A Perfect Hero

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘Looks good,’ he told the young man. ‘Can you wriggle your toes for me?’

  He grimaced and managed to move them all slightly.

  ‘Fingers? Excellent. Well done. The physiotherapist will be round to see you shortly so we can get things moving as soon as possible. You’re lucky you didn’t smash your heels, you know. That’s the most common result of your type of landing.’

  Barry turned his head away and didn’t respond.

  With a shrug Michael headed for the door. ‘I’ll come and see you again later, and we’ll increase the pain relief now. I’ll write it up in the office.’

  They walked back to the nurses’ station together, deep in conversation about the complicated management of Barry Warner’s extensive injuries. As they reached the door of Sister’s office, Tim Mayhew appeared and hailed them.

  ‘Ah, this is the young lady!’ he said in his penetrating voice. ‘I gather you’ve captured my SR!’

  Clare gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Or was it the other way round?’

  He turned his deceptively soft brown eyes on Michael.

  Michael grinned. ‘A little of each, let’s say. And captivated, rather than captured.’

  ‘Well, whatever, I wish you both the very best. Now, tell me all about this young hang-glider. I gather from David Blake that you’re a better surgeon than I am.’

  ‘I wish!’ Michael said with a laugh. ‘He’s too kind and not nearly observant enough if he thinks that, sir.’

  Mr Mayhew shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. You’re a damn fine surgeon, Michael. Given time and experience, you’ll be world class. Of course you’re not as conservative as me—I probably would have put the right leg in a gutter and left it at that, with a Steinmann’s pin for the acetabulum, and tackled the tib and fib later on when the skin had healed. However, no harm in getting the healing process under way if possible. Shouldn’t be surprised if we don’t end up with a non-union. Got the X-rays?’

  They went into the office, and Michael wrote up the increased rate of delivery of Pethidine through the automatic pump for Barry. Leaving them poring over the X-rays, Clare went back out to the nurses’ station and asked the junior staff nurse, Deborah Lewis, to check the pump as she adjusted it.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Deborah asked curiously as they walked towards Barry’s room.

  Clare flushed. ‘All what?’ she said as vaguely as possible.

  ‘Oh, come on! Rumour’s rife, you know. You’ve moved out of your flat, every time he looks at you he nearly burns holes in you with those fabulous eyes—and then old Mayhew makes funny noises. Now give!’

  Clare laughed and gave up. ‘OK. Michael and I are getting married.’

  ‘How exciting!’ Deborah’s eyes lit up. ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know—we haven’t really decided. Probably the beginning of August.’

  ‘That soon? You are a dark horse. We had no idea that you already knew him!’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said, and flushed again. ‘We just—hit it off, right from the start.’

  ‘You must have done,’ Deborah said drily. ‘Some people have all the luck. Oh, well. There’s always David Blake.’

  Clare chuckled. ‘You could do worse. He’s been after you for months.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Deborah wrinkled her nose. ‘Was it Groucho Marx who said never belong to a club that will have you as a member? Let’s check this pump.’

  The rest of the week was uneventful but blissfully happy. She discovered a saxophone in his spare bedroom, and made him play it for her. He did, and she was enthralled. He did everything well, so she shouldn’t have been surprised, but somehow she was.

  His repertoire was wide and varied, ranging from sleazy jazz, through Mozart horn concertos, to soulful, haunting melodies that sent chills up her spine.

  The days were made all the more exciting by the fact that they saw each other from time to time, and the nights—the nights defied description.

  Clare had never been so happy in her life. On Thursday evening he took her windsurfing again, and she managed to stay up long enough to fall in love with the sensation of skimming over the water, the wind in her hair, muscles braced to balance the weight of the board. ‘Fabulous!’ she told him. ‘I love it! We must do it again.’

  ‘How about Saturday? Are you off this weekend?’

  She nodded. ‘Till Sunday lunchtime, anyway. Can we take Henrietta out?’

  He laughed. ‘You want it all, don’t you?’

  She threw back her hair and shook it, revelling in the feel of the sun on her face and the sound of his laughter.

  ‘Yes, I want it all. Is that so wrong?’

  ‘No.’ He sobered, and reached out to take her in his arms. ‘No, it’s not wrong. I want it all, too. I just wonder if we’re being greedy.’

  Afterwards she wondered if they had known, if some sixth sense had warned them of what was coming, but she felt a chill run over her, and that night they made love with a desperate intensity that left them both shaken. They slept wrapped in each other’s arms, as if together they could keep out whatever demon stalked them.

  They were wrong.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FRIDAY was hectic to start with. Several patients were going home, in time for the weekend, and they needed their notes writing up and drugs fetched from the pharmacy ready for their discharge.

  Barry Warner had had a rotten night, and was desperately depressed. Clare did her best to cheer him up, but he was sullen and uncommunicative. The physiotherapist, Sue Matthews, could hardly get him to co-operate, and Michael spent some time with him reviewing his injuries and explaining the various stages of his rehabilitation. Even he gave up in the end.

  ‘Said he should have broken his neck—today I’m inclined to agree with him,’ he said in a rare moment of criticism. ‘Ungrateful young fool—he doesn’t seem to realise how lucky he’s been. He should make a full recovery provided that tib and fib unite OK, and there’s every chance they will. Really, I could hit him!’

  ‘Unfortunately we don’t have anyone worse off we can put him near—that often works wonders,’ Mary O’Brien said sagely. ‘Do you have time for a cup of coffee before you go back to Clinic, Michael?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I should be up there now. God knows when I’ll be out. I’m supposed to have the afternoon off but it’s looking unlikely. I’ll see you later, darling.’

  He dropped a kiss on Clare’s cheek, and left, his footsteps receding in the stunned silence.

  ‘So that’s the way of it,’ Mary O’Brien said.

  Clare’s face softened in a smile. ‘We’re getting married as soon as we can sort out the date.’

  Mary enveloped her in a motherly hug. ‘That’s wonderful, Clare! I’m delighted for you. He’s a lovely, lovely man, and a brilliant surgeon. You’ll make a beautiful couple. I hope you’re very happy.’

  Clare flushed. ‘Thank you, Sister.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Have I got time to do a teaching round with the third-years? I thought the management of Barry Warner’s injuries would make quite an interesting topic.’

  ‘Good idea, Clare. Might get him out of his stupor, all those lovely girls dancing attendance on him. I’ll deal with the discharges.’

  All too soon it was lunchtime, and then drugs again, and before she knew where she was Michael was back.

  ‘You’re finished!’

  He nodded. ‘We skipped lunch. What time are you off?’

  ‘Four. Can you hang on? We need to go to the supermarket on the way home.’

  He grimaced. ‘Domestic bliss! OK, I’ll hang on—any chance of a cup of tea?’

  ‘Not unless you help yourself. We’re all busy!’

  At ten to four she popped her head round the office door. Michael was in there, his feet propped on a chair, laughing with Mary O’Brien.

  ‘Nice to see everyone’s comfortable!’ she said with a chuckle.

  Then the phone rang, a
nd Clare watched in dismay as Mary’s face became grave.

  ‘Dear God! How many can we expect?’

  Michael’s feet dropped to the floor and he put down his cup.

  ‘Yes, Michael Barrington’s here, and Clare Stevens. They’re both off-duty now—hang on, I’ll ask them.’ She covered the receiver, and looked up. ‘Commuter train derailment. Apparently it’s a hell of a mess. Several casualties trapped in the wreckage. They want a volunteer mobile surgical team on the scene for emergency amputations and on-the-spot immobilisation of spinal injuries. Can you go?’

  They both nodded.

  ‘Go down to A & E—Jim Harris is organising it. They want as many beds as we can spare—I’ll get some of our long-stay cases shipped over to Medical for now. Off you go—and good luck!’

  The Accident and Emergency department was in full swing. Non-urgent cases had been advised to go and see their GPs, urgent cases were being dealt with as quickly as possible. The more easily accessible casualties were already arriving from the scene of the crash, and they found Jim Harris in the staff room with a whiteboard, sketching in a flow-chart to show everyone their places.

  Clare and Michael were attached to an anaesthetist, another nurse and an off-duty houseman from general surgery. They were to proceed to the scene of the crash and liaise with the incident medical officer and incident control officer.

  It was horrendous. Even the most seasoned ambulance men and firemen were shocked by the carnage. The train had left the rails and plunged down an embankment, the third carriage riding up over the second. Most of the dead and injured had been in the second carriage, and those who were trapped by the wreckage were still in there, but the carriage towering over it was highly unstable, and the wind was picking up, rocking it with every gust. As a result they had to wait until the firemen had finished rigging up huge props to support the structure before they were allowed in.

  Of the several people still trapped in the second carriage, only two were badly hurt; the others were quickly freed by the firemen and taken away after assessment, or were not trapped and were attended to by the houseman and the anaesthetist. Apart from minor crush injuries and a few fractures, most of the people were cut, bruised and simply terrified, and who could blame them?

  Suppressing a shudder of horror, Clare went with Michael to examine the two trapped in the rear of the carriage. One, an elderly woman, was pinned to the floor by the crumpled rear wall of the carriage. She had serious chest injuries and was unlikely to survive. She was mercifully unconscious. The other, a man in his late twenties, was trapped by the foot and was clearly in great pain.

  He gripped Clare’s hand and hung on like grim death.

  ‘Get me out of here,’ he moaned, ‘please, I can’t stand it—get me out!’

  Michael made a quick and thorough assessment of his injuries, and knelt by the man’s head.

  ‘Hello there. Can you tell me your name?’

  ‘Alan,’ he whispered harshly. ‘Alan Beedale.’

  ‘OK, Alan, I’m Michael. I’m an orthopaedic surgeon—I specialise in bones. Alan, I’ve had a look at your foot, and from what I can see it’s very badly damaged.’

  ‘Am I going to lose it?’ he asked jerkily.

  Michael nodded. ‘I think that’s quite likely. I’ll talk to the firemen and see if they can get you out in one piece, but I think even if they can, your foot won’t heal now. The damage is too extensive. I’ll get the anaesthetist to come and check you over, because either way, we’ll knock you out before we move you. OK?’

  The man nodded weakly, and Clare wiped away the sweat that was beading on his brow.

  ‘Don’t worry, Alan, they’ll soon have you out of here,’ she murmured comfortingly.

  The anaesthetist appeared at her side. ‘Hello, old son. Could I just have a listen to your chest?’ After a few seconds he nodded. ‘Fine. When did you eat?’

  ‘Lunch—twelve o’clock today—just a roll.’

  ‘That’s fine. Right, we’ll soon have you more comfortable. Can you get me a vein, Staff?’ He drew up the anaesthetic into a syringe, swabbed the vein Clare had exposed and within seconds the man was unconscious. ‘Right, keep an eye on his blood-pressure for me, will you? I’ll get an airway in.’

  Then Michael was back with the fireman.

  ‘No way, mate,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘The whole weight of the third carriage is resting on his foot. We won’t get him out without heavy lifting gear, and that could take hours. Her, too.’ He tipped his head towards the elderly woman. ‘Looks like she’s a gonner anyway.’

  Michael nodded. ‘OK. I rather thought it was a nonstarter. Thanks anyway. Right, Peter—can I begin?’

  ‘Are you going to take his foot off?’ Clare asked quietly.

  ‘No choice.’

  ‘Oh, God, how awful! He’s so young—his whole life ahead of him, ruined—oh, Michael, isn’t there any way you can avoid it?’

  ‘You heard what the fireman said, Clare. It’ll be hours before the lifting gear can shift that carriage, and by that time the circulation will have been cut off for so long he’ll lose his foot anyway, and probably half his leg with it.’

  ‘But he’ll be crippled!’ she whispered.

  ‘That’s the way the cookie crumbles. Are you going to help me, or just get in the way?’ Michael snapped.

  She drew in a sharp breath. ‘Sorry. Of course I’ll help.’

  He quickly covered the area with sterile paper sheets, cut away the man’s trousers to expose the leg, and opened the surgical pack. The other nurse swabbed the area as thoroughly as possible given the limited access, and then swabbed Clare’s and Michael’s hands prior to them putting on their gloves.

  ‘OK, chaps. Is he all right, Peter?’

  ‘Fine,’ the anaesthetist said. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘I’m going to do a guillotine amputation—access is bloody difficult. They can sort him out in Theatre when they get him back. Scalpel, please.’

  Clare fought down her feelings of distress and forced herself to be professional as she watched his systematic dissection of the soft tissues. She closed her eyes at the high-pitched whine of the power saw, and then it was over, the man was freed from the wreckage and the ambulance team was waiting to take him to hospital.

  That left only the elderly woman with the chest injuries.

  A sudden gust of wind shook the train, and a fireman stuck his head in through the opening in the side. ‘You’d better get out, mate—this lot’s going to go in a minute, the props aren’t holding.’

  ‘I can’t leave this woman,’ Michael said.

  ‘You’re a bloody fool, my friend. If that carriage comes down, it’ll take you with it. She’s a gonner anyway.’

  Clare tugged at his arm, chill fingers of fear crawling up her spine. ‘Please, Michael—there’s nothing you can do for her!’

  ‘Yes, there is. I can stay with her until she dies. You get out and wait for me. It won’t be long. I’ll give her an injection if she comes round. Go on, love. I don’t want you in here.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you——’

  ‘Do as you’re told, Clare. I don’t have time to worry about you now.’

  ‘I’ll wait here.’ She retreated to the other end of the carriage and perched herself in a corner, watching him and listening to his soft voice as he crouched under the twisted metal by the dying woman.

  Each time the wind gusted, Clare’s heart hammered louder in her throat as she watched the man she loved in his selfless vigil.

  At one point the woman must have regained consciousness, because his voice became more directed, and he gave her an injection—probably diamorphine.

  Then, after an age, he lifted his head. ‘OK, she’s gone. Come on, Clare, let’s get out.’

  Just then there was a huge gust of wind, and with a scream of tortured metal, the carriage above collapsed.

  ‘Clare, get out——!’

  His voice was cut off abruptly and Clare watche
d in horror as the roof of the carriage buckled and crumpled like a paper bag.

  ‘Michael!’

  She heard a ragged groan, and crawled up the carriage towards him. It was tilted at a crazy angle, and she could see him, lying flat out, one leg bent up, trying to drag himself forwards.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked him desperately.

  ‘My leg,’ he groaned. ‘I think it’s caught—damn. Clare, get out.’

  ‘No way.’ She crawled the rest of the way and grabbed his hand, and he gripped it like a lifeline. Lifting herself up, she peered over his shoulder and clamped her lips shut on the scream of horror.

  Where his left foot had been was a huge block of twisted metal.

  ‘Can you see?’ he whispered.

  She nodded. ‘The firemen will have to free you,’ she said in an astonishingly calm voice. ‘I’ll get them.’

  They were already behind her, assessing the situation and muttering in hurried undertones.

  She didn’t need to hear what they were saying. The gnarled lump of contorted metal was part of the third carriage, and it wasn’t going anywhere. In a cruel twist of fate, Michael was trapped, and there was only one way out.

  Peter was by her side in an instant, taking in the scene with eyes that missed nothing.

  ‘How does it look?’ Michael asked, his face white with pain.

  ‘Not good, old chap. It’s your left leg——’

  ‘I know what it is, I can feel the damn thing,’ he gritted. ‘Does it need to come off?’

  ‘Dear God, no, not Michael!’ Clare sobbed.

  Peter pursed his lips and nodded. ‘I would say so.’

  ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘No, you can’t!’

  ‘Do it,’ he muttered. ‘And get Clare out of here.’

  Peter was already drawing up the anaesthetic. The other nurse was as near as she could get to the end of the carriage, and Ross Hamilton appeared as if by magic and took charge. The wind gusted again, and the carriage shifted. Michael flung his head back in agony, and Peter found a vein in his outstretched hand and sent him to merciful oblivion.