by Janet Wakley
Kurt and the driver effected the wheel change at a speed that would have impressed a Formula One team. The presence of the police officers was too close for comfort. The job completed, Mel watched as the driver calmly waved his thanks to the police car and prepared to return to the front of the van. With a heavy heart she saw the officers, satisfied that their responsibility had ended, acknowledge the wave and draw slowly away, the blue lights of the patrol car eliminated, as it overtook the van, leaving it in its wake. Quickly she sat back down and tried to hide the dismay she felt as Kurt climbed back into the van. He smiled broadly with satisfaction, running his fingers through his blonde hair. Without the frown lines, his face was openly handsome and his expression was calm and relaxed. Resuming his place next to Mel, he sat closer, the faint odour of perspiration, betraying the tension he had obviously experienced. He could not have perceived such a narrow escape and what at first had looked like a disastrous thwarting of the plan, seemed only to have served to inspire confidence and create a feeling of infallibility. He’d been right under the noses of the Law, without giving away even a hint of suspicion.
Disappointment enveloped Mel. A golden opportunity to get help had been allowed to slip by. Perhaps those police officers would never know how close they came to a confrontation with an armed criminal. The look of desolation was not lost on Kurt, who continued to smirk and leaned back against the partition with a long satisfied sigh.
They were on the move again. Cautiously they filtered back into the mainstream traffic. Progress remained sluggish, though with fewer interruptions until eventually, following a sharp cornering, they once again picked up speed. Ten more miles, the driver had said. They were certainly not stealing on their own doorstep, Mel thought wryly. If they were caught, she surmised there would be little chance of tracing them back to the old derelict priory.
More heavy traffic. Through the high back windows, Mel watched the green bulbs of traffic lights disappearing behind them. The blue curved roof of a lorry cab followed them along for several minutes before the van slowed dramatically and turned left away from the main road. Driving slowly again, they seemed to follow a route between tall red brick buildings, wending their way to a final resting place some distance from the road. The engine fell silent.
Kurt made no effort move but remained sitting quietly, waiting for the signal to leave the concealment of the van. Mel struggled to quash a surge of terror in the silent and motionless hiatus, as though time were suddenly suspended. For several minutes they continued to wait. Suddenly, three sharp knocks on the partition behind them broke the silence with such abruptness, Mel physically jumped with surprise, her heart once again pulsating in her throat.
“Come on, it’s time to go.” Kurt swiftly made for the door, jumping down from the tailboard and turning to check that his newly acquired accomplice was following. “Quickly, do exactly as I say.”
12
Through a single door at the rear of the building Mel followed Kurt into a wide cream painted corridor with a grey concrete floor. Parked along some of its length were several rubbish cages, a broken patient trolley and a collection of white linen laundry bags. A service corridor, used only by porter and ancillary staff, it appeared quiet and deserted as the two intruders walked its length. Concerned that their presence might be discovered in a part of the hospital not open to the public, Mel kept close to Kurt, in the hope that they would appear to look more like a couple lost in the bowels of the building rather than trespassers up to no good. She speculated how Kurt might react when confronted with a member of staff. Would he make up some plausible excuse and offer his apologies, or was it his intention to immediately expose the gun held secretly in his pocket? She hoped fervently it was the former, but didn’t want to put it to the test.
Kurt, however, appeared confident and walked purposefully by her side. Despite distant voices, the corridor remained empty and turning a corner, they came upon two adjacent sets of lift doors. Kurt unhesitatingly pressed the call button and they waited uncomfortably while the rumble of a lift cage indicated its slow descent in their direction. The arriving cage was empty. Kurt pressed the button for the fourth floor. The confident manner in which he was navigating their route, was evident that he knew this hospital well, or had at least familiarised himself with its layout. He stood, feet apart, his broad square jaw set firmly. He said nothing but stared unwaveringly at the slowly changing numbered lights above the lift door as it plotted their slow progress up through the heart of the building. Stepping out onto the landing, they entered a main hospital corridor. A doctor, his stethoscope draped loosely around his neck, walked past with unseeing eyes. A board displaying familiar hospital signage of white lettering on a royal blue background listed wards and departments, their direction indicated by arrows, but without a glance, Kurt strode on. Mel walked quickly as she struggled to keep pace with the determined long strides of her taller counterpart.
An elderly couple passed in the opposite direction. With the self-absorption of visitors to a hospital, they didn’t even glance up as they passed. Further along, a woman with a small child in a pushchair struggled with two large carrier bags. Suddenly, the child, who was crying as he was wheeled along, threw his soft toy from the pushchair, directly into Kurt’s path. Mel snatched a sharp intake of breath but Kurt calmly paused to pick up the discarded toy and gently offered it back to the little boy. Still crying, the lad snatched back his treasured teddy, clutching it tightly and his mother smiled her thanks to the kind man and continued on her way. Even so casual an encounter was enough to set the pulse racing and quicken the breath. A doctor, stethoscope hung loosely round his neck, hurriedly overtook them in the corridor.
Mel felt dirty. As they walked the clean shiny corridors of the hospital, she felt conscious that her scruffiness would draw unwelcome attention. Typical of such an institution, however, nobody paid them any attention, each individual concerned only with their own need to be there, heading in the direction of whatever ward or department required their presence.
Turning a corner, Kurt suddenly grabbed Mel’s arm, stopping her in her tracks. “Wait here and don’t move” he commanded. “Don’t move” he repeated forcefully. He strode away, his head bent down, his back in almost a stoop. Mel’s heart leapt. She could run. Now. Back the way they had come and into the first ward door or office she could find. Silas. What about Silas? Again, her dilemma hit hard. She remembered her promise to him. They would kill him before she could get help. And where was he being held anyway? Indecision. Run or stay? The moments ticked by, her feet rooted to the spot, heart pounding in her throat.
Too late. Kurt had reached the far end of the corridor and she watched as he removed a small object from his trouser pocket. Furtively he looked around before reaching upwards, his full height increased on tip-toe, to place a piece of tape over the lens of a security camera aimed along the corridor in her direction. Immediately he was striding back, beckoning to Mel to join him. Her chance had gone. Silas, she breathed, you’d better be bloody grateful. I could have blown it for you then. That’s twice I’ve put the safety of others before myself - or did I just bottle out?
The direction signage for the Operating Theatres pointed again to their left and a few yards ahead a set of closed double doors displayed a familiar notice showing ‘No Entry. Staff Only.’ With Mel at his side, Kurt slowed his pace as they passed the door. Pausing just beyond, he turned as though to speak, making movements as though to pretend to search for something in his pockets. His eyes, however, continually scanned the passageway for signs of further security devices and staff. The view in both directions remained empty. His right hand stayed firmly inside his jacket pocket where she knew he clasped his revolver.
Mel visibly startled as a click behind her signalled the opening of the double doors, swinging wide to allow the passing of a porter and recovery nurse escorting a bedridden patient out of the department on his return journey to
a ward. As the entourage turned away from the theatre doors, Kurt grabbed Mel’s arm with his free hand and deftly guided her quickly into the department before the timing mechanism closed the doors behind them. They were in. How easy was that! Doors to their right were labelled as ‘Changing Rooms’ with the typical symbols identifying male and female. Between the doors, metal racking bulged with piles of blue theatre scrub suits, their sizes displayed on each shelf.
“Get changed. Say you work for an agency, if you’re asked.” Kurt instructed.
“Can I shower? Please.” Mel could hardly allow the opportunity to pass by.
“Hurry up then. Five minutes, that’s all.”
Armed with their change of clothing, they again parted company as they each entered the changing areas to don the correct apparel for theatre staff. Mel also grabbed a couple of towels from the racking and went in search of the toilets and showers within the changing room complex. Thankfully the area was vacant. Pairs of shoes lay strewn along the floor, discarded beneath rows of wooden panel seating at the foot of tall slender metal lockers. Some of the doors hung open, either because locks were faulty or had been left empty by absent staff. Mel chose one such vacant locker to install her clothes and pushed the door to. Estimating the time to be late afternoon, it would not be long before some of the theatre staff would return at the end of their shifts and she doubted that her next visit would be quite so private. Armed with her towels she headed for the showers.
She turned the pressure of the tap as high as it would go so that clean hot water cascaded from the showerhead, hitting her skin like thousands of minute shards of glass. Oh, bliss. Quickly lathering the soap and allowing the jet of water to pound onto her back, never had a shower felt so refreshing. Towel drying her hair, it only then occurred to Mel that she had no means of drying or combing her bob hairstyle. Convinced that her wet locks would draw attention to her, she rubbed her scalp feverishly and improvised her styling by running her fingers through the dark straight hair. The mirror reflected a clean fresh face but dark, tired eyes betraying the sleepless night and emotional strain of the last two days. Aware that she had taken probably longer than the five minutes Kurt had allowed, Mel quickly dressed in the familiar blue theatre scrubs. With one of the damp towels she wiped over her own white theatre shoes to remove the dirt and dust acquired from the cellar, before tossing the evidence into a linen skip. From a box beside the lockers Mel took a blue paper theatre hat and pulled it over her damp hair.
There was nothing for it but to exit the safety of the empty changing rooms and re-join her partner-in-crime, who would doubtless be fretting by now at the length of her absence.
She found him, grim faced, pretending to examine a notice board on which were pinned the lists of operations pertinent to each of several theatres. He wore his theatre hat pulled low on his forehead, close to his eyebrows. He turned as she approached, his eyes reptilian cold, angered by the length of time she had been out of his sight. “This way” he hissed, his eyes lingering on the damp tousles left unrestrained by the theatre hat. Deftly she pushed her hair up out of sight under the thin blue fabric.
Together they walked along the corridor past a neat reception desk, housing two computers, phones and the usual stack of correspondence trays. Shelves were laden with coloured lever-arch folders. Two female staff, similarly dressed in theatre scrubs, manned the desk. With their attention absorbed in a debate on the likely over-run of a theatre list, Kurt and Mel walked calmly past, unchallenged. Nameplates attached to white laminated doors, conveniently identified storage rooms. ‘Prosthesis store.’ Further along, past two theatres, ‘Anaesthetic Store.’ This was the one.
The door, propped open by a small wedge of wood, revealed floor to ceiling shelving, packed with boxes of all sizes. A white sticker, displaying a bar code for easy ordering, tidily marked each section of the shelves. A young man was busy in the storeroom collecting items and stacking them onto a stainless steel trolley. He whistled to himself as he worked. Kurt hesitated by the door then continued along the corridor, leaving the young man oblivious to their presence.
Another room, marked ‘Equipment Store’ was also propped open in a similar fashion. This was filled with x-ray equipment, instrument trolleys and racks supporting a variety of metal attachments for operating tables. These, to the uninitiated, would more resemble equipment for a torture chamber than aids to best position patients for surgery.
Kurt helped himself to one of the long trolleys. “Ready?” he looked hard at Mel, who nodded the affirmative, although inwardly she doubted she would ever be ready for such a venture.
They emerged from the room and retraced their steps to the Anaesthetic Store where the young man was still collecting items for his trolley. He looked up, raised an eyebrow in mild surprise as he failed to recognise the new faces, but continued with his task.
“We’re nearly out of iodine skin prep,” he grumbled aloud. “Still, I’ve enough for today. Which theatre are you stocking up for?” an edge of uncertainty in his voice.
“Recovery,” Mel replied. Feeling the need to justify their presence, adding, “First shift.”
“Do you know where everything is?”
“Best way to learn,” she smiled.
“You’re right there. Good luck,” he replied cheerfully and wheeled his laden trolley from the room.
Mel studied the shelving just inside the door. Best to be methodical and work around the room, she decided. Kurt kept an anxious eye on the door as, working from memory, Mel began gathering items as she came across them on the shelves.
“How did you know he wasn’t in Recovery?” Kurt couldn’t help whispering.
“He needed iodine skin prep. They only use that in theatre,” she replied quietly and with confidence, realising for the first time, the thrill of the subterfuge. She selected several packs of sterile gloves to fit Silas, Clive and herself, together with a box of non-sterile gloves for routine nursing procedures. Quickly the top of the trolley became full. Several types of litre bags of intravenous fluids, oxygen re-breathing circuits and patient masks were roughly piled onto the lower shelf. Airway adjuncts, dressings, nailbrushes, urine catheter and bag; the items continued to grow. At the end of the room stood a high metal lotions cabinet from which she helped herself to a bottle of chlorhexidine skin cleaner and surgical hand scrub. Mel quickly re-capped from the list in her pocket. Next they needed to find where in the department the sutures and instruments were kept, and of course, the controlled drug cupboard.
“That’s all from in here,” she spoke softly to Kurt, who remained edgily by the door.
“Leave it here.” He indicated to the trolley and with a flick of his head, meant for her to follow him. Together they walked the corridors in search of the ‘Sterile Store.’ The room, when they found it, housed lines of shelving units, movable along a track by handles positioned on the ends of each section. Instrument sets were positioned alphabetically, but heavier trays were stored separately on fixed racking along one wall. Mel found a large General Set stacked with several others on the wall shelving. She slid the weighty pack off the shelf and offered it to Kurt. For a moment, indecision flashed across his face. His right hand, Mel noticed, was firmly set in the pocket of his blue top. To take the heavy instrument set would require the use of two hands. Reluctantly, he took the pack from her.
Mel stuffed the slim suture packs into her pocket, taking generous amounts of nylon sutures. Scalpel blades completed her inventory.
“Where are you taking that?” a crisp female voice behind them startled the pair. Kurt unhesitatingly thrust the instrument tray into Mel’s hands and withdrew his right hand into the weighted pocket of his scrubs.
“We were sent to get another set,” Mel began nervously. “Some clips and a retractor are missing.” She hoped that would justify taking a pack. Then, deciding to add “the scissors are blunt - need repairing
.”
“Oh, very well. You’re new here aren’t you?” She scrutinised the unfamiliar faces.
“Agency. First Shift. Still finding our way around.”
“Have you signed that set out?” the nurse snorted, ignoring Mel’s response.
“Er, no. We didn’t know we had to.”
“I’ll do it. Tell me the surgeon and theatre number. We’re trying to cut down on the number of extra sets sent down to TSSU for sterilizing. There’s far too much wastage in this department.”
Mel glanced at Kurt. Beads of sweat, nothing to do with the temperature, were appearing on his forehead beneath the line of his theatre cap. The tension in his face suggested he was gritting his teeth. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
“No, I’ll sign it out. I need to learn how to do things properly. Just show me where the book is.” In an effort to sound relaxed, Mel smiled affably. It had the desired effect and the nurse acquiesced, pointing to a loose-leaf folder propped on a small worktop. After instructing Mel to complete it properly, she ignored Kurt as she headed further into the sterile store in pursuit of a mission of her own. To avoid suspicion, Mel took down the folder and copied a line from earlier on the page, scribbling an indecipherable signature to complete the entry.
As they left the sterile store, Mel realised that her fear of discovery, was now mixed with a buzz of excitement. The thrill was creating an electrification of her senses, quite beyond anything she had experienced before. They backtracked towards the anaesthetic storeroom. Passing a sluice room on their right, Kurt seized the opportunity to grab a few yellow plastic sacks, colour coded and toughened for clinical waste. With these, they returned to the loaded trolley.
“Keep watch by the door,” Kurt instructed Mel. “Tell me if anyone comes.” Deftly he placed the items from the trolley into two of the yellow bags, sealing each with plastic security tags. Using a marker pen, he marked each bag with a black circle. “You bring the instruments,” he ordered quietly.