by John King
Mr Jeffreys noticed a smudge of what appeared to be paint on the tip of his right shoe. Despite the importance of his task he could not stop himself bending down to inspect the blemish. Yes, it was some sort of paint. He rubbed at the mark and most of it came off, but some lingered. It seemed a mixture of paint and plaster. It was on his fingers now. There was a WC around the corner so he decided to stop briefly. He had time. Entered the room and wetted a paper towel, then scrubbed at the mark. Eventually it was clean. The smell of the WC struck him as he washed his hands. The soap was in a dispenser and he had to press a button. The thought of the germs present on this button disturbed Mr Jeffreys. He filled his palm with the gel, ensured his hands were clean and dried them with towels, ignoring the hot-air machine as he did not want to dirty himself switching it on. He imagined the room crawling with germs and disease. Why oh why could these people not live as he lived? The odour within the WC was foul and he dare not look inside the cubicle. It was a disgrace. It did not take a lot of effort to scrub a damned toilet once a day. He knew that he was allowing himself to become distracted. Breathed deeply and left the WC, continued on his way, shoes spotless once more. He soon felt at ease. Turning right past Pathology, then left, back in his initial rhythm. Time was on his side and he was confident. He would not have stopped otherwise.
The ward was still when Mr Jeffreys arrived. The gentle spin of a fan the only sound. He savoured the moment. The calm before the storm, except there would be no storm. Nothing so crass. A distant snore reached him as a man dreamt of beauty and innocence and no doubt a win on the National Lottery. He smiled at the thought. Wished the gambler well. The sound of the fan increased a little. He was inside the machine now. At its very heart. This appreciation lasted a few seconds, no more, and he moved forward to the relevant section, only feet away. He inspected the four sleeping men. Two had been given sleeping tablets and the third was heavily sedated. The fourth man was very sick and nearest the exit through which Mr Jeffreys had appeared. Each customer was considered in relation to those nearby, the health of neighbouring patients, whether they would be conscious or otherwise. The position of his client was also vital. This section at the back of the divided ward.
The world was at peace. The night nurse a friendly girl out of sight at the front of the ward. He had spoken to her on many occasions and they got on well. There was a mutual respect there that made him feel good inside. If she changed her routine she would wonder what he was doing here, yet he was nothing if not prepared. His clipboard at the ready, explanation honed. If you could not trust a colleague, a professional, then who could you trust? He was secure but far from complacent. She rarely moved from her desk, but there was always the possibility. He looked around the corner to check she was where she should be, could just make out one of the woman’s shoulders. The only real period of danger lasted a matter of seconds. As long as he was not seen with a syringe in his hand he was in the clear. The actual injection was a tense time, yet he was experienced. A quick and gentle operative.
Living in a civilised culture that had not yet embraced the ideal of truly free capitalism, Mr Jeffreys looked to the United States for some sort of guidance. He believed in private medicine as a matter of course, but accepted that a transfer from the old state system would take time. Misplaced idealism was a problem and tradition a heavy burden. The Americans were free from this sentimentalism and able to make brave decisions. Hard work was rewarded, laziness was not. Crime, meanwhile, was severely punished. A policy of zero tolerance had been adopted for the lawless element and he fully supported humane execution for the most depraved murderers and sexual molesters, carrying as it did a guarantee of dignity in death for even the cruellest of men. Hanging was savage, the electric chair barbaric, but death by lethal injection eased the conscience of all right-thinking men and women. It offered a compromise and some sort of consensus.
But he stopped himself. His own work could never be compared with that of the law-enforcement agencies. It was up to him to help the innocent rather than punish the wicked. He was operating in a completely different arena, ending lives that cried out to be aborted. He was an angel of mercy, easing the agony of old age and terminal disease. His patients were customers and he was providing a service. The state and the individual were in perfect harmony, although this service was kept under wraps. There was no violence involved, and no regret on the part of his clients. He was a carer dedicated to making the health service work for all concerned.
Mr Jeffreys glided over to Mr Webster. His muscles taut and mind keen as he pulled the curtain the few feet needed to mask them from the other patients in the section. Webster stirred, his face gaunt from the cancer and hair close-cropped behind an oxygen mask. On a superficial level he represented the regular flow of yobs brought into A&E, yet the haircut was due to his treatment. Despite the worthiness of the cause, hospital terminations such as this were dangerous affairs. Restraint and imagination were the keys to success. The state could not be expected to support Mr Jeffreys if he was exposed. He understood this well enough. For a few seconds he saw in Webster the thug in the YSL shirt, the smaller bulldog, the man who had attacked him in Soho many years before, a succession of minicab drivers and any number of hooligans with whom he had been forced to deal over the years. He saw the skeleton who had insulted him. Webster, though, was being assisted for other reasons, for the sickness that was slowly killing him through no fault of his own.
Mr Jeffreys took out his hypodermic and inserted the needle in his phial. Withdrew the plunger and filled the barrel. He lifted the man’s arm and found a vein. Fed him the cleansing fluid. Mr Jeffreys withdrew the needle and replaced his antique within the shammy. He did not bother binding it with the cord. He hurried the package into his pocket and relaxed. He was in a secure position now. The magic potion was flowing through Mr Webster’s veins with the heart assisting in its own demise. Soon the poor man would be at peace. He felt a very professional sense of achievement in with myriad other emotions. He was helping a fellow human being escape the misery of his predicament.
If challenged now, Mr Jeffreys would say that he had heard a patient cry out and rushed to his assistance. He had never been in this situation, but was confident he would not be revealed. It was ludicrous to have to be concerned with such matters, yet that was the way things stood at the moment. Webster’s eyes opened and Mr Jeffreys moved forward to comfort the dying man.
It took him several seconds to realise where he was and Mr Jeffreys was quick to reassure him that everything was all right. The expression on the patient’s face flickered for a few seconds, showing uncertainty, perhaps even fear. Mr Jeffreys leant forward and spoke softly into Webster’s ear, guiding him in the correct direction. A well-delivered message always found root, be the recipient conscious or otherwise. Even with a coma victim his words found a way in. At least he hoped so. He held Webster’s hand in his own. Talking him through the death experience.
As his clients gently passed away, Mr Jeffreys helped create the eternity into which the departing soul would rest. He believed that Man formed his own heaven or hell on Earth, and thus the afterlife could also be created. He merely offered a helping hand. Webster was struggling to sit up but was very weak. Mr Jeffreys stayed with him as he entered the eternal realm, tears in his eyes as he nursed this sad diseased man in his final seconds, talking softly, smelling the wax from his ear and fighting the foul odour, dedicated to his task. He knew his life was afflicted with pain and misery and felt as one with the dying man.
Webster’s heartbeat soon ceased and he was no more. Mr Jeffreys remained with the dead man he had helped for a short time, gently arranging his head on the pillow. The eyes were open and these he closed. He touched the forehead momentarily and prepared to leave. Death was as important as birth and he was privileged to be present. It was hard on Mr Jeffreys, a great strain that tugged all sorts of strings within his being, yet he knew that his work was worthwhile and he steeled himself against the sadness inv
olved. The decision had to be made and he had done so, then carried it out. He had no regrets. Webster was grateful for his assistance. He knew that for a fact.
He looked at the locker next to Webster’s bed and finally took a packet of mints from among the other debris. He popped these in his pocket, stood and moved around the bed, easing the curtain back to its previous position. He checked the shapes of the other patients and saw that none had stirred. He looked along the hall and made sure it was clear, moved quickly to the emergency exit through which he had entered and crossed a small square of brick and grass. Within a matter of seconds he was walking along the corridors he knew so well. He was safe now and decided to take a long route back to his office. The adrenalin was racing and he needed to exercise in order to calm himself. He knew this feeling would not pass quickly, but motion would help. While he could always present himself as fully relaxed, he was throbbing inside. The office was too small for him at this moment.
So Mr Jeffreys walked. He could do this for hours if he wanted, and go nowhere. As he strolled along he swung his arms back and forth and moved his neck. Finally he took the mints from his pocket and popped one in his mouth. They were coated with some sort of powder and tasted awful. It was a sorry memento but he would still add it to his collection. These objects were a whim, and the habit had started many years before with the fingernail of a young girl he had found in a shop doorway. Nobody knew the meaning of the objects he collected, and he was the only one who had ever seen them together. There were times when he wished he could share his secret. Tell someone about his good work, the suffering individuals he had helped liberate.
Although a slip towards sentimentalism, these objects had a practical purpose. They acted as reminders of the good he had done and spurred him on when his spirit sagged under the weight of responsibility. There was a feeling of failure inherent in the objects but he collected them nonetheless. He did not keep them in his apartment, however. He had invested in a warehouse conversion on the south side of the Thames, a disused candle factory with a view of the river, and this is where he stored his mementos. Gates and security guards protected the premises from the local population and he could almost see his apartment on the north bank from this conversion. It had now become quite a little museum, a gallery of sorts. He displayed these objects in glass cabinets out of respect for the departed souls.
It was a drab collection in as much as the articles themselves were mundane, but the fact that they marked each passing made them worthwhile. It was personal to the work he had undertaken rather than his clients. Pieces of jewellery. Small items of clothing. Toothbrushes. Glasses. Even a snippet of hair. They represented merciful acts, his own sacrifices. Sometimes it was difficult to find a token, hence the hair, but these things represented an outlet for his imaginative nature. The cleansing process itself was straightforward. An injection in the hospital. An injection, accident or act of suffocation within the home. But they were repetitive tasks and if he was to stay alert he had to be allowed to exercise his mind. The intelligent man needed stimulation.
Mr Jeffreys hated the taste of the mint in his mouth, wrapped it in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket until he could find a waste bin. This soon became a necessity. He removed the mint from his pocket and held it in his hand. He did not want the mess to drip and dirty his hypodermic. He loved the syringe. It held such power and was a quality instrument, fitting for such a profound act. He stopped and thought. There was a bin near to the X-ray department. He soon reached this and rid himself of the mint. He felt better now. Turned and passed the chapel. The door was open and on a crazy whim he stopped and peeped inside.
The chapel was empty, which was no surprise given the hour. During the day he often saw people here, sitting on plastic chairs with their heads in their hands, gaze lowered towards the carpet. Some sat staring blankly at the model of Christ nailed to his cross. The chapel was merely a room with strong lighting and twenty or so chairs. There was a small altar with the cross above. There were no oak pews. No atmosphere. The chapel resembled the cafeteria, a sterile, functional room. Of course, he was not complaining, merely observing. He was not about to recommend that the hospital waste funds redesigning the chapel. Those who sat here would not appreciate it being rebuilt.
Despite this, Mr Jeffreys went inside and sat down. The chair was so flimsy he thought it was about to buckle beneath his weight. It was not as if he was heavy either. He hated to think what happened when some of the fat men and women he saw strolling around the hospital stopped here for a rest. How they suffered, these ignorant fools, sitting in front of a Christ that was made of plastic and flaking around the calves. The thorns in the head were crudely painted, the blood streaming down the face more pink than red. It was stuck in blobs, watery elsewhere.
He stared into the eyes of the plastic doll and saw nothing but failure and acceptance. The altar had been built with the sort of cheap wood they sold in those terrible do-it-yourself stores. He hated the tackiness of the chapel. When he attended church, which was rarely, he walked to Westminster Abbey. The power of the place enthralled him. He visited the crypt and stood with the immortals of the British establishment. That was the worth of religion. The meaning of true power. When he walked out of Westminster Abbey he stopped and savoured Parliament, the root of the world’s democracies. He felt awe in such a setting, in the presence of greatness, but here, in this godforsaken town?
In their deepest despair men and women came and sat in this pathetic cupboard and hoped God would know they were here. But God did not even know this room existed. He was busy elsewhere. Jonathan Jeffreys shook his head and laughed at the slobs, the junkies, drunks, tarts, yobs, brats and witches who prayed for mercy in their trainers and T-shirts and grubby hundred-pound suits. They sat in dressing gowns crying like emotional fools. Sobbing and asking for forgiveness and another chance to make things right. As if anyone was listening.
The chirping of sparrows pulled Ruby into the TV room, the set pumping out silent images, volume turned down, so she switched it off and went to the window, looked out into the small square, a patch of grass with a concrete border. She’d put a bowl of water on the bench, two birds perched on the back, one below drinking, eyes fluid in tiny heads, feet dancing and voices singing, knowing there was no danger here, no cats lurking in the middle of the hospital. She’d been rushed off her feet but had remembered to put the water out, always did when it was hot, carrying on from the winter when she bought nuts at the pet shop, helping the birds through the cold months when food was scarce.
It had been one of those days, but she didn’t care, wasn’t even bothered when a consultant had a go at her for nothing, some of them bossing the nurses around like they were the only people who counted. Sally was always going on about the sexism and snobbery but Ruby let it wash over her, she’d be going home soon and was starving, gone down the shops in her dinner break, thinking about Charlie as she walked through the precinct, looking for a new top, wishing she earned more and wondering whether she should get a part-time job in a pub, but then they tried to get you working Friday and Saturday, and that meant she would miss the best nights of the week, what was the point of that, and she skipped back to Charlie Parish, like a dream come true, meeting the voice on the radio. The sparrows kept looking around, still alert, cautious, and it was just the way they lived, survival of the fittest, Ruby glad it didn’t work like that with humans.
—Who had a good bunk-up last night then? Dawn shouted, creeping up behind Ruby and grabbing her bum.
She blushed and the sparrows flew off. Dawn had been on at her all day, knew she got embarrassed easily, and Ruby shook her head and laughed, left the room, Dawn following her back down the hall, she loved exaggerating things, swearing, acting rude, a proper wind-up merchant.
—I can see it in your walk and in your eyes. Bet he’s got a big dick as well.
Ruby turned on to the ward, walking by Maureen, Dawn quiet, at least until they where past.
&nbs
p; —I saw him walking down the road with you this morning. He’s nice. Pass him my way when you’ve finished, will you? I could do with a stud instead of some of these five-second wonders I end up with.
Boxer was ahead of them and Ruby looked at Dawn, who shut up. He turned red at anything, and Dawn liked to tease him, but not at Ruby’s expense. She was only having a laugh, knew when to keep quiet.
—Hello, big boy, she said, patting Boxer’s arm.
His face went beetroot.
—I hope you’ve been behaving yourself. Haven’t been chasing the girls again.
Boxer was moving into a purple effect now, Ruby glad she could save him, pulling the man right as Dawn carried on straight ahead.
—She’s funny, Boxer said, thoughtfully.
Ruby could almost hear the tick of his brain, a concentrated look on his face, and Ruby felt sorry for him suddenly, knew Dawn wouldn’t be joking with Boxer if he wasn’t different, she’d keep her distance if it was one of the other porters, a male nurse or doctor, at least when she was at work, sober, and Ruby had seen Dawn pissed enough times. Poor old Boxer just needed to settle down with someone who’d love him for his good nature, childlike ways, but instead he woke up alone with the radio for company, maybe the TV, tuning into his morning hosts as they flashed false smiles. If he found someone he’d live happily ever after, just like the stories, and Ruby smartened up and knew he was fine, that she was the one who believed in fairy tales, sat watching musicals for hours. She didn’t mind living on her own, like the song said, you couldn’t hurry love, but it would be nice, in a way, to find someone special. Two better than one.
—She’s always acting sexy, pinching my bum. But she’s not my sort of girl. I can’t tell her because she’d be angry with me, or feel bad, think she’s ugly, but she’s not ugly, it’s just I don’t fancy her. Do you know what I mean? I wonder why she fancies me so much. Do you think it’s because of Christmas?