by Lisa Stone
‘Wrong Mr Smith,’ he said, returning the chart to the bed, and quickly left.
Disappointed, but aware he’d have been lucky finding what he wanted straightway, he continued to the other women’s ward, St Anne’s. This time he had to buzz to be let in, but, as he expected, they were too busy to worry about who they were admitting and released the door without question. Chaos greeted him. A woman, presumably with dementia, was shouting nonsense at the top of her voice, call bells were bleeping, two patients lay on trolleys waiting to be admitted, and the red-faced charge nurse at the nurses’ station was agitatedly telling someone on the phone that it was impossible, they were completely full and she couldn’t magic a bed out of thin air.
‘Mrs Lynda Jones was supposed to have gone today, but her social worker cancelled,’ she said as he passed. That was good news.
Keeping his head down, Amit went in search of Mrs Jones and found her in bed 27. No visitors present, and when he read her chart, he saw she’d had a stroke which had affected her mobility and speech and left her very confused. Perfect. Fingers crossed.
His adrenalin kicked in.
‘Hello, Mrs Jones,’ he said, enunciating every word. She turned her scrawny head to look at him. ‘How are you?’
She frowned, puzzled.
‘Are you looking forward to going home?’
A long pause, a sigh and then her mouth twisted to form the words, not unlike the way Eva’s did. ‘They won’t let me.’
‘Why is that?’ he asked.
She frowned again but didn’t offer any reason.
‘She can’t understand much, poor dear,’ the woman in the next bed called over.
‘Thank you,’ Amit said and partially drew the curtain. Nosy bitch.
He returned to Mrs Jones.
‘Is there no one at home to look after you?’ he asked, his mouth close to her ear. He could smell hospital soap on old flesh. Disgusting.
Another pause, then, after much effort, her damaged brain slowly made the connection. ‘I want to be with Harry.’
Amit’s heart sunk. ‘Who is Harry?’
‘My husband,’ she uttered.
He was about to return the chart to the end of the bed and leave when she began to speak again, slow and faltering, but her words were pure joy.
‘He died last year. I want to be with him.’ Her eyes filled.
Amit returned to her side. ‘I am sorry. Don’t you have any other relatives who can look after you?’
Her mouth worked silently before her brain engaged. ‘No. Only a nephew and he doesn’t want me.’
Amit smiled. ‘I’m sure he could be persuaded. What’s his name?’
She looked confused, her face lopsided from the stroke. ‘Bert.’
‘And his surname?’
‘Bert.’
‘Bert what?’ Stupid woman. Sweat was running off him. He daren’t stay for much longer. ‘What’s Bert’s surname? Do you know?’
She stared at him without a clue.
‘Saunders,’ he said, using the first name that came to mind. ‘Bert Saunders, your nephew, will be coming to collect you tomorrow. Can you remember that?’
She looked back vacantly. He doubted she would remember, but it didn’t matter; she was so confused, she wouldn’t know what was going on and protest.
He returned her chart to the end of the bed, then, keeping his back to the woman in the next bed, left. He congratulated himself; he’d done well, made better progress than he’d expected. The next part of his plan relied on timing, panache and a pinch of good luck. If he failed, he’d have to start all over again at another hospital and he didn’t have the time for that.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Seven o’clock in the evening was the best time to phone, Amit decided. In most NHS hospitals that was when the night shift took over from the day staff. Showered and out of his scrubs, he sat on the edge of the bed in the anonymous motel room and watched the minutes tick by on his phone. The name Bert Saunders and his contact details were written on a piece of paper by his side, for he mustn’t hesitate or falter. He knew hospital discharge procedure, and as long as he delivered what they needed to hear with enough confidence, his plan should work. He eased his collar from his neck; he was perspiring again and he’d only just showered.
He had allowed two minutes for the hospital switchboard to connect him, so at 6.58 he keyed in the number for St James’ Hospital. All calls to NHS hospitals were routed through a main hospital number and members of the public couldn’t phone a ward direct. As far as St James’ Hospital was concerned, he was a relative. The line was busy and it was 7.03 before the call was connected and a tired voice said, ‘St James’ General Hospital.’
‘Can you put me through to St Anne’s Ward please? I need to make arrangements to collect a relative being discharged tomorrow.’ It was more information than she needed, but he’d found before in other matters that if you gave more information than was required it stopped the person thinking up their own questions or even following procedure. Stating his intentions also bolstered his confidence.
‘Putting you through to the ward now,’ the call handler said without hesitation.
Amit took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart. There was a click on the line, a short silence and then the phone on the ward began ringing. It rang and rang. Amit could picture the scene at the other end. The handover meeting on the ward, where exhausted day staff passed information on patients to the night shift while call buzzers bleeped and relatives tried to find a nurse.
At 7.06 the phone was finally answered tersely by a male nurse. ‘St Anne’s Ward.’
‘Good evening. My name is Mr Bert Saunders. I’m sorry I didn’t return your call earlier. I’ve been in meetings most of the day. Just to confirm I will be able to collect my aunt, Mrs Lynda Jones, tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock. I’ve spoken to her social worker. Can you make sure she is ready please, with any medication she needs.’
‘Yes, I’ll make a note on the system. Thank you for letting us know.’
Saying goodbye, Amit cut the call and smiled. He knew from working in hospitals, and human nature being what it was, that the nurse would assume the missing information – the phone call, relative’s name and details of discharge – hadn’t been entered because of an oversight and would quickly correct the mistake. He’d seen similar happen before, omissions and errors corrected before management noticed.
Thankfully, Mrs Jones was frail and confused, so Amit doubted she’d raise any queries about who was taking her home, but if she did he’d have to think on his feet and deal with any problems as they arose. Once she was in the car, he’d sedate her – the syringe and sedative he needed were in his bag – then she’d look like any old woman asleep in a car. He should be home around five o’clock when it would be dark. He’d park the car in his garage, tell Alisha he needed his dinner straight away so she was kept occupied, then wrap the old woman in a large bin bag and take her to the lab. If anyone did see him, they’d think he was shifting a sack of rubbish, similar to when he’d disposed of the animals. Once inside his lab he would be safe; no one could see or hear a thing. He planned to have dinner first before he began the procedure – he could never concentrate on an empty stomach. No need to bring her round from the sedation, he’d put her straight into the ice bath, then, following the same technique he’d perfected on the animals, he’d drain her blood, replace it with preservation fluid, then lower her temperature to minus 130°C when he’d place her in the cylinder of liquid nitrogen and store her overnight at minus 190°C. It would be the first time he’d used the cylinder and he felt a stab of excitement.
Assuming he revived her successfully the following day – and there was no reason why he shouldn’t – he’d be ready for Alisha. He thought Christmas Day would be good. There’d be no deliveries or callers and neighbours – namely Emily King – would be too ensconced with their families to notice what was going on next door. It would be the ultimate Christmas
present, he thought with a wry smile as he prepared to leave his hotel room for something to eat. Life everlasting, and although Mrs Jones wouldn’t appreciate what he’d achieved, the world of medical science would.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Despite downing a bottle of wine with his dinner, Amit didn’t sleep well and it left him in a bad mood. The hotel was close to a main road and although the windows were double-glazed he’d heard the steady hum of traffic most of the night. Also, guests had arrived noisily along his corridor at 1 a.m. People were so thoughtless. His house was quiet; Alisha knew not to disturb him when she saw to Eva in the night.
He made a coffee and drank it while he showered, and then dressed in the brown corduroy trousers, open-neck shirt and jersey he’d packed. It was 9 a.m. He had nearly six hours to kill before he could go to St James’ Hospital to collect his subject – as he now considered Mrs Jones to be. The time yawned before him. It was such a waste when he had so much to do, but to have arranged to collect her any earlier would have been too risky. The doctors did their rounds in the morning and the day shift of nurses would be bright and fresh. Much better to wait until the afternoon and go at peak visiting time as he had before. Breakfast first.
Making sure he hadn’t left anything in his room, Amit went down to reception and checked out, complaining about the noise as he did. The young receptionist stared unabashed at his different-coloured irises and said she’d make a note of his complaint but didn’t offer a refund. Ignorant bitch. On the way out, he allowed the front door to slam shut to emphasise his point about noise. Breakfast should put him in a better mood.
He found his car was covered with a thick layer of frost and he had to sit for some moments with the engine running waiting for the windscreen to clear. He left the hotel’s car park and then joined the main road, heading in the direction of Lewis city. He’d look out for a roadside café with plenty of lorries and white vans suggesting a good breakfast at a reasonable price, and found one after a few miles.
He parked and went in; the air was heavy with the smell of fried food. Delicious. He was starving. Helping himself to a copy of the free local newspaper, he chose a table away from the window and ordered a full English breakfast with a mug of coffee. Later, he’d phone Alisha and tell her he would be home for dinner that evening. There was no point in phoning her now, she’d be washing and dressing that useless child.
As he ate, he flipped through the newspaper and spotted an advertisement for the History of Surgery Museum, which had fascinated him as a medical student. That would keep him occupied until it was time to go to St James’. Now he had a plan for the morning, and with his appetite satiated, he felt much better. He drained the last of his coffee, paid the bill and returned to his car.
He had visited the museum regularly as a student, and often alone. His fellow students had been once or twice out of curiosity but not regularly. They found his obsession with the gruesome exhibits odd, but they were an unimaginative lot who could see no further than passing their exams.
The building was virtually unchanged from his last visit. A detached atmospheric Victorian house adapted in the 1950s for its present use. He went in and paid. They weren’t busy, the curator told him, as most of the students from the local universities – their most regular attenders – had gone home for Christmas. Amit thanked him, took his ticket and entered the first room.
The dank smell of furniture polish wafted from the wood of the display cabinets, nostalgically reminding him of his previous visits. Going to the first cabinet, he began poring over the exhibits, reading the printed captions beneath each item, as he had before. The surgical tools dating back to the 1700s were like instruments of torture and used before anaesthetic had been discovered. He thought now, as he had before, it was a wonder any of the patients survived. How they must have screamed! If they didn’t die from the shock or the pain of being operated on while conscious, then many of them died soon after from infection, a caption said.
Amputation knives that looked like machetes, he remembered them well, with a caption explaining that the surgeon cut through the skin and muscle first, then used a saw for severing the bone. He moved on to an artificial leech used for bloodletting with a rotating blade attached to a cup that caught the patient’s blood. Amazing that they used to think bloodletting would cure an illness!
Next was a cervical dilator used to stretch a woman’s cervix during labour. Serrated and going to a sharp point, it often did more harm than good. Circumcision knives that looked like giant scissors with a wire noose for slicing off the foreskin. He grimaced. Tonsil guillotines, haemorrhoid forceps, hernia tools, a skull saw. Mostly rusty now and some with what could have been dried blood and tissue still on them. Sepia photographs of operations in progress added to his imagination. Fascinating.
Absorbed in the barbaric world of primitive surgery, Amit wandered from room to room and wondered how current medical practices would be looked on in two hundred years. It would probably seem as crude as this – except for his work, of course. That was ahead of time.
Three hours quickly passed, during which time he only saw two other visitors. Suddenly he found it was 1.15 p.m. and he needed to be leaving. Thanking the curator, he said goodbye and returned to his car. He programmed the satnav and began in the direction of St James’ Hospital. He stopped briefly to pick up a coffee from a layby café, which he drank while parked, and also took the opportunity to phone Alisha. The line was engaged, which was very odd. Alisha didn’t use the phone; she didn’t know anyone to call. He tried again with the same result. Perhaps the line was faulty? Puzzled and annoyed, he finished his coffee and pressed his landline number again. This time it was answered immediately with a small, ‘Hello?’
‘Who were you talking to just now?’ he demanded.
‘No one,’ Alisha replied.
‘The phone has been engaged for at least the last ten minutes.’
‘I must have knocked it off its base while cleaning.’
He heard the quiver in her voice and knew she was lying. It would be easy to check later.
‘The conference finished early, so I’ll be home tonight for dinner.’
‘There isn’t much, we’re running low.’
‘Cook what you have,’ he snapped, irritated. ‘I’ll do an online shop tonight.’
‘Or I could do it if you showed me how.’
He took a breath, his fingers clenching in anger. She’d never suggested that before. ‘You don’t know the first thing about computers or the internet,’ he said, his voice tight.
‘No. But I could learn.’
‘Rubbish,’ he said and ended the call.
Of course she couldn’t be allowed to learn how to use the internet, for the same reasons he’d never let her have a phone, laptop or tablet. If she had access to the outside world, who knew who she might talk to and what she might find out. Not long now and then he wouldn’t have to worry anymore. She wouldn’t be accessing anything for a very long time.
At 2.50 p.m., Amit parked his car in one of the bays close to the main entrance of St James’ Hospital reserved for collecting and dropping off patients. Despite the cold, he was perspiring again. This was the critical phase of his plan. Success or failure loomed, and he couldn’t afford to fail. He wiped his brow with a tissue and slipped on his jacket. He took the collapsible wheelchair he’d hired for a week from the boot of the car and began towards the main doors of the hospital, keeping his head down and away from the CCTV.
Inside, the security guard was nowhere to be seen and he continued towards the lift. Suddenly, he froze. A woman was coming towards him, waving. Did she know him? Shit! His stomach clenched. Sometimes patients recognized their surgeon in the street but not normally their anaesthetist. But no. Thank goodness. False alarm. It wasn’t him. She was approaching the man to his right.
Amit allowed himself to breathe again. Stay calm, he told himself. Don’t lose your nerve. It’s unlikely anyone will recognize you here.
/> Pushing the wheelchair to the lift, he rose to the second floor. No scrubs or ID badge now to protect him. Just Bert Saunders collecting his elderly aunt. It relied on him acting confidently and delivering what he had to say with authority. He’d practised it enough in front of the mirror.
Steeling himself for what lay ahead, Amit pressed the security buzzer for the ward and a few seconds later the door released. He drew himself to his full height and pushed the wheelchair confidently down the corridor, past the nurses’ station, which was empty, and towards the side ward where Mrs Jones lay. He peered in but didn’t enter. Good. She was out of bed, dressed and sitting in her bedside chair, ready to go home. While it may have made sense to have gone in and said a few words to prepare her for leaving, he couldn’t take the risk that the woman in the next bed wouldn’t see him. ‘Aunty’ was unlikely to remember him in his scrubs from the day before, but that woman might.
Satisfied she was ready to go, he went in search of a nurse. ‘I’m here to collect my aunt, Mrs Lynda Jones,’ he said evenly, glancing at his watch as if he was short of time. ‘Is her medication ready?’ He knew that patients who’d been discharged were often kept waiting on the ward for their medicines to arrive from the pharmacy.
‘I’ll just check,’ she said. He went with her to the nurses’ station and waited while she logged onto the computer. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘Her meds aren’t here yet. They shouldn’t be long.’
‘We’ll collect them on our way out,’ he said. ‘Would you phone the pharmacy and tell them we’re on our way please.’
She nodded and he left her making the call as he began back towards the side ward. He knew the procedure, although he had no intention of wasting time by collecting her medication. She wouldn’t need tablets where she was going.
The next part was make or break. He pushed the wheelchair onto the ward and up to Mrs Jones’ chair, quickly drawing the curtains around her bed. They were hidden from view.