by AB Morgan
‘Call an ambulance! Dr Sharman is having a fit.’
As the words were coming out of Charlotte’s mouth, I headed into the meeting room to be greeted by the unexpected sight of three junior doctors looking at each other, then at Dr Sharman who was slumped in his chair with his head tilted to one side, muttering that he was having a stroke.
It was farcical. We had to call an ambulance even though A&E was within walking distance. None of the doctors wanted to take responsibility for transferring Dr Sharman in a wheelchair and phoning A&E to advise them of the situation, so Charlotte phoned for an ambulance.
I took Dr Sharman’s pulse, and spoke reassuringly to him, for want of an activity that looked as if I was concerned for the man’s welfare, as a proper nurse would do, and because none of the doctors made any effort to examine the stricken consultant in front of them.
Feelings of sympathy were absent. I merely went through the pretence of nursing actions. I remember distinctly trying not to smile when a hilarious cartoon popped into my mind. In my marvellous imagination, I saw that Dr Sharman’s head had become too big, and was so heavy that his neck had collapsed under the strain. The humongous head had wobbled from the vertical, and eventually come to rest on his left shoulder.
Ward round was abandoned.
Despite the turmoil, Charlotte and I maintained the integrity of the ward safety and its functions, by carrying on as if nothing had happened, and once Dr Sharman was wheeled to A&E by a couple of bemused paramedics, we ensured that the lunch service went as planned.
The post-lunch medication administration was next on the list of tasks, which I undertook out of concern for Charlotte. She appeared to be exhibiting signs of nervous exhaustion.
I also phoned Gordon Bygraves to tell him of the events, and in doing so caused him to crumble under the weight of the responsibility I had given him. He would take steps to contact family members, he assured me. Did Dr Sharman have any family? I wondered.
Charlotte and I made valiant efforts to sustain harmonious order on the ward as well as our own dignity. We made it through to the usual shift handover meeting before we had time for a proper debrief about the events of the morning. It was incongruous to see, but both of us were smiling as we sat down to break the news to the ward team.
Emma arrived bright and fresh and ready for the late shift, but once she had absorbed the details of the morning’s dramas, she was unsurprisingly unsympathetic. Although she verged on the inappropriate at times, I was past caring what she said.
‘It couldn’t have happened to a nicer bastard.’
The response from the whole nursing team at that meeting was irreverent, in true mental health nurse style and tradition.
‘You have to be careful what you wish for … and I don’t think that was the kind of stroke he dreams about.’
‘Fat-headed man anyway.’
‘Pride comes before a stroke.’
‘It’s what happens when you tell lies to newspapers …’
Sadly and predictably, there was not a lot of concern shown by the good people of Pargiter Ward that day. There was instead, a collective sigh of relief that Dr Giles Sharman, bully and tyrant, had left the building.
36
Who Did What?
I was reliably informed, by my friend and colleague, Sharon, staff nurse in A&E, that Dr Sharman had become the centre of a small controversy on his arrival within the general hospital building. There had been a difference of opinion amongst the A&E medical team as to what he was presenting with. One Smart Alec accused him of taking his own medication.
‘It looks remarkably like a dystonic reaction to me,’ he had said, apparently.
Sharon’s colleagues could only agree that it was ‘a dystonia of some sort,’ but as they were debating the likelihood of whether it was a stroke, and deciding that it was not; Dr Sharman had a heart attack. He ended up in intensive care in the bed adjacent to Rodney Wells.
Rodney died that night.
Days went by without interesting news filtering through to the ward about Dr Sharman’s condition. However, by the end of the week, a solemn Gordon Bygraves furnished us with an update. He announced that while Dr Sharman had responded well to treatment, his full recovery was by no means certain, and there was to be an investigation by the police into a number of matters. Gordon took a deep breath as he asked the staff to keep this information confidential.
‘Evidence has come to light that Dr Sharman may have been poisoned.’
Leading up to Gordon’s statement, my heart had been in my mouth. I had assumed that the announcement was going to be about Rodney Wells, who we knew had died, but most of the staff team were unaware of his sister’s accusations aimed at Dr Sharman. The speed at which inside information is shared in a hospital is usually supersonic, so I then panicked that the truth about Mark El Amin’s escape had come to light. But no, it was about the man that we despised. The news was good.
‘How do we know he was poisoned?’ Bob asked, ever the sensible one.
‘A person or persons unknown sent him a note to inform him,’ Gordon replied before he rapidly put his hand in the air as if directing traffic, and asked for no more questions. He had remembered, a little late in proceedings, that the police had asked him to avoid giving details to anyone who might potentially be implicated. As usual, Gordon had not thought through the consequences of his actions. Idiot. Every member of staff and every patient past and present would be a suspect. There had not been so much excitement since we accidentally admitted a member of her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Services, at least that is what he told us.
Everyone had a theory or named a prime suspect in the poisoning of Dr Giles Sharman, and the excitement was unbearable as we waited for more news. We put in special requests to colleagues in the general hospital to gather information for us about police activity, and there was plenty to report. Our sources reliably informed us that police had visited the cardiology department several times in the last day or so.
Dr Sharman had produced the note declaring that he had been poisoned with Droperidol. Droperidol had been identified as the possible cause of the cardiac arrest, as well as the other collapse and muscle spasms. However there was no conclusive evidence of Droperidol being found in his blood when they tested for it, several days after his admission. Most interestingly, according to reports, the police had been seen talking to Dr Sharman at his bedside to inform him that he was being charged with something … but none of the general hospital nursing spies knew what he had been charged with. None of us on Pargiter Ward could imagine what that would be either.
The police came to the hospital on the Friday, and they spoke to those of us who were present on the Monday when Dr Sharman was taken ill. We were called in to work, if not already on duty, and I was timetabled to speak to police at four o‘clock, giving me a whole day’s worth of worry.
I was shaking in my sensible shoes, waiting to be called in to help with enquiries. Directed to wait outside a consultation room on the ground floor, I sat alone on one of a long line of chairs, gently sweating. Why were hospitals always so hot and stuffy? I could hear the police talking from beyond a closed door in front of me. Now and again, I heard Bob’s voice as he answered questions. The police couldn’t possibly have realised that the door was paper-thin, which meant that I was party to confidential discussions.
‘With respect, nobody actually liked the man. He was a bully,’ I heard Bob say.
‘Your colleague, Monica Morris, how would you describe her?’ a female voice asked.
‘Monica? She’s solid. By the book. If I was admitted, I’d want her as my named nurse.’
Despite my nerves, I was chuffed to bits to hear Bob say that about me. It gave me much needed confidence.
Finally he emerged unflustered, producing a comforting wink at me as he closed the door behind him. Dependable Bob had a Teflon coating. Nothing seemed to penetrate his calm and tough exterior.
While I awaited my inevitable cal
l to enter, I could still hear the discussions from within. It seemed that the police had concluded that ‘any evidence which could prove a poisoning with prescribed drugs, is probably long gone,’ and they wondered ‘was the note a weird hoax by a deranged patient?’ They debated the possibilities for a while and mumbled on about motives, means, and methods. ‘Possibly. If there actually was a poisoning, the prime suspect is Dr Siddiqui, although let’s see how Nurse Morris shapes up.’
It was my turn. After gentle opening queries, the more probing questions came my way.
‘Were you the only nurse to hold the keys to the drug trolley that day?’ I was asked.
The detectives sat opposite me. There was one fragrant female who should have been on the perfume counter at Debenhams, accompanied by her grey middle-aged male partner who was destined to burst out of his shabby suit, imminently. I was unsettled by how disinterested they both seemed.
‘I doubt it. We quite often need to pass the keys to each other during a shift, and that day I gave them briefly to Dr Siddiqui, as well as to Charlotte Quinn.’
‘Ah yes. They’ve both confirmed that with us,’ said the Debenhams Detective. Her partner asked about the drugs trolley security and then predictably asked if anyone that I knew of would want to harm Dr Sharman.
‘Oh dear … erm, I can think of quite a few people who dislike the man intensely. I’m not sure anyone would go so far as to poison him though.’ Neither detective seemed to have picked up on my trembling hands and quavering voice. I couldn’t help it. I was so nervous.
‘Dr Sharman, what was he like to work with? A fair-minded sort of chap, would you say?’
I struggled to answer and barely managed an intelligible reply.
‘Let’s put that another way; have you ever had cause to disagree with Dr Sharman recently perhaps?’
I couldn’t lie. ‘Yes. I had a difficult time accepting his clinical decisions sometimes.’
‘Where would you usually document these objections? In the patient notes?’
Oh God, where was this going?
‘Yes.’
In front of them I spied copies of nursing notes, off-duty records, pharmacy orders, letters, and photographs of the ward. These were laid out plain for me to see, shuffled and referred to. I couldn’t miss them.
‘You were having a difficult time leading up to Dr Sharman’s collapse.’ A statement. Not a question.
‘Was I? I don’t think so …’
‘We have a letter here indicating that you had inadvertently misinformed a patient about what Section they were on. Were you reprimanded for this?’
‘Yes, but it was not my error. Dr Sharman had … confused me.’
‘Bad week for you, wasn’t it? Didn’t you lose a patient in your charge a matter of days after that? The same patient in fact.’ Debenhams Detective leant forward over the desk.
Oh shit! Here we go. ‘Oh yes. I was escorting him for a scan.’
‘Are you in the habit of mislaying your patients?’ With a hint of the offensive, Debenhams woman caught me with a sneaky jab at my reputation.
‘No. I’ve never had anyone abscond on my watch, until then.’ I wanted her to know that a lack of make up was no indication of poor professional standards.
‘So, what was it this time that allowed such an unusual lapse? I only ask because, by all accounts, your colleagues see you as dependable and thorough. Not someone who would be prone to inattention shall we say?’ She was incisive in her approach and hurtful. I had been wrong. She was over-qualified for Debenhams. Her make up masked her intelligence.
‘I feel ashamed to say that I slipped up. Birthday cards in the WRVS shop distracted me. I let the patient buy a newspaper. He hadn’t been out of the ward doors for over a week, so I felt sorry for him.’
What a ridiculously banal excuse, which made me represent myself as a thoughtless imbecile! Idiot Monica.
‘Whose birthday was it?'
‘What? Oh, I can’t remember exactly.’ She had me. I looked and sounded guilty. I assumed that the truth had been revealed. I was going to be charged with abetting a Sectioned patient to abscond. I became cold and clammy with fear, but the two detectives only nodded and changed the subject. Having revealed me as a liar, they moved smartly back to the day of Dr Sharman’s collapse.
‘And you prepared the teas and coffees that day?’ they probed.
‘Yes.’
‘Who would usually have access to the pots of tea and coffee?’
‘They’re kept in a locked cupboard and only the staff have access.’ Is that what they meant?
‘And who are the drinks served to?’
‘All the doctors usually, the staff nurse in the ward round and community staff sometimes. Anyone who’s there I suppose, apart from patients and relatives.’
‘Right, so anyone can access the contents of these coffee and teapots? Is that the usual case?’
‘Yes.’
The two detectives leafed through more papers before scribbling down a word or two on a pad. Ending the interview, they thanked me for my valuable contribution to their enquiries, and I slid mercifully from my chair. Enough sweat had pooled in the small of my back to make an embarrassing squelch as I did so.
I returned to the ward none the wiser, predicting that there would be a memorable Colombo moment when the guilty person was revealed, but it never happened.
Welsh Phil was watching these various occurrences with a great deal of interest. He had hypothesised that Mark El Amin must be the prime suspect, because Saturday was the next day, and the poisoning was bound to be the story that Phil was supposed to read in the Saturday edition of the Daily Albion. Phil knew his theory had a number of gaping holes in it. Mark had left on the Friday before the poisoning, and although he would have had a fine motive for poisoning a consultant psychiatrist, he did not have the means.
Vance had decided that it was Dr Siddiqui who was the poisoner. He had motive and means, and had accessed the drugs trolley on that day. Vance kept quiet to the police about his suspicions, so did Welsh Phil.
The possibilities were endless, and not taken at all seriously amongst the staff in the hospital who had a book running, taking bets on ‘whodunit’.
As no one was ever charged or even identified, the proceeds went to Children in Need.
37
What the Papers Said
On Saturday morning, I was on the early shift. I stopped at the newsagents as usual to collect newspapers and magazines for the ward. The newsagent was bursting to talk to me.
‘Strike a light! I always wondered what went on behind those doors,’ he announced. ‘They‘ll be closing you down after this little lot.’
He realised by my blank expression that I was clueless as to what he was referring to, so he flashed me the headline in the Saturday Albion.
‘Is he Insane? Psychiatrist Charged with Fraud and Manslaughter had False Qualifications.’
Alongside this were columns and columns of writing, with subheadings and quotes, and a picture of Dr Giles Sharman, grinning charmingly at the camera. I was so shocked that I scooped up the pile of papers only saying a mumbled ‘thanks’ as I left, and headed across to the hospital.
It was only six-thirty am when I rushed up to the ward, where Welsh Phil greeted me. I had promised faithfully to get him his own copy of the Saturday Albion, and he had given me the money up front.
I handed it over, with trepidation. Predictably, Phil let out a stream of swear words, which sounded fabulously musical in a Welsh accent. We both sat together over a cup of tea, and trawled through every column and every sentence. The larger article was to be found in the centre of the paper, and even before reading the content, we gave each other a sequence of stunned looks.
The articles had been written by a man called Mark Randall.
‘Bloody hell Phil, Mark is a journalist.’ All at once I was overwhelmed by the implications of this astounding fact.
Our undercover reporter was asked to form part o
f a national research experiment. What he found within the grey imposing walls of Hollberry Hospital Psychiatric Unit is so shocking that The Albion Newspaper Group is calling for a public enquiry.
‘Christ,’ Phil said, immediately apologising for blaspheming.
Our reporter managed to gain admission as a patient under the name of Mark El Amin. Phil and I knew the details of Mark El Amin’s admission experiences at first hand.
The way Mark had written about them in the article for the paper was honest and frank, and there could be no accusations of poetic licence or exaggeration, yet it made difficult reading. He had been complimentary about the nursing staff, and most admirably he had been incredibly thoughtful about his reporting when it came to describing other patients. Welsh Phil became slightly tearful and reached for my hand as we continued to read together.
Down the corridor, Margaret was reading the article out loud to everyone who gathered around her in the large dayroom. It was an electrifying atmosphere that morning.
One revelation described in the article was that Dr Sharman had been charged with forgery regarding the Section papers, which related to Mark’s detention under The Mental Health Act. There were not too many details on this matter, possibly to avoid compromising an investigation by police, I assumed. Underneath that section there appeared a photo of the plaque on Dr Sharman’s office door, and a paragraph explaining that the letters after his name were not necessarily factually accurate, neither were one or two of his qualifications. Most shamefully and ‘In a shock exposé!’ it was reported that Dr Giles Sharman had previously been struck off as a doctor.
‘How the hell is that possible?’ I asked aloud.
Welsh Phil couldn’t answer that question, but he was delighted to read that the scandal at Farley Hill Hospital had been an outrageous cover-up of patient harm, and abuse. ‘I knew I was on to something. I’m not as mad as they think I am!’ he said with an emotion-laden laugh. We both sat, with our chins almost touching the table, reading the newspaper. It was hard to comprehend how a doctor without the qualifications he purported to have acquired, and who had already been struck off, could be working in our unit, and on our ward.