Fenton's winter

by Ken McClure

  The Medical Records Department was situated in the Administration Block and smelled of dust and old cardboard. It had a blue carpeted floor that deadened the footsteps of two young girls as they moved up and down narrow gangways between towering rows of patients' files. Cecil McClay looked over his glasses as Fenton entered through the swing doors and approached his desk. He continued writing and finished the sentence before saying, "Yes?"

  McClay managed to endow the single word with the suggestion that Fenton was intruding but Fenton had been prepared for it for he knew McClay of old. The man had been Medical Records Officer at the Princess Mary for over twenty years and, like many time servers, had assumed proprietorial rights over his department. To him medical records were an end in themselves. Outsiders wanting to see them were a nuisance to be discouraged wherever possible.

  Had Fenton been on a legitimate errand McClay's attitude might have been as a red rag to a bull but, as it was, he was sweetness and light. He apologised for the inconvenience and asked if he 'might possibly' take a look at the file on Timothy Watson.

  "Your authority?"

  "My own, I'm Fenton, Biochemistry. I have a report to add to the file. It must have been overlooked."

  "Leave it there. I'll see that it's entered." The eyes dropped down behind the glasses.

  "Actually…I really would like to make sure that this is the only one we overlooked…" Fenton hoped his smile looked more genuine than it felt.

  McClay considered for a moment then swung round in his chair and said to one of the girls, "Hilary! Watson, Tee, March three, Ward four."

  The girl handed the file to Fenton with a look that promised more than a cardboard file should he choose to follow it up. He smiled and took it to a vacant desk.

  The post mortem findings were brief; Timothy Watson had died from loss of blood. Cross reference was made to the haematology report which described high anti-coagulant activity in the sample and complete failure of the clotting mechanisms in the boy's blood. No mention was made anywhere of specimens having been taken and sent for bacterial or viral investigation. His idea was still valid. Everything was yet to play for.

  Fenton looked at the short hand on the back of the pathology report and found what specimens had been taken at autopsy and how they had been stored. Four ticks under 'F' were dismissed as being useless because samples fixed in formalin would have lost all biological activity. There were two ticks under 'FR' for freezer, one was serum and the other heart tissue, either of these would do for his purpose. He made a mental note of the reference numbers, closed the file and laid it gently on McClay's desk. "Thank you," he said. McClay grunted in response and did not look up.

  The question of how to get his hands on the post mortem samples occupied Fenton's mind for the remainder of the morning. He knew a few people in Pathology but not well enough for what he wanted. He would have to 'borrow' them on his own but how? Forced entry was out of the question. He was prepared to manipulate matters, use a little deception, generate 'misunderstandings', flirt around the edges of illegality but not to brazenly cross the line.

  The idea came to him as he washed up before going to lunch. The Pathology Department had a washroom too. If he could find some reason to go to Pathology at around five- thirty he could sneak in there and hide until everyone had left. Then he could find the specimens at his leisure and let himself out. The idea became the plan.

  At twenty minutes past five Fenton left the biochemistry department with his pulse rate rising for there now seemed to be a dozen reasons for not going ahead with the plan and more occurred to him with every step he took towards the pathology lab. He came to the double green doors and paused for a moment to steady himself. His mouth was as dry as the desert. Only a brief thought of Jenny made him push open the doors and walk through.

  The sickly sweet smell of formaldehyde engulfed him as he approached the reception desk and smiled at the girl technician who stood there. The girl smiled back and read his coat badge. "What can I do for you Mr Fenton?"

  Fenton held up the empty brown bottle that he had brought with him from biochemistry and said, "I've run out of this stuff and the stores closed at five. Could you possibly let me have some until the morning?"

  The girl took the reagent bottle from him and read the label. "Of course," she said and left him alone for a moment. Fenton looked anxiously over his shoulder to see the entrance to the male cloakroom. It would be immediately to his right as he left the reception area. The sound of a door opening made him spin round in time to see the consultant MacDougal leave his office and walk across the front of Reception. Fenton smiled, MacDougal ignored him.

  The technician returned with a full bottle of reagent and handed it to him with a smile. "There you go," she said.

  Fenton thanked her and promised that he would return a full one in the morning. He left the reception area and side-stepped smartly into the gents' cloakroom to find it empty. He breathed a sigh of relief, so far so good. He chose the end cubicle and sat down to wait with a glance at his watch; he did not lock the door, just pushed it almost shut, reasoning that anyone in doubt as to whether or not a cubicle was occupied would automatically use one of the other two. A locked door would be a sure sign of occupancy and might attract attention. If he was discovered he would simply flush the toilet and leave.

  For Fenton the next thirty minutes passed like years. The initial symphony of slamming locker doors and 'Good nights' gave way to increasingly intermittent footsteps and distant door closing. Just as he thought he might be alone at last the cubicle next to his became occupied for a full five minutes forcing him into raw-nerved silence with every intake of breath a challenge to self control. The occupant terminated his relief by pulling, what sounded to Fenton, like reams of paper from the holder. 'Ye gods!' he thought…'he's building a kite.'

  The toilet flushed and the door banged open. There was the sound of running taps then the outer door bounced on its brake. Fenton was alone again. He had prepared himself for a thirty minute wait after the last noise had died away. He checked his watch and re-read the writing on the wall.

  Fenton tip-toed out of the cloakroom and into the reception area to find it dark and silent. No light escaped from under any door; he was alone…Please God he was alone. The blood pounding in his ears told him that his nerves were already at fever pitch and he had not yet begun his search. He took a few deep breaths in a deliberate attempt to compose himself before following the signs to the post mortem suite. There was enough light coming from the street lights outside to show him the way, which was just as well for he had not thought to bring a torch.

  He pushed open the blue door and found it pitch black inside. The post mortem suite had no windows. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him before running the flat of his hand up and down the cold tiling until he had found the light switch. Three strip lights groaned into life.

  Fenton looked about him, his nose wrinkling at the heavy scented air freshener used to mask the lingering smells of death. The room was large, high and round. In the middle two stainless steel tables stood on their pedestals like traffic islands. They were free standing, all services, plumbing and hydraulic lines for the tilt mechanisms, having been run under the floor. Everything in the room was hard and smooth, predominantly stainless steel and tiling, nothing that would be harmed by constant sluicing.

  The room might have been mistaken for an operating theatre at first glance but the instruments on the wall gave it away, saws, hammers, drills, chisels, things more associated with carpentry or butchery. The spring balances and meat scales swung the analogy in favour of butchery. The precision of the paper thin scalpel blade took a back seat in this environment. Here the long, black, bone-handled knives on the wall plied their surrealist art on the cold tables.

  Three heavily insulated doors furnished with metal clamps advertised the body vaults. Fenton opened one, recoiling slightly as a waft of cold, damp air caressed his cheek. There were two occupants inside, hooded,
shrouded and identified by luggage labels round their toes. The small size of the bundles said that they were children. Fenton took one of the limp labels between thumb and forefinger and read it…Amanda Wright…age twelve. He closed the door.

  The large chest freezer looked as if might contain what he was looking for but he found the lid reluctant to rise. He had to thump the heels of his hands against the clasp before the ice around the rim cracked and allowed the lid to lift with a groan. The large eye sockets of an aborted foetus stared up at him through a plastic bag causing him to take in breath sharply. Half afraid of what he would find next he began brushing away ice from the tops of plastic containers, a hand, an ear…the misty outline of a child's leg presented itself through the plastic of its box. Fenton slammed the lid down on the hellish Meccano and rested his hands on it for a moment, breathing erratically. His impulse was to run, to get out of the place, out into the night where he could walk in the rain, smell the grass, let the wind free him from the cloying warmth of the path lab.

  His anxiety subsided. He could think again. Where would they keep small specimens? His attention came to rest on a double bank of steel handles on the wall; they were lettered in alphabetical order. He went over and pulled out 'A'. They were freezer files! Row upon row of little glass vials stored in numbered racks. He had found what he was looking for.

  Using the reference number from the medical records file on Timothy Watson he found the correct serum sample and removed the vial. He took it to the sink and held it under the tap until it had melted. Now then…a clean vial. Fenton searched through a series of drawers and was lucky at the fourth attempt, clean sterile vials. Now a pipette…again he found one quickly and transferred a small quantity of the serum from the original vial into a fresh one. He replaced the original and closed the file with a click. It was over. He had got it. The compressor on the freezer shuddered into life and his heart missed a beat.

  The thought that, should he drop dead from fright, he might well end up on one of the steel tables with his rib cage wrenched open and a hose sluicing out his chest cavity, put wings to Fenton's heels. He switched off the lights in the post mortem room and listened for a few moments before opening the door. The smell of the air freshener seemed stronger in the darkness. It threatened to choke him. The sounds were friendly enough, clicks from thermostats, hums from fridges, inanimate neutral sounds. He sidled out into the main lab.

  The short wait in darkness had accustomed his eyes to the gloom. Again he waited and listened before stepping out smartly into the corridor and containing his urge to run. He could not lock the door behind him for he had no key so some poor soul was going to get a rocket in the morning for having left it unlocked… C'est la vie.

  The old villa was in darkness when he reached it. He unlocked the front door and switched on the light in the hall, taking comfort from the friendly, familiar smells of the solvents used in biochemistry. He checked the duty roster to find out who was on call. It was Mary Tyler, no problem, no explanations would be necessary should she come in while he was still there. He took the serum sample from his pocket and fixed a self adhesive label to it adding a fictitious name, Mark Brown. He put it safely away in his own freezer and with that done he donned his leathers and left for home

  SEVEN

  When Fenton arrived home he found that a good night's sleep and a day on her own had done little to restore Jenny's spirits. Her smile of greeting lacked conviction and her lank hair and lack-lustre eyes spoke of the strain that she was under. He sensed that something else was wrong but did not enquire, feeling that she would tell him in her own time. Half way through their meal she said, "I phoned Grant today."

  Fenton went cold; he put down his knife and fork and said, "Oh."

  "He told me what happened."

  "Jenny, I'm sorry. I should never have gone there."

  Jenny was close to tears. She said softly, “It's all right. I know you were only trying to help. Grant knows that too, in fact, I think you managed to convince my own brother that I did not kill his son." There was bitterness in her voice before she covered her mouth with her handkerchief. Fenton got up and put his arms round her from behind. He put his cheek against her hair and rocked her gently from side to side.

  When Jenny had calmed down Fenton told her of his virus idea. It was a candle in her darkness. "Do you really think so?" she asked with more animation in her voice than had been present for some time. Something persuaded her to have second thoughts. She added hesitantly, “You're not just saying that are you?"

  Fenton was adamant that he was not and went on to give his reasons. Jenny found his enthusiasm infectious and, with very little prompting, was able to add substance to the foundations of his argument. Despite this, and although desperate to believe it, she still felt compelled to play Devil's advocate. "But there are no viruses that cause uncontrolled bleeding are there?" she asked.

  Fenton countered the doubt by saying, "There was no Legionnaires' disease either until a whole bunch of Americans dropped dead of it. Then people all over the world started recognising similarities to cases that they had been seeing for years and dismissing as 'viral infections' or pyrexias of unknown origin."

  Jenny accepted the argument and Fenton pressed home his case. "What we are seeing is very acute haemophilia. Before you say it, I know that haemophilia is a genetic disorder but I can see no reason why, given the right set of circumstances, a virus should not be able to simulate the condition if it attacks the right cells."

  Jenny was sold on the idea. She asked Fenton what he planned to do.

  "Get some material from one of the victims and find the virus," said Fenton.

  "But how?"

  "I've already got it." Fenton told Jenny his tale of derring-do and saw her mouth drop open. "But what if you had been caught?" she said.

  "I wasn't and I've got the sample."

  Fenton said what he planned to do next. He would send the sample off for analysis under cover of a fictitious patient's name. He would make a special request for animal inoculation and ask for blood samples from the test animals. When he had evidence of the infective agent he would present it to Tyson.

  "How long?" asked Jenny.

  "Five days."

  With hope restored to her Jenny's morale began to improve. She began to think of her return to work, of hearing the apologies, the assurances that, 'not for one moment had anyone really believed…'

  Fenton was pleased at the change in her, it was so good to see her smile again, but he also felt a burden grow on his shoulders. What if the tests should prove negative? How could he bring himself to tell her? He knew very well that the repair to Jenny's psyche was only in the nature of a temporary patch. If the patch were to fail the wound might well split open and that could be disastrous as he knew from experience. Life could so easily become a desert of depression, a limbo where time stood still. That must not happen to Jenny.

  "More rain," growled Fenton as he got up on Friday morning. He shivered involuntarily as he sat on the end of the bed then rubbed his arms vigorously to combat the chill of the bedroom.

  Jenny was not to be side-tracked with talk of the weather. She said, "You will get the report today."

  "Should do," said Fenton in what he hoped was a matter of fact voice. In truth he had thought about little else all night. His stomach was tied in knots at the very thought of it. Unwilling to look at Jenny in case she read his mind, he went to the window and drew the curtains back. "I have had it with 'Bonnie Scotland'," he announced, spitting out the words as he looked at the rain lashed roofs. "You have got to be a bit soft in the head to live here. Why don't we get married, pack up and get the hell out?" He turned to look at Jenny.

  "You will phone and tell me?" said Jenny, ignoring everything that he had said.

  "I'll phone. But whatever it says, nothing changes. I love you and you love me and, sooner or later, this will all be sorted out. OK?" Fenton's voice hardened on the 'OK' as he saw Jenny's eyes begin to drift
away.

  "All right," she said softly.

  Fenton was sitting at his desk when Liz Scott brought in the package. The yellow envelope on the outside said that it was the microbiology report; the box would contain the blood samples. He sat and stared at it for several minutes, anxious to know but afraid of what he might find. He brought out a paper knife and turned it over in his hand before committing it to the flap of the envelope and slitting it slowly and perfectly open.

  SPECIMEN REPORT: MARK BROWN

  BACTERIAL SCREEN: NEGATIVE

  VIRAL SCREEN: NEGATIVE

  BLOOD SAMPLES ENCLOSED AS REQUESTED

  The report threatened the same effect on Fenton as the yob's fist had when it had swung in to his stomach. The microbiology labs had found no evidence of any infecting agent. He felt completely drained.

  After a few minutes of deep depression Fenton saw an argument. The report was not conclusive. If there was a new bacterium or virus in the specimen then it might well require special culture conditions, in fact, it almost certainly would otherwise it would have been isolated and described before. The real answer would lie in the blood samples of animals inoculated with serum from Timothy Watson. He opened the box and his agony was complete. Both samples had clotted perfectly. There had been nothing in Timothy Watson's blood to infect the animals. He had been wrong…again.

  Fenton pondered the consequences. He had built up Jenny's hopes and now this. He could not have done a better job of pushing her towards a nervous breakdown if he had meant to. What a stupid…He crunched up the report in his fist and flung it across the room. Jenny would be waiting at home for his call, she would be pretending that she was reading or dusting or cleaning or listening to the radio but really she would just be waiting, waiting for the phone to ring.