Bloodthirst

by Alexander, Marc

  ‘What can I do, Sister?’ she asked.

  ‘I think we’d better pull out the plug,’ said Sister calmly. ‘You go to the office and phone Matron. Get a nurse to come and look after this wretched girl. I’ll stay here until help comes.’

  Sister closed the door and was alone with the body of her orderly. As the contents of the bath gurgled out, she bent and picked up a piece of paper which lay on the top of the clothing. The neat block lettering said: ‘I am taking this step because in a lucid moment I realize I have done something terrible.’ The next line had scribble drawn through it but Sister was still able to decipher: ‘The girl in Chalk Farm … ’ The line below continued: ‘Something has changed inside me and I am not worthy to live. Please have my body cremated. L. Tedworth.’

  So it was him, thought Sister, now running the cold water tap. I wonder how long he’d been going mad? He always seemed a bit too good to be true. God! This is a hospital for nervous diseases and yet we didn’t see what was going on under our noses! I wonder what he had in mind for Britt when she bit him.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the breathless arrival of Matron and the police inspector.

  He looked at the body professionally.

  ‘Five or six hours?’ he said.

  Sister nodded. ‘He must have come in at the witch hour,’ she said. ‘Not many people around then. He’d got a white coat, so if any of your men had seen him they wouldn’t have been so suspicious.’

  The inspector nodded and read the paper Sister handed him.

  ‘That’ll be the end of the headlines anyway,’ he sighed. ‘I wonder who the girl at Chalk Farm was? Probably we’ll never know.’

  Within minutes of Bernadette Kelly having found the corpse, the news had permeated the entire hospital. At first there was shocked incredulity, but then as the matter was exhaustively discussed it began to seem more possible.

  ‘Of course, he did have a funny streak,’ said an orderly who had worked with him in the canteen. ‘He was always very efficient and smarmy with the customers, but he had a mean streak if he had it in for them.’

  ‘He hated blacks,’ said another. ‘Maybe that’s why he knifed the foreign doctor.’

  ‘He’s not a black … ’

  ‘’Course I never heard him talk about girls. I think he was a bit, you know, odd.’ And so in countless conversations Lionel was tried and found guilty. The lunch time edition of an evening paper carried a front page banner: ‘Orderly’s Suicide at Murder Hospital’, but in the next edition it was reduced to a few lines to make way for ‘Plot to Kidnap Pope’. By afternoon hospital routine had triumphed and life was back to normal.

  Catheterized, tied in a regulation linen shroud and with its nostrils plugged with cotton wool impregnated with eau-de-Cologne, the body of Lionel Tedworth was removed to the mortuary. Old Billy, leering with excitement, supervised its placing in a refrigerated drawer.

  ‘Fancy it being ‘im wot done it,’ he chuckled delightedly. ‘Well, he ain’t never done me a bad turn.’ It was the opposite — the attendant had earned himself ten pounds by ringing news of the suicide through to a newspaper office that morning-The porters withdrew and left Billy (nicknamed Charon by some) in charge of his spotless chrome and white-tiled kingdom. Having checked everything was in order, he went into his little side office to return to his copy of Revue.

  Later that afternoon he looked up to see Dr Pilgrim enter.

  ‘There’s a cadaver I want to see,’ he said, lack of sleep showing in the paleness of his face. ‘Tedworth, from Fleming Ward.’

  ‘I’m wot done it,’ said Billy, his tongue flicking like a serpent’s through his pursed lips. ‘Over ‘ere, sir.’

  He eased a heavy drawer open on well-oiled rollers, glanced at the label tied to a toe of the corpse to make sure it was the right one, then pulled the drawer full out. He watched expectantly as Dr Pilgrim looked down at the blanched features of the dead orderly. From a pocket in his white coat he produced a wooden spatula, forced it between the grey lips, peered closely under the brilliant fluorescent light, then tossed it into a stainless steel surgical bin.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and walked out.

  Wonder what that was all about, mused Billy, returning to his paper and the last of a smashing series of articles devoted to the sex life of Copenhagen.

  * * *

  Another dream, another dreamer.

  Dim consciousness in the border state between death and life where the bewitched knew not himself, only a glimmering of his condition.

  Around him soft blackness. He was secure here, for, beyond the softness, were hard walls which left him safe to dream. To dream until his time would come and he could pursue that elusive longing which, in some old world, had once been quenched.

  Memory was rare, and then only a sense of red-streamed dread followed by the well-being of his new modality.

  Sometimes the black softness swathing him rocked, but with no effect on his languor, not even when metallic echoes drummed about him.

  Then warmth. A warmth so strong the black softness became acrid. Locked in his dream he was unaware of crackling wood and rents which admitted incandescence and the roar of fire, of smoke curling about him and white flames dancing joyously.

  Suddenly a moment of realization that the dream was doomed. From somewhere, where he knew not, a cry was wrenched which was the essence of despair. Then dream and dreamer dissolved to dust.

  Chapter 10

  ‘Sit down, Dr Pilgrim,’ said Sir Henry Beresford as Peter entered his office which, although it was part of a modem hospital, resembled an old-fashioned study complete with glass-fronted bookcases surmounted by white plaster busts. For decoration there were seventeenth-century anatomical diagrams hanging on the Wedgwood blue walls.

  Sir Henry tapped the folder of case histories which lay on his leather-topped desk beside a framed citation for services to medicine. As usual he was impeccable in a dark suit and silver-grey tie, and with his abundant steel-coloured hair brushed severely back he looked exactly what he was, an aristocrat of the medical profession.

  ‘I want to discuss your narcoleptic project,’ he said as Peter sank into an over-stuffed chair of buttoned leather. ‘I must compliment you on the way you have written your reports. Perhaps it comes from having a literary father.’

  Peter smiled obediently.

  ‘It seems you have done everything possible over the past year, yet I fear little positive progress has been made. Indeed it has been an unfortunate project, with your patient attacking an orderly who subsequently ran amok and committed felo de se.’

  ‘With greatest respect, I have eliminated several theories and I’m on to a clue which has never been investigated in the past.’

  ‘I agree you put paid to the Bernstein theory,’ Sir Henry conceded, ‘but it seems you became side-tracked when you began advancing your ideas about an infectious blood syndrome. Your last paper reads more like an essay on science fiction.

  ‘May I remind you, Dr Pilgrim, that we are in the seventies, that we deal in facts and realities, and that we are medical technologists. If I sound carping it is because you have committed the unforgivable sin of letting your imagination run wild. You have worked with dedication I grant, but I believe your forte lies in psychiatric work rather than in neurology — in that sphere at least there is more than a hint of the witchdoctor.’

  As Sir Henry spoke Peter’s face flushed and his jaw muscle tensed, though when he spoke his voice was under control.

  ‘You are referring to my suggestion that behaviourism might be passed on through blood?’

  ‘I am. Although you don’t say so in so many words, the implication of your summary is positively mediaeval. As you know I believe in absolute honesty between myself and my colleagues, and therefore I must tell you I believe the unfortunate events in Fleming Ward warped your judgement almost to the point of morbid obsession.’

  ‘I merely postulated it might be possible for a behaviour pattern to be
passed on through the transference of blood. You must admit the circumstances were unusual. My Swedish patient received a blood transfusion after an accident some time ago in another country. We have no means of knowing where that blood actually came from, yet following its induction into her body her behaviour pattern changed and she became narcoleptic.

  ‘Blood comes from some strange sources these days. Just let me read you this from The Guardian newspaper.’

  From his wallet Peter extracted the cutting his father had given him at the Soho restaurant. Casting his eye to a passage marked with red ball-point, he said: ‘This comes from an article on Haiti published in The Guardian last December … “Other ‘liberalization’ measures which have been taken by the new Interior and Defence Minister, Roger Lafontant, who succeeded Cambronne, include the closing of a US-run plasma collecting company, Hemo Caribbean, which made vast profits for itself and Cambronne by exporting the blood — and, it is thought, the corpses — of severely undernourished Haitians to US hospitals.” ‘Now, while I cannot prove there was anything wrong with the particular blood the patient was given, I’m suggesting the possibility of a factor connected with blood which we do not yet recognize or understand … a psychic influence which is separate from the chemical compounds.’

  Sir Henry toyed with his gold-plated Parker.

  ‘When this girl came to England,’ Peter continued stubbornly, ‘she awoke from a coma and attacked an orderly, drawing blood. Just before that she’d had an EEG which was utterly blank. After the attack the orderly went into coma and I had an EEG done on him — with exactly the same result. Also his behaviour pattern altered disastrously. Later the other narcoleptics, who also had been bitten by Britt, developed a taste for human blood … ’

  With a bleak smile Sir Henry interrupted Peter: ‘My dear doctor, in medical research — as in any field of research — there is the danger that when a researcher finds himself on a false track he cannot admit it. He clings to the path of his investigation with determination which in any other field of endeavour would be highly commendable. What is not commendable is the researcher’s inability to face the reality of the situation. It leads to a waste of more talent and money than I care to think about.

  ‘Your patient is probably schizoid and as a result suffers from intermittent violence. The fact you mention the blood exporting business in Haiti only confirms my feeling about your ideas. Do you infer this blood comes from zombies?’

  ‘That was only an example,’ Peter said, aware he was losing. ‘I mentioned it because in some countries it is impossible to trace the origins of supply.’

  Sir Henry glanced at the gold face of his watch.

  ‘You suggest the attack on the orderly may have affected his subsequent behaviour,’ he continued. ‘Equally he might have been an already disturbed man and the shock of the attack was enough to tip the balance of his sanity.

  ‘Another point you raise — melodramatically — is that the narcoleptic children developed a predilection for blood after being bitten by the Swedish child. Utter nonsense! Those young children, suddenly aroused from deep sleep, were naturally excited by the situation. Their curiosity was aroused by the brightly coloured liquid dripping down the wall and they investigated it, not only visually but orally, as young children will. Yet this demonstration of childish curiosity leads you to think they were — and I quote your words — “thirsting for blood”. Dr Pilgrim, I find your attitude very unscientific.’

  ‘I suppose when the case is presented as you have just done, and if I was not involved with it myself, I’d be inclined to agree with you, Sir Henry,’ said Peter. He felt sick with the growing belief that perhaps Sir Henry was right.

  A heavy silence filled the exquisite office, then the knight said in a kindlier tone: ‘I have decided we should end the narcoleptic study, Dr Pilgrim. It has proved fruitless. In view of this, I suggest you take some leave to get over the upsetting events which have taken place in Fleming Ward recently. Then we will discuss your future activities with the Lord Foundation who sponsored the programme. Have a good holiday and come back refreshed. And may I add that if I sounded harsh about some aspects of your work, I have absolutely no complaint over the way you have conducted your normal duties.’

  Peter rose to his feet.

  ‘Thank you, Sir Henry,’ he said, and wondered what the hell he had to thank him for. ‘I’ll take your advice.’

  Walking away down a corridor he saw Anne-Marie hurrying towards him.

  ‘How did it go, Peter?’ she asked as they met.

  ‘Dreadful. The project’s ended and I’m as good as finished here. I was told to take a holiday.’

  ‘Sacré Coeur, what a disappointment for you after all that work,’ she said sympathetically. ‘But in one way I am glad — you will be able to come on holiday with me now.’

  Chapter 11

  The gleaming white cross-Channel hovercraft swept up the Calais beach in a miniature sand storm. The thunder of jet-turbines died to a growl as it settled on its concrete pad and men in blue overalls converged upon it. Soon afterwards Peter and Anne-Marie were driving along the N7, through open fields where farmers plodded behind ponderous, cream-coloured draught horses.

  They spent the night in Lyon, delighted to be able to share a room after the segregated life imposed by hospital routine. Next morning, they continued south along the Rhone, crossing the river at the Pont St Esprit to take the road for Arles. After several hours of driving Anne-Marie suddenly clapped her hands in delight.

  ‘Look,’ she cried, pointing to the summit of a hill on their left.’ Do you see it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That lone tree. When we used to come down here as children my father always used to say, “there you are, mes enfants, that is the first cypress — the sentinel of the South.”’

  As she spoke a yellow car hurtled past them with an arrogant fanfare of air-tone horns.

  ‘My God!’ cried Peter. ‘Did you see that one go?’

  ‘Yes, and it had a GB plate.’

  Half an hour later they were approaching a sharp bend when they saw a gap in the hedge ahead. Beyond it the yellow car glowed in the Mediterranean sun. It was obvious the driver had been unable to negotiate the bend. The car had shot off the road and cut a furrow across a cornfield.

  ‘That was the Aston Martin which overtook us,’ Peter said. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised. Lucky it didn’t roll over. I wonder what happened to the driver.’

  Shortly afterwards they saw the figure of a girl in green slacks and shirt waving from the roadside. With the sun behind her, her hair shone like burnished copper. Peter pulled up and she began speaking in French, until she noticed the steering wheel of the Citroen was on the right.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness, you’re English. I had a bit of trouble with my car — like it’s in the middle of a field back there.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Peter asked. ‘No bumps on the head?’

  ‘No. Thank God for seat belts. Could you take me to the next village? I’ll have to go through the dreary performance of getting a breakdown truck — the old Yellow Peril won’t reverse out over that ditch. It’s a drag because I’m on my way to Saintes Maries de la Mer.’

  ‘Jump in,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘We’re heading for the Camargue, too.’

  ‘I’d better introduce myself,’ said the girl as she settled back. ‘I’m Holly Archer, not that I expect that means anything. You don’t look like Revue readers.’

  After they had exchanged names — and while Anne-Marie gave their passenger an appraising look through her oversized sunglasses — Peter said: ‘Tell you what, we can take you to Saintes Maries. We’ll stop at the next decent garage and arrange for your car to be looked after, and then you can pick it up on your way back.’

  ‘That’s great. I’m afraid it’ll mean you going back for my cases.’

  ‘That’s no problem.’

  When they resumed the journey they overtook several caravans being hauled by ramshack
le cars.

  ‘The Gypsies are still going south,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘There’s even one walking.’ She pointed to a woman trudging along the side of the road with a handcart, her long dress trailing in the dust. When Peter pulled into a garage and Anne-Marie explained to the proprietor in fast French about the Aston Martin, Holly disappeared to the lavatory.

  ‘No wonder she ran off the road,’ she said to Peter when the arrangements were concluded. ‘She’s as high as a kite.’

  ‘She certainly seems to be under strain,’ Peter agreed. ‘She’s talking a little too fast and a little too loud, but it might be the shock of the accident.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Anne-Marie retorted. ‘It’s booze. She probably is one of those alcoholic journalists.’

  ‘She has nice hair anyway,’ he said as Holly reappeared.

  ‘That’s the most unprofessional comment of your life,’ snorted Anne-Marie.

  They reached Arles in the rush hour and, after several wrong turnings, found the N570 which ran to Albaron. Dusk was beginning to settle gently over the empty landscape when Anne-Marie said: ‘Now we are on the edge of the Camargue.’

  Peter flexed his shoulders against fatigue as he drove.

  ‘We’ve made good time,’ he said. ‘Holly, we’ll take you to your hotel in the town, then Anne-Marie can show me the way to La Maison des Papillons.’

  * * *

  The air still held the chill of dawn as Peter and Anne-Marie crossed the courtyard to where the Citroen was parked. The abundance of semi-tropical plants surrounding the ochre-washed house, with its brick-coloured pantiles and blue shutters, brought it home vividly to Peter that he was at last in Provence. He was in a different world from that of the London Hospital for Diseases of the Nervous System with its ugh puzzles and disappointments. The winter of his discontent had been left behind.

  ‘Let’s drive into Saintes Maries de la Mer before there are too many people,’ Anne-Marie said as she settled beside him in the car. ‘There’s sure to be one place open where we can get coffee and croissants.’