Mr. Nobody(25)

     As I stressed in our last phone call, budget is not an issue. Please don’t see it as an impediment to expediting a diagnosis.

And, again, if you need any assistance from the local authorities in terms of relevant information, then please come through me and I can oil the cogs, as it were. The last thing we want is local red tape clogging up the process.

And, whilst of course this case is time-sensitive, with taxpayers’ money/patience being a notably finite resource (!), we don’t want you yourself to feel rushed. Our primary concern is a solid diagnosis—there is no room for error here. Avoiding a situation in Norfolk similar to the publicity disaster in Kent is paramount; we have no desire for this to escalate.

So, that being said, whatever you need and whatever we can do to facilitate a quick, clear, and watertight diagnosis and corresponding treatment plan for this particular patient will be entirely at your disposal.

You have my direct number. Feel free to contact me any time, night or day—I’ll be available. I am your first port of call should you need outside assistance.

Best of luck,

Peter M. Chorley



Excellent. No pressure then.





11


THE MAN


DAY 1—CHOSEN

Rhoda looks down at her patient on the gurney as they roll out into the ward. “Right, you,” she says with a smile. “Apologies in advance for my driving skills. It’s going to be touch-and-go for the paintwork but you should be just fine. Hold on tight.”

A muted smile plays across the man’s face and he gently closes his eyes. He’s tired—he hadn’t realized how tired until now.

Around them, he hears the ebb and flow of the emergency department. He opens his eyes and catches brief snapshots of other people’s lives as he’s wheeled past cubicles. Half glimpsed through curtains he sees an elderly woman sobbing; he turns his head away. An Indian man is gasping into a handheld mask, then it’s on to a plump little girl laughing and bouncing on her father’s bed as he lies watching her, smiling. The next curtain is closed; only a rasped groan emanating from within. He squeezes his eyes shut and pulls down his oxygen mask, breathing in his first breath of disinfected hospital air, with its hint of something earthier at the edges.

Rhoda glides them smoothly and skillfully down the corridor and into the elevator. The white noise of the hospital muffled as the elevator doors close. Rhoda allows herself a moment; she rests her eyes too, letting the night and morning that was slide off her. When she opens her eyes, the man on the gurney is staring up at her, as beatific as a grazing cow. She smiles. You caught me.

    The elevator pings and its bulky doors open; the sounds of life flood back in.

At the Radiology nurses’ station Rhoda has a soft conversation with the ward sister. It’s quieter up here, calmer.

They look over at the man. The ward sister nods and calls over two nurses’ aides in forest-green tunics. There is a brief exchange, then Rhoda wanders back to her patient on the gurney. “Right, handsome.” She smiles. “I am going to have to leave you now with these two very charming gentlemen.” She points to the aides. “They are going to help get you all scanned and sorted out, okay?”

But it’s not okay.

The patient’s eyes swivel to take in the aides; they look bored, tired, gray. They do not look like they care. The man’s breath quickens, panic rises. They do not look like Rhoda. They do not have the same look in their eyes.

The man’s hand shoots out and grasps Rhoda’s wrist, not roughly but firmly.

Do not leave me. Please.

Rhoda jumps slightly, ever so slightly, at the suddenness of the motion. But manages to let out a quick laugh to cover her surprise.

“Oh, okay? Not a big fan of that idea then?” she chuckles. She looks around at the aides.

When she looks back, the patient is shaking his head forcibly against the pillow, wincing at the pain of it.

“No, no. Stop that. Look, it’s fine,” she reassures him. “These nice men are going to look after you just as good as me. I promise. Look at those lovely faces, how could you not trust those faces?”

The man blinks obediently at the two faces, placid and ghoulish in the hospital strip lighting.

Rhoda leans in closer. “I got to get gone. I shouldn’t have come up here with you in the first place, but if I get back now I can let everyone know where I am. I might even avoid a talking-to. Would you let me do that? Would you help me out?”

    He looks at her beseechingly. She loosens his hand from her wrist, gently, and he lets her. She places his hand deftly back down under the blankets, pats it once, and smiles. “Okay then, I will see you later,” she promises.

As she turns to go a lot of things happen at once. The man struggles to sit up, reaching out after Rhoda, but seeing the sudden movement, the aides break into a sprint. They grab the man, pushing him roughly back down onto the gurney, restraining him.

Rhoda turns back and a doctor rounds the corner just as the man’s shouts begin. Rhoda stands there, frozen, helpless as her patient thrashes against the restraint of the two men. He arches his back away from the bed, part held, part scrambling to get away. The doctor joins the melee, carefully trying to disconnect the patient’s IV, which is dangerously close to being ripped from the man’s arm in the struggle.