Blood Med

by Jason Webster

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We’ve got it sorted.’

  There was only one flight of stairs to carry him down. Cámara dressed Hilario as best he could, and wrapped a blanket around him. Then as quickly and as smoothly as possible, they carried him down and into the back of the car. The engine was still running. Cámara got into the driving seat.

  ‘Come on,’ he cried. They set off before Alicia could close the door.

  It was late and the streets were empty. Alicia sat in the back, holding Hilario’s hand and murmuring to him gently. Cámara jumped the traffic lights, driving quickly but smoothly – the last thing his grandfather needed was to be thrown around by sharp cornering and heavy braking.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ he called to Alicia as they hit a patch of straight road.

  ‘The same,’ she replied. The tone of her voice said everything.

  The street lights flashed overhead in a steady, bloodless pulse.

  The new hospital was bigger, cleaner, better equipped and further away than its predecessor. The streets turned into avenues and the avenues into boulevards as they moved away from the centre and progressed outwards to the far edge of the city. Alicia’s car was stiff and middle-aged. When, eventually, they arrived, they had to circle around the vast white complex before finding the right bit: some genius had decided to build the emergency ward at the back.

  An orderly tried to stop them parking in the covered bay outside.

  ‘Not here. This is only for ambulances.’

  ‘Find a stretcher,’ Cámara said, getting out of the car. ‘This man is having a stroke.’

  The orderly turned on his heel without a word and went inside. If he was not back within half a minute Cámara would commandeer a stretcher from somewhere himself. He peered into the back of the car. Alicia’s face was lined and strained. Hilario looked pale, the expression in his eyes becoming gradually more vacant.

  Cámara ran inside. Large transparent bags filled with rubbish were lined up against the wall and he almost fell over them as he looked for the orderly. There was no sign of him. The reception area was full: two rows of red plastic seats were crammed; at least four people were lying on the floor, catching some sleep; a couple of babies were screaming in unison in a corner; a large, elderly woman doubled up as she struggled with a relentless hacking cough. A queue of six or seven others was grouped around the reception desk, where a miserable-looking nurse was taking her time dealing with each new patient.

  Cámara ran over, jumped to the head of the queue and started speaking over the voices of the others already there.

  ‘My grandfather. Outside. Having a stroke.’

  The nurse carried on as though he did not exist, tapping at the computer and glancing up occasionally at the person she was attending to.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Cámara cried. ‘We need a stretcher now. The man’s in a serious condition.’

  He banged his fist on the counter. She looked at him.

  ‘Do that again and I’ll call security.’

  He had her attention at last.

  ‘The person outside is very important,’ Cámara said. It was a common trick, which usually got sleepy civil servants to click into action for fear of ‘consequences’ otherwise. The nurse finished dealing with the person at the head of the queue before answering.

  ‘Important? Important?’ she said. ‘You’re trying to tell me he’s more important than anyone else here? If he’s that special why don’t you take him to a private hospital. If not, you can get to the back of the line and wait your turn.’

  Cámara’s head began to spin.

  ‘He’s having a stroke!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. The nurse looked at him sourly, her eyelids heavy with fatigue. Then she pressed a button on her desk and indicated for Cámara to stand to one side.

  ‘Next,’ she called.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Cámara asked. The person behind him in the queue barged in front, shouldering him out of the way.

  ‘Someone will be coming,’ the nurse said, waving towards a door leading into the hospital. ‘Now wait like the rest.’

  Cámara pulled himself away. The door she had indicated had a large red-and-white NO ENTRY sign painted on it.

  He dashed back outside. Alicia was still in the car, holding Hilario’s head against her chest while she smoothed his brow with her free hand. Cámara could see the flashing lights of an ambulance in the distance: they would have to get Hilario out and move the car before it arrived. Beyond a low wall to the side he caught sight of the metal frame and grey wheels of a stretcher. He ran over; it had been stripped of sheets, but would do. Wheeling it across, he pulled up in front of the car.

  ‘We’ll have to do this together.’

  Alicia did her best to heave Hilario out through the door. Cámara held him by the shoulders and Alicia uncurled herself out of the car and took his legs. After a couple of moments Hilario was lying down on the stretcher.

  ‘Drive,’ Cámara said. ‘We can’t leave the car there. Then come and find me.’

  The ambulance was already pulling in, blowing its horn for Alicia’s car to be taken out of the way. She jumped into the front and screeched off.

  ‘What? Hey!’

  The orderly reappeared.

  ‘You can’t take that,’ he said. ‘We need that stretcher.’

  ‘Find another one.’

  Cámara pushed Hilario through into the reception area. It would be pointless staying in there: he could be made to wait for ever. Working his way through the mass of people, he headed towards the forbidden door. With a loud buzz it swung open automatically as he approached it with the stretcher.

  The cries of the reception nurse and orderly angrily calling him back were soon muffled as the door closed behind him.

  He was in a corridor, with small rooms on either side. Yet inside the hospital proper it was as busy and chaotic as in reception. A sticky brown stain streaked across the floor. An old man, naked but for his underpants, was standing in a doorway with a breathing mask over his face and a drip hanging loosely from his arm.

  ‘Where are they?’ he repeated in a hoarse voice. ‘Where the fuck are they?’

  People shuttled in and out, back and forth. One, wearing a green robe, almost crashed into Hilario. She steadied herself, looked strangely at Cámara, wondering who he was and what he was doing, then dashed off, too busy with other things.

  ‘Excuse me!’ Cámara called. There was no response. From somewhere he could hear a horn-like sound, beating with a fixed rhythm. Was that an alarm? Had the nurse in reception called security?

  He needed to find a doctor. He could hardly hear his grandfather breathe any more.

  The stretcher squealed as he inched it forwards. Each side room was filled with patients, with family members crammed in around the bed. Empty boxes and plastic wrappers lay on tables or on the floor where they had been discarded. Mixed with the stench of bleach was a yeasty, sickly smell – antibiotics, perhaps, or infection.

  ‘What is this? What is this?’

  A man with grey stubble stood in front of Cámara, halting the stretcher’s progress.

  ‘You can’t barge in like this. You have to go back. Can’t you see how busy we are? There’s enough to deal with without idiots like you wandering around the place.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’

  ‘You’ll have to leave. This way, this way.’ The man took the end of the stretcher and tried to swing it round, towards the exit.

  Cámara placed his foot in the way. The stretcher halted.

  ‘Are you a doctor?’

  ‘You have to leave. Otherwise we’ll call—’

  ‘Look at his face!’ Cámara shouted. ‘He’s having a stroke.’

  The man paused for a second to look at Hilario. His face was badly contorted now, his eyes beginning to curl up into their sockets. But Cámara could see the doctor’s reaction: old man, probably far gone. It would not be worth the effort with this one.

&
nbsp; ‘I’m sorry. Everyone in here is an emergency case.’

  Cámara dropped his hands to his sides. He felt something in his jacket pocket brush against his wrist. The doctor was reaching out to grab the stretcher again. This time he would not be stopped.

  The bullet made a neat hole in the ceiling, barely bigger than the 9-millimetre round itself. The sound of the gunfire seemed to echo through every room in the hospital complex.

  The doctor’s mouth gaped open as he stared at the gun now held next to Cámara’s head. In an instant his attitude changed. A nurse had appeared from a side room, attracted by the sound of the explosion. The doctor pulled him by the arm.

  ‘Room twenty-one,’ the doctor said. ‘It’s urgent.’

  The nurse did a double take from the doctor to Cámara, who lowered the pistol to the level of his hip.

  ‘Right away,’ he said.

  The two of them began pulling the stretcher along. Cámara followed them a pace behind, not lowering his hands. Only when Hilario passed through the swing doors at the end of the corridor did he drop his arms completely and put the gun away. Which was when the security guard pounced.

  It took some explaining – using a firearm in a hospital, threatening to shoot a doctor dead, and finally bloodying the nose of a security man as he resisted being apprehended. But a Policía Nacional badge helped, particularly when backed up with an ID card stating clearly that he was a chief inspector.

  Alicia found him alone in a room they had shunted him into – not quite a cell, but it was thought better to keep him on his own, and under some degree of control. For the time being, now that they had taken a proper look at him, they were more interested in Hilario’s condition.

  Alicia and Cámara sat for hours on hard chairs, barely speaking to each other, Alicia with her back straight and eyes closed, Cámara leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. When the doctor came back, shortly before dawn, Cámara did not bother to look up.

  They stood together outside for a moment. The sun was rising and reflecting on the cold hard paint of a thousand cars stretching out across the car park.

  Another day. The beginning. And the end.

  Alicia pressed a tearful face against his shoulder.

  The sky ached so much he felt he would break.

  SIXTEEN

  HE BLINKED. AND blinked again. Scenes flashed before him like photos from a slide show.

  A new shift. This doctor seemed to know nothing. He was sympathetic, if rushed. These papers to sign, these decisions to be made. He needed to think about costs, options. There were some good deals worth considering. Difficult, he knew, but necessary. So sorry for their loss.

  The fine crescent of the dying moon dipped over the horizon and the sun began its relentless rise, whitening everything in sight. They stepped outside for a smoke. His stores were running low. It would be impossible to buy more here, in the hospital.

  Alicia slipped her arm into his. She was with him, close to him, making him know that he was not alone. That she was not about to leave him.

  The cigarette burnt his finger as he drew hard. He looked down: the pain called to him from a great distance, a barely audible scream from a ship sinking at sea. He stubbed the cigarette out on the ground, licked his finger, blew on it, and walked back inside. The automatic doors buzzed like a wasp as they swept back to swallow him in.

  A paper cup of icy water was thrust into his hand.

  ‘You need to drink something. Here.’

  The liquid cut into his teeth.

  The body lay on the bed, a sheet covering as far as Hilario’s neck. His face still bore the signs of the twisting contortions of its final minutes. Cámara leaned over and tried to mould it back to its proper shape, an expression he could recognise. The skin was cold and oily under his fingertips. And it hardly moved. Best not to see him like that. He did not want to see him like that. He was told to stop, but continued nonetheless. A hand rested on his arm. It was Alicia. Stop. Come away.

  His hands ached with exertion. A bead of sweat trickled into the corner of his eye.

  ‘I never thought it would be like this.’

  ‘I always knew it would be like this.’

  There was a window of tinted glass at the end of the corridor. He stood by it, looking out over roads and motorways, the new river bed, patches of green, half-built abandoned tower blocks, cars and trucks and cars. And saw nothing.

  The ceiling strip lights burnt and glared.

  ‘You’re in a state of shock. You should go home. I can take care of this.’

  ‘I’m fine. I can manage. Just a few more things to sort out. Then we’ll go.’

  A call to Personnel. Family tragedy . . . compassionate leave . . . Have to be cleared. Call in again tomorrow.

  ‘Chief Inspector?’

  A man in a grey suit, standing, not sitting. Refusing to sit. He heard the word ‘security’ and switched off.

  The man spoke at length. He nodded when the tone of voice seemed to demand a response. Then the man walked away.

  ‘What did he say?’

  She gave a concerned smile.

  ‘It’s sorted. They won’t be pressing charges, or even making a formal complaint. In light of the circumstances.’

  ‘I should have shot that doctor.’

  A new figure, a familiar figure, standing in front of him.

  Torres, holding out two packets of Ducados.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Alicia stood up and Torres kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘I’m going to get some coffee.’

  And she left them alone.

  Torres sat, one seat away. He stretched his arm across and touched his friend’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He nodded thanks, and chewed hard with his front teeth on a piece of food that had dislodged itself from somewhere in his mouth. Last night’s dinner? Lunch? What had he last eaten?

  ‘The squad send their condolences. And their best wishes.’

  ‘Thanks.’ His voice stuttered. He coughed to dislodge a ball of phlegm that had stuck in his throat, then swallowed. The morsel of food went down with it.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said again.

  ‘Laura’s running things on the case.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Everything’s fine. Everything’s sorted.’

  He knew it was a lie.

  ‘Maldo?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ve got you covered. All of us. They love you, Max.’

  Max. Torres never called him Max.

  ‘You can take a last look, if you like.’

  Another new face. Another shift? Outside, the white midday light seemed to have softened. A woman this time. He felt the weight of his pistol in his jacket pocket. It must have been returned to him.

  A last look? At what? A dead body? That was not Hilario. But yes, he would like to.

  The buzzing again. The wasp had entered his skull.

  The flat, their new life in Valencia, Hilario’s things.

  There will be time for that later.

  Alicia poured him a glass. Brandy, sweet, burning fumes. His shoulders gave one violent shudder, and then the tears came.

  They wrapped into a ball on the sofa. His head would burst with so much crying.

  The dying light of day cast slithering inky shadows over the walls.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘No. Thanks.’

  ‘Another drink?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Something else?’

  She reached for the old coffee jar on the shelf where Hilario kept his home-grown. Inside, the slim red packet of cigarette papers nestled on the bed of dried green leaves. The smell, sickly and inviting, reached out to stroke his face.

  ‘Not tonight,’ he said.

  Not tonight.

  Above, high above, the black sky winked.

  Amor y muerte, nada mas fuerte. Nothing is stronger than love – or death.

  SEVENTEEN

&
nbsp; THE FUNERAL WAS held late the following evening, the last of the day.

  After showering and washing himself clean, Cámara had headed to the funeral parlour, where Hilario’s corpse, already beginning to rot from the inside, lay on a table in a small beige room. Alicia had offered to go with him, to pass the night with the dead, but he refused.

  ‘One of us, at least, needs to sleep.’

  He made sure his gun stayed in the flat.

  She prepared a bag of Hilario’s clothes to take with him – a brilliant white shirt and a dark pair of trousers. One of the funeral directors used them to dress the dead man’s body before wheeling him into the room. There was no tie, and someone had done the shirt buttons all the way up. Once he was left on his own Cámara undid the top two. Less formal, more appropriate. He could not have Hilario choking on a tight collar.

  And he smiled to himself – his grandfather would have liked that.

  After sitting in silence for a couple of hours he stood up and walked around the body a few times. Someone had managed to do a better job pushing his face into a more normal expression. But his nose was already looking different, his mouth thin and tight.

  ‘Go away,’ Hilario would have told him. ‘Go out and live. Or sleep. Or eat something, for God’s sake. Don’t mope round here. This is not me. I am elsewhere. You already know that.’

  But Cámara stayed – sitting, standing, pacing the room a little, glancing at the dead body.

  This is important for both of us, he thought. Proper mourning, proper burying of the dead was the only way to make sure they did not haunt you through life.

  When he stepped out into the morning light of the following day, he felt changed.

  The small cemetery at Benimaclet, in the fields just beyond the ring road, was the only one in the city that could accommodate them. Cámara agreed and signed and paid. The numbers on the bills that slipped in and out of his sight were far too high, but the money would come from somewhere. Even if he was about to lose his job he would find some way of covering the expense. His grandfather might have been an anarchist, a believer in neither Church nor State, yet he would leave them in as proper a fashion as Cámara could allow.

  ‘Burn me and put my ashes under a tree somewhere,’ he had once said. The crazy thing was that cremation was the more expensive option.