Summerhouse Land

by Roderick Gordon

  Curtis nods. ‘It is. We tested a range of naturally sourced insulators, and this igneous rock came out on top as the optimum screening material. We use it around the Square too.’ From the corner of his eye Curtis catches someone entering through one of the other doors and turns to them. ‘Good morning, Jane,’ he calls to the woman. She comes over, acknowledging Morgan and his batman with a bow of the head. In her thirties, her hair is tied back and she’s dressed in the light-blue overalls that Curtis referred to earlier.

  ‘Can we get the Cube prepped?’ Curtis says.

  ‘What, right now, sir?’ she replies. ‘We didn’t have a healing scheduled for this morning. And nobody’s been stretchered in.’

  ‘I know, but I’m being asked to demonstrate it.’ Curtis indicates Dagby. ‘On this fellow. On his upper limb. Or rather his lack of an upper limb.’

  Jane casts her gaze over Dagby, who is shifting from foot to foot as if he’s thinking of making a run for it. ‘Of course. Please follow me, sir,’ she says to the batman.

  ‘I’ll open up.’ Curtis goes to the midpoint in the side of the Cube and lifts two wooden catches. Just then a man also in the standard blue overalls they all wear makes an appearance. ‘Impeccable timing, Blinks! Just when I needed a hand,’ Curtis says.

  ‘Blinks? Unusual name,’ Morgan comments.

  ‘My real name is George,’ Blinks says.

  ‘Yes, we used to have another George on the team so we rechristened him to avoid any confusion,’ Curtis explains, giving the tall man a pat on the back. ‘It’s Blinks, because of what he spends most of his day doing – replacing dud valves in the Generator Square that have blown or are on the blink.’

  Morgan smiles. ‘I see.’

  ‘Let’s get to it,’ Curtis says, and he and Blinks grapple with the weighty panel, sliding it to one side. ‘Thank you. And now would you mind checking the readings in the Square please,’ Curtis asks Blinks, who hurries off.

  Inside the Cube there’s what could be a dentist’s chair, although it’s fabricated entirely from stout sections of dark oak. Morgan notices that the ever-decreasing lenses that Curtis told them about continue through an opening in the top of the Cube, with the last of them poised just above the chair. And on the floor under the chair there’s a sort of a target of white rings marked out on the concrete. Curtis moves the chair so one side is directly above the painted circle of the bulls eye.

  ‘Jacket and shirt off, please,’ Jane says to Dagby.

  ‘I’m not sure I—’ he begins, before Morgan gives him a stare that would stop a clock. Then, breathing heavily and grunting, he goes along with what he’s been asked.

  ‘Just need to make sure you haven’t anything on you,’ Jane says, feeling Dagby’s trouser pockets to check they’re empty, then patting down each leg.

  ‘Oh,’ Dagby says, as the woman’s thorough hands slide over him.

  ‘And now if you make yourself comfortable in the chair,’ Jane says. As soon as he’s in it, she sets about taking off his prosthetic arm. Without speaking, they all look at the stump.

  Jane holds up the false arm. ‘Metal buckle here, sir,’ she says, flicking the offending article at the end of the strap.

  Curtis is annoyed with himself. ‘Mea culpa. Didn’t occur to me.’

  ‘I’ll get rid of it. He won’t be needing it again, anyway,’ Jane says.

  ‘Oi! Not on your Nellie! Give it here!’ Dagby yells, lunging at his false limb but he’s not fast enough to snatch it back. ‘That’s my …’

  ‘Be quiet, man,’ Morgan admonishes him.

  As Jane exits with the prosthetic arm, she’s replaced in the Cube by another woman. This one is younger than Jane, with glasses and striking blonde hair.

  ‘Morning, Emma,’ Curtis says. ‘So glad you’re in – I could do with your help.’

  In the chair and in a state of semi-undress, Dagby is mumbling to himself, obviously feeling extremely self-conscious as these attractive young women fuss over him and get him ready. He’s hunched forward and holding his good arm over his sizable belly as if he’s attempting to hide it.

  ‘Sit back please, sir,’ Emma says in a business-like voice, pushing him on the shoulder. She produces a small tub from her overalls and begins to apply the contents to Dagby’s stump, working it in vigorously.

  ‘Fuller’s earth,’ Curtis tells Morgan before he has a chance to ask. ‘It helps ease the transformation.’ As the woman continues to rub it in, Morgan can see that parts of the overhead gantry are moving so that the lenses above the Cube are reconfigured.

  He’s watching carefully, absorbing everything as it happens. ‘So how long does the healing process take? A couple of hours?’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ Curtis answers. He doesn’t finish because in the chair Dagby is snorting and threatening to leave it.

  ‘Gerroff, will you! Just gerroff! I’m not having that!’

  ‘He won’t let me strap him in, sir,’ Emma says.

  ‘It’s for your own safety,’ Curtis says. ‘We try to limit what the beam touches. There’s no point in exposing the surrounding tissues, just in case.’

  Morgan steps in front of his batman. ‘Listen, be a good boy and just do what you’re told.’

  Dagby humphs loudly and settles down again. Morgan and Curtis watch as Emma loops a number of straps around his legs and chest, and pulls them tight, with two more around his neck and forehead to keep his head in place.

  Then she takes a couple of gauze bandages from her pocket. Only once she’s carefully bound the stump in place on a fold-up rest on the side of the chair does Curtis move in to double check than his lenses are correctly positioned. The last lens in the series is around a foot in diameter, and Curtis takes his time to adjust it over Dagby’s stump, standing back and also walking around the chair several times before he’s satisfied.

  ‘Isn’t it necessary to take any measurements?’ Morgan asks. ‘What are the tolerances here?’

  ‘No, this stage in the procedure is more of an art than a science,’ Curtis replies He takes a long look at Dagby in the chair. ‘And I think we’re ready now.’ He addresses Dagby. ‘Don’t on any account try to move, will you?’

  Dagby tries to shake his head, but it’s held firmly in place. Instead, he grins glumly. ‘If only I could, matey,’ he mutters under his breath. ‘If only I could.’ He’s not going anywhere with the straps around him.

  Emma’s last action is to place a pair of opaque black glasses on Dagby. ‘What’s this – a blinkin’ blindfold? Like for a blinkin’ firing squad? Is that what this is?’ he asks. If he was sweating before, then it’s absolutely pouring off him now.

  Curtis smiles confidently. ‘There’s really nothing to be nervous about, old chap. It’ll all be over before you know it.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ Dagby says through gritted teeth. With a last angry hmmph from him, Curtis and Morgan follow Emma out of the Cube, and the side panel is slid back into place and the catches secured.

  Crossing the red warning line on the ground, they withdraw to a corner where there are four stone panels arranged as screening in front of a desk. On this sit several boxes of electrical controls. Consulting a small notebook, Curtis alters a series of interconnecting cables on what resembles a telephonist’s board, changing the positions of the jack plugs until he’s satisfied. ‘Idiot check, please,’ he says to Jane, who takes the notebook and leans over the plugboard to scrutinize it.

  ‘Circuitry all correct,’ she confirms after a few moments.

  Blinks appears beside Curtis. ‘All hunky dory with the Square, sir,’ he informs him. ‘Nice and toasty in there.’

  ‘Good. Put these on to protect your retinas,’ Curtis says to Morgan as Emma hands him two pairs of very dark glasses. ‘Is everyone out of the way?’ he shouts once Morgan and the rest of his team have donned their glasses.

  ‘All clear,’ Jane replies, peering around the side of the screening. ‘It’s safe to proceed.’

&nb
sp; ‘Is it okay if I watch from there?’ Morgan asks, indicating the other end of the screening.

  ‘Of course, but I warn you even with the glasses it’s very bright.’ Curtis clears his throat. ‘In ten,’ he says loudly, ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.’ He turns a dial all the way around. ‘Full power applied,’ he announces.

  There’s no sound as such, but with each passing second you can sense that something’s coming, something’s about to be unleashed.

  At first there’s a slight loss of focus, as if the floor and everything on it is vibrating. So much so that Morgan instinctively grips the edge of the screening beside him.

  Then Curtis hits the master switch.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Sam, you’ve had something intravenously, but I’m now going to give you a couple of shots to deaden the area – just to be doubly sure you don’t have any pain. You might feel the needle a little the first time, but there won’t be anything after that,’ the surgeon says, as his assistant passes him a syringe. ‘All right?’

  ‘Last time you said it would feel a bit like a bee sting.’ Sam is flat on his back on the operating table, a small cloth barrier extending across the line of his eyebrows. Mrs White, in a theater gown and wearing a surgical mask, is sitting on one side of it as she anxiously holds Sam’s hand.

  ‘Yes, that’s right – a bee sting. From a tiny bee, though,’ the surgeon says, chuckling. On the other side of the barrier, he and his team are gathered around Sam’s shaved cranium, his head gripped firmly on the table with padded metal brackets.

  The surgeon takes a moment to step over to the side of the barrier on which Mrs White is sitting. ‘I’ve reshaped a growth for you before, so the process is going to be similar, although this is a more substantial one. It may take a little longer to get right before we apply the plate.’

  ‘How do you fix it on?’ Sam asks, his frightened eyes staring up into the surgeon’s.

  ‘With rivets. It’s all standard stuff.’

  ‘Rivets?’ Sam echoes.

  The surgeon’s eyes are sympathetic, kind, as he nods. ‘And, really, don’t be alarmed by the noises you hear and any sensations you feel because we’ll be doing some cutting and trimming around the protrusion first. Think of it just as …’

  The surgeon glances at Mrs White, then back to Sam again as he searches for an apt comparison. ‘… a carpentry class in the room next door. Yes, that’s what it’ll be like.’

  A carpentry class? You’re cracking open my forehead so you can saw a bump off my skull, then cramming my brain back where it should be with a flipping metal plate, and it’s a carpentry class? I don’t think so. But instead Sam tries to smile in response. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Yes.’

  ‘We didn’t feel we should do this under a general anesthetic. So I’m sorry, but you’re going to be awake through the procedure,’ the surgeon adds, not really sounding sorry at all.

  Yeah, so you can tell if you’ve squashed my brain too much and I start babbling or something. ‘Sure. I understand,’ Sam replies. He tries to nod but his head is held firmly.

  The surgeon takes in a breath, the mask sucking into his nostrils. ‘Anyway, there’s always more risk from a general. But if we need her, Sam, the anesthetist is right here. We’ll be monitoring you, and we can put you under instantly if we think it would be better.’

  What, if I start screaming or something? Sam squeezes his mother’s hand, wondering if she has any inkling at all what’s going through his mind. And how thoroughly miserable and terrified he is at the thought of yet another operation, particularly one this serious. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he says politely, as if he’s talking to a master at school. It goes down well with the surgeon. Sam can see the creases in his mask as he smiles.

  ‘Okay, lights, action and let’s get the show started,’ the surgeon announces, retreating to the top end of the operating table. And there are lights, bright ones, switched on and directed at Sam’s cranium which throw his face into shadow on the other side of the barrier. He grits his teeth apprehensively as he hears the surgeon whisper, ‘Hypo please.’

  A square has been drawn around the growth on Sam’s forehead, where the whole area has been daubed with iodine so it’s stained a yellow brown like some primitive war paint. The surgeon traces his gloved finger over the four sides of the square, then selects one of the corners and lines up the hypodermic on it. ‘Just a tiny, tiny bee sting,’ he says, touching the tip of the metal needle against Sam’s skin. He presses it in.

  Sam tenses, the image of his mother’s concerned face going slightly fuzzy, like the picture on a TV when the signal’s weak.

  The surgeon feels a jolt, as if the syringe has bucked in his grip.

  However that’s not his main concern.

  Something’s not right in the operating theater.

  The lights flicker.

  There’s a breeze, like a light gust of wind, then the lights go out altogether.

  It’s pitch black.

  Sam hears the whine of machinery powering down. And the background whir of the air conditioning has also ceased.

  There’s total silence.

  The surgeon swears forcibly, immediately adding in the darkness, ‘Sorry for my language, Sam.’ His voice shows his impatience. ‘Come on, come on! Where’s the backup supply? What on earth is going on?’

  ‘It should switch over automatically in a power failure,’ his assistant says in a quiet voice. ‘And seamlessly.’

  ‘Yes, it should. This is ridiculous,’ the surgeon fumes. ‘Nurse, if you can reach the door without injuring yourself, could you please find out what they’re doing about this.’ As they hear her stepping away and the door opening, the surgeon is scrabbling in a draw in the trolley beside him to locate a battery operated head-torch. He finds it and is about to turn it on, but there’s a low rumble as the air conditioning resumes, bringing fresh air into the room again. ‘And about time,’ he complains.

  The power is back.

  After the total darkness everyone blinks in the light as they flick on.

  The monitors by the anesthetist come back to life again, one or two of them making bleeping sounds.

  ‘How can this possibly happen in a major London teaching hospital? I mean it’s not as if we’re in some country like ...’ the surgeon begins to say, then checks himself, realizing that he has witnesses in the room. It’s not done for a man in his position to be seen to be elitist or bigoted.

  The nurse reenters the theater. ‘I was able to ring down and get hold of central services once the power came on again. They confirmed the whole hospital was out. They think it must be a problem with the grid,’ she says.

  ‘And the lack of any standby power?’ the surgeon presses her.

  ‘They don’t have an explanation for that,’ she replies. ‘Maintenance has sent a team to investigate. They think there may have been some kind of surge.’

  ‘Well, this is all very frustrating.’ The surgeon lobs his torch on the trolley. ‘Sam, I do apologize but we obviously can’t risk doing the procedure in case we have another power outage. Wouldn’t do to mess around with your head in the dark, would it?’ he says, trying to make light of the situation.

  My head’s messed up enough, anyway. Sam makes an effort to show a smile.

  ‘We’ll get you out of here and back on the ward as soon as we can. I’m very sorry about this. It’s far from ideal, but we’ll reschedule for the first available slot,’ the surgeon says, directing the comment at Mrs White. He moves to the top of the operating table and rests his hands either side of Sam’s shaved cranium. ‘In all the kerfuffle, I’ve put the hypo down somewhere,’ he says in a low voice to his assistant, not wanting to admit to dropping it, because a clumsy surgeon doesn’t have a future. ‘Make sure you find it and deal with it,’ he says, striding toward the door.

  There’s a strange lack of any sound and a flash of light, so dazzling that the sunglasses don’t seem to afford enough protection. M
organ immediately averts his head to shield his good eye. And, at the same moment, there’s a rush of air, like a powerful gust of wind. On the desk, pages of Curtis’s notebook ripple over.

  But then there’s a bang. Although again it’s not accompanied by any sound to speak of, more like being punched in the gut.

  A fine dust laces the air.

  And there’s screaming.

  Morgan looks at Curtis. He’s whipped off his glasses. He’s frowning.

  In the Cube Dagby shouts frantically, then he screams again. A wail of pure, unadulterated fright.

  Something’s patently not right.

  Curtis and the three members of his team rush from behind the screened area, Morgan following after them.

  The lower corner on one side of the Cube isn’t there.

  ‘An explosion?’ Morgan asks.

  It’s as though a giant has taken a bite out of it, although where the stone panels and the timber framework are cut through the edges are smooth. The bite even takes in a portion of the concrete floor underneath the corner, deep enough that the armature Curtis referred to is revealed in the sub-chamber below.

  ‘Okay to go in, sir?’ Jane says, because inside the Cube Dagby is still letting out the occasional wail, although it’s muffled.

  ‘No sign of any real debris again,’ Curtis says, scanning the floor around the outside of the Cube.

  ‘Sir,’ Jane repeats. ‘We need to see to him.’

  ‘Of course. Yes. Yes, we need to see to Dagby,’ Curtis mutters, as if he’s been pulled from a trance. He’s already trying to piece together how this could have happened. Led by Jane, they are all able to get inside the Cube without having to open the sliding panel. They duck down and enter through the damaged corner, stepping carefully around the hole in the floor, their feet grinding in the dust.

  Many of the lenses have been torn from their wooden housings by the force of whatever happened here. One hangs from a single fixing, rocking gently back and forth. And Dagby is still strapped in the chair, but it’s been thrown forward so his face is pressed against the floor.