-locked the door behind him.

  The windows of this room did face the wards, but would anyone be looking? He couldn’t search without light … and in the unlikely event anyone did notice, they’d assume Philip had come in for something.