The music started again - loud, tinny, interrupted by static; and I was glad we had positioned ourselves well away from the loudspeakers. The boys and girls continued to arrive; soon all the seats were filled, and the overflow stood about in groups, drinking and trying to converse above the din; a few of the braver couples ventured to dance, but were almost lost on the wide expanse of the floor. Gradually, the daylight faded; the red, blue and yellow spotlights reflected off the facets of the two rotating mirror balls, sweeping across the ceiling and upper walls in bright coloured arcs.
“One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock rock …”
The rock beat of Bill Haley and the Comets echoed through the hall - a bugle call to action: within minutes, the dance floor was full to overflowing, bodies hurling themselves into the modern jive; Jill and I found ourselves joining in with the rest.
“I’m gonna rock around the clock tonight/ gonna rock, rock, rock ’til broad daylight …”
The whole atmosphere was transformed: in place of the self-conscious diffident young men and women, was a throng of fanatical dervishes, gyrating ferociously, perspiring liberally from their exertions and the heat of their packed bodies ...
At length the music stopped. Slowly we came out of our trance; in dribs and drabs, the couples drifted back to their seats; by the time the music started again, my partner and I were the only ones still on the floor. The next dance was a waltz; we swayed to it gently, hardly moving our feet, cooling down in the breeze from the open windows, our limbs slowly recovering from their exertions.
She murmured something drowsily into my ear - but I didn’t catch what she had said and remained mute.
“You’re a lovely dancer,” she repeated, and I felt myself flushing with pleasure; her lips brushed my cheek; her breasts and thighs pressed against me; I felt weak. I was relieved when the music came to an end, and I could make my way off the floor - before my legs gave way completely! No one had taken our seats, and we returned to our half empty glasses. The beer was warm, but at least it was wet, and slaked our thirst.
Dances followed one another - quicksteps, foxtrots, slow waltzes, sambas, jives, cha-cha-chas, and even a tango ... We danced occasionally, but mostly we sat out and watched.
We discussed books: I had digressed from Sherlock Holmes to the Ian Fleming Bond novels, which had recently acquired cult status in the students’ hostel - and I had already devoured Casino Royale and From Russia with Love.
“What do you think of Richard Gordon’s Doctor in the House?”
“Wonderful! As good as the film …”
“But I found Doctor at Sea rather disappointing …”
I soon discovered that Jill now had altogether more serious tastes in writing. She had been reading George Orwell’s darkly futuristic 1984 and Animal Farm (an allegory of the Soviet Communist State); I listened patiently while she expounded on the author’s philosophy and literary style, before moving on to Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World …
I became aware of a figure towering over us, swaying on his feet, leering at Jill.
“Hello, Jilly … Looking as gorgeous as ever.” His words were slightly slurred.
“Edwin, this is Paddy … in my year at Tommy’s.”
But Paddy seemed to ignore me, and continued to smile soppily at Jill.
“How about a dance?”
I felt a pang of jealousy; in the background lurked dismay, anxiety, fear (and shadowy memories of my nemesis - Rory Harrison); however, all proved groundless:
“I’m afraid I can’t, Paddy … Hurt my ankle!”
“Well, let me examine it then, Jilly. Hell, I’m a Clinical Student now.”
“No need. Edwin will look at it for me, later.”
Still grinning inanely, and grumbling under his breath, he walked unsteadily away; Jill squeezed my hand encouragingly, leaned towards me, and smiled into my eyes.
“Don’t worry. He’s a sweety really …”
And reading my mind yet again (or maybe she’d noticed the earlier change in my expression): “Anyway, it’s you I love.”
The whole world has forgotten me, and that is good, oh yes. The newspapers have ceased their drivelling comments, ceased speculating about my persona and my motives. They have, at last, found new topics to sell their filthy wares.
The East End of London has grown quiet, almost peaceful, and the population has relaxed, is less alert, less on its guard. In the meantime, I remain busy. I continue to quarter the streets of London. I continue to scheme and plan in my lair. The Whitechapel Slasher shall have his revenge, Edwin, oh dear me yes. But the time is not yet ripe. I must remain patient, I must smile at my companions, so that nobody suspects. However, make no mistake; when I am ready, I shall strike, like a king cobra. Whitechapel will be scorched by the fury of my wrath. Then you will see, Edwin Scott, you and all your friends.
Friday, 13th July: It was high noon, the sun directly overhead; I kept to the few patches of shade, as I wandered along the Whitechapel Road, gazing idly into the shop windows. Again I felt a prickling of the skin at the back of my neck and between the shoulder-blades, as if I were being watched. I sweltered in my jacket, and regretted the impulse to go shopping after lunch.
As I approached the traffic lights, I came upon a small crowd gathered around a dark shape on the pavement, half in and half out of the shade; a man (incongruous in a suit) knelt beside it; rhythmically and regularly, he was compressing the chest of the prone figure, then raising its bent elbows in what I recognised as the Holger-Neilson manoeuvre; the rest stood irresolutely by, fascinated by the spectacle, but unsure how to help: the man on the ground had clearly collapsed!
Purposefully, I made my way forward: “It’s alright, everybody, I’m a medical student!”
“Well … I’m a doctor. But you can take over, while I phone for an ambulance. After that, I must get back to start my surgery.”
And he was gone, leaving me wishing I’d watched a bit longer, before declaring myself. Very inexpertly - trying to copy the doctor’s actions - I continued the resuscitation, pressing over the patient’s shoulder-blades, and elevating his arms; gradually, as I gained confidence, I became more proficient.
“What happened?” I asked the group at large.
A dowdy elderly woman responded:
“ ’E seemed to go very pale, stopped, swayed … an’ then fell dahn.”
I checked the patient’s pulse - nothing; I went through the motions of clearing the airway: inserting two fingers into the patient’s mouth to remove any obstruction, but taking care not to be bitten; I resumed my artificial respiration, hoping I was performing it correctly.
“Any signs of the ambulance, yet?”
But I was speaking to myself - everyone else had drifted off …
Though the sun was hidden behind a cloud, I was hot and sweaty, and my muscles ached; I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder, and a hoarse voice said softly:
“Okay - we’ll take over now.”
I sighed with gratitude and relief, as the two uniformed St John’s ambulance men placed their stretcher next to the recumbent figure; they checked his vital signs, squeezed his chest quickly a few times, and then rolled him expertly onto the stretcher; they lifted him into the back of the ambulance, motioning me to follow.
By the time I entered, the patient had been strapped onto a trolley, and was lying on his side in the recovery position; a mask covered his face, and he was attached to an oxygen cylinder; the driver was already in his seat, while the other ambulance attendant had climbed in behind me, slammed the rear doors, and was again ministering to the patient.
“He don’t look too good … What’s the story?”
Briefly, I told him all I knew. By the time I had finished, the ambulance - bell clanging furiously - had pulled up outside the receiving room entrance to the London Hospital; the patient (still connected to the oxygen cylinder) was wheeled inside, and into a curtained cubicle. The casualty officer beckoned me into the cubicle, where one amb
ulance man was continuing to squeeze the oxygen bag; the other gave him a succinct report, while the young doctor felt the patient’s neck for his carotid pulse, and listened to the chest through a stethoscope.
Finally: “I think you can stop now, thank you.” And they left.
He turned to me: “You’re one of our medical students, aren’t you? You’ve done well ...”
I felt a thrill of pride and exhilaration.
“…unfortunately, to no avail.”
The patient’s face had turned a mottled grey. The doctor was checking his eyes with an ophthalmoscope:
“Have a look at this …”
I gazed through the lense of the ophthalmoscope: to my surprise, I could see the blood vessels of the retina quite clearly.
“Can you see the segmentation of the columns of blood in the veins? This is called ‘cattle-trucking’. It signifies that the heart has stopped, that there is no longer any circulation of the blood, and that, therefore, the patient is dead. I have to record him as D.O.A. - dead on arrival … Friday the thirteenth has not been an auspicious day for him!”
In my room at the students’ hostel, I was listening to my record-player: it was after midnight, and I had turned the volume down to a murmur; yet I could hear every note in the clear night air; the window was closed, but the curtains were drawn back to show a hunter’s moon and bright stars against the deep velvety blue of the sky.
I had bought the ten-inch 78 r.p.m. record from a stall in Petticoat Lane for nine pence; now I again felt the goose flesh creep over the back of my neck and trunk, as the gravelly voice of Hoagy Carmichael embarked on the haunting Stardust Melody:
“I used to spend the lonely nights and lonely days, dreaming of a song …”
I relived the events of the day - my first death (I didn’t count the anatomy cadavers)! Could I have saved him? What was the cause of death? I remembered the scary sensation of being watched … And then I thought of Jill - wonderful Jill - and how, once, I had almost lost her forever!
“A melody haunts my memory, and I am once again with you …”
Chapter Eighteen - October, 1957
Tuesday, 2nd October: It was hot under the blazing spotlight - as though I were on stage again: I was now a Surgical Dresser. Supervised by Sister, I had spent what seemed like hours “scrubbing up” in the big sink, in the far corner of the operating theatre; the water taps had long horizontal handles, so that I could turn them on and off with my elbows, to avoid contaminating my hands. I wore theatre baggy trousers, top, mask and cap. I had been helped into my gown by a nurse, who had tied me up at the back; next, she had shaken talcum powder over my hands, before offering me my gloves. My rubber boots were far too large for me, so that I almost fell out of them with each step I took across the theatre floor.
Now I stood at the operating table; I stared at the abdomen, painted with iodine and draped in towels, waiting for the contents to be displayed. The surgeon was the senior consultant, Mr Treves-Greene, tall, angular, mysterious in his surgical garb and mask; assisting him, also scrubbed, were the senior surgical registrar, the theatre sister and I.
The surgeon worked rapidly and dextrously, with scalpel and forceps (“knife and fork”), tying the small blood vessels as he incised successive layers of the abdominal wall.
“Give the Dresser a stool to stand on, Sister.”
“Sir, I’m already standing on a stool …”
“Now give him a retractor; and shine the light into this wound, so that I can see what I’m doing!”
He pulled back the omentum, which covered everything like a cloak; and suddenly the abdominal contents sprang into focus - just like the pictures in the text-books: floppy russet-coloured liver, pale pink intestines with their prominent blood vessels; using a pair of forceps as a pointer, Mr Treves-Greene demonstrated the anatomy to me (and to the rest of the students, watching from the gallery above).
Casually, he turned to the anaesthetist, sitting idly at the patient’s head.
“Looks a bit blue in here; what’s he like your end, Leonard?”
There was a flurry of activity from under the green surgical towels, covering the patient’s head, and then:
“Thank you, that looks better … Now,” (again facing the students in the gallery) “this mass, here, attached to the ascending colon, is the cancer. I am going to dissect it off the surrounding structures - and then we’ll see if I can remove it … Spencer-Wells, please, Sister; and tie this bleeder, Mr Barnstable.”
The next twenty minutes passed slowly, while he meticulously dissected the tumour off the adjacent organs and the peritoneum lining the abdominal wall; and while he found and exposed the blood vessels supplying the growth.
During this period of concentrated activity, I fell into a reverie: subconsciously, I began whistling my favourite fragment from Grieg’s Piano Concerto.
“What’s that whistling noise, Leonard? One of your machines malfunctioning?”
He stopped operating, and looked pointedly towards the anaesthetist; there was more movement from the direction of the patient’s head. Then:
“Everything here is working fine … Can’t hear any whistling!”
I had stopped instantly; fortunately, my surgical mask had hidden both my musical endeavours and the resulting blushes. My secret remained intact.
The operation resumed …
All of a sudden, the tempo changed: the operating field filled with blood - a vessel had been severed!
“Swab, Sister.” The voice remained quiet, but with a new authority and urgency.
Several swabs were used together to apply pressure … until the bleeding was controlled.
“Let’s have some blood, please, Leonard …” (in a conversational tone).
The blood transfusion was started.
“Now, sucker, please, Sister …”
The blood cleared fom the operating field; he gently removed the blood-soaked swabs, and arterial blood could be seen spurting from quite a small tumour vessel.
“Ah, there you are, me beauty. Clip her off, Mr Barnstable!”
The artery was clipped deftly with a pair of Spencer-Wells forceps, and then tied with a catgut ligature; some ascending colon and some thickened lymph nodes were resected with the tumour.
“Put it in a pot, and send it down to Professor Hunter in Pathology, for staging … mumble, mumble … check that we have removed it completely.”
A colostomy was fashioned, by drawing the proximal colon through a new incision in the abdominal wall, and the rest of the colon was closed in layers.
“I replace the omentum to seal off any bleeding and prevent leakage of the intestinal contents. Sister, please check swabs and instruments.” (Turning to the gallery, again: “We don’t want to leave anything behind in the abdomen …”)
“All accounted for, Sir.”
“Very well … I’m off for some tea and biscuits, before the next case. You close up, Barnstable.”
He peeled his gloves off, inside out, and threw the resulting ball accurately into the scrubbing-up sink; Sister’s eyes flashed momentarily behind her mask, but she said nothing; Mr Treves-Greene walked through the swing doors, in the direction of the surgeon’s room.
Mr Barnstable, the senior registrar, deftly sewed up the abdominal wall in layers. I was allowed to insert the final skin stitch.
Friday 5th October: We had all bolted down our lunch, and now waited somewhat impatiently, but with heightened anticipation, for our first post-mortem. The basement chamber in the Department of Morbid Anatomy was lit artificially; however, two small windows high on one wall gave an additional small glow of daylight; from the centre of the ceiling hung an operating light, already switched on; the walls were tiled white, the floor was stone; drainage channels - to sluice away the blood - led from the centre of the room into drain-holes at the edges; in one corner there were two large porcelain “kitchen” sinks; glass specimen jars stood on the top of a cupboard against one wall, ready for use; the centre
of the room was ominously empty. The smell which permeated the place was vaguely familiar - a cross between the anatomy dissecting room and the operating theatre.
About twenty students stood on one side of the room, clad in off-white gowns.
There was a squeaking sound from outside, and all conversation ceased: the double doors on the other side of the room burst open - and a metal trolley appeared, with a naked corpse supine on it; wheeling it was a small hunch-backed figure in a stained gown and operating cap; he wore rubber gloves, tall rubber boots and a rubber apron much too large for him. Ignoring the assembled students, he commenced work immediately: with a scalpel, he peeled back the patient’s scalp; using an electric saw he sliced through the skull, lifting the top off like a cap, to reveal the meninges of the brain; next, he cut through the rib-cage, so that the front could be removed later in a block.
At one o’clock precisely, a small dapper man entered - a Peter Pan with smooth cherubic face but soft snow-white hair - the professor of pathology himself.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, I’m Professor Hunter. Welcome to Morbid Anatomy.”
He beamed encouragingly at us. Like his pathology technician, he wore gloves, boots and rubber apron; however his head was bare, and his gown was spotless.
“We’ll start with a riddle: ‘What’s the difference between a Physician, a Surgeon, and a Pathologist?’ Well, a Physician knows everything and does nothing; a Surgeon knows nothing and does everything; and a Pathologist knows everything and does everything - but too late!”
He chuckled to himself, and there were a few appreciative sniggers from the students. At that moment, the doors behind us swung open, and Sir Henry Wilmshurst entered - with his retinue of senior registrar, registrar and house physician. We made way for them, and they took their place by the trolley on the opposite side from Professor Hunter. The two eminent men nodded briefly to each other.
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 14