The compleat collected s.., p.423
The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 423
"I'm on my way," said Malcolm.
By the time he reached cubicle Seven, Nurse Caldwell had already shut off the intravenous flow, checked the bleeding and placed an adhesive patch over the former puncture.
"This won't hurt, Tommy," he said as he resited the cannula. Considering the hefty dosage of neomorph which was neutralising the discomfort of his multiple fractured arm and legs, whose plaster casts looked enormous on the boy's emaciated body, it would be surprising if he even felt the needle go in. Malcolm reconnected the IV tube and while the nurse was taping the needle in position, he went on gently, "You mustn't do that again, Tommy. If you make a habit of it we will have to put cot sides on the bed, as if you were a baby, and tie down your good hand. You aren't a baby, are you?"
The boy looked scandalised as he shook his head. He said, "Who ... you?"
Malcolm took a deep breath, held it while he removed his surgical mask, then smiled reassuringly for a moment before replacing it. He already knew that Tommy could not read so that the patches meant nothing to him.
"Hello, Doctor Malcolm," the boy said, smiling back. "I'm sorry, I was dreaming about rats, and one of them bit my arm. Is Nurse mad at me?"
Nurse Caldwell shook her head very firmly and began replacing the stained top sheet.
"Of course not," said Malcolm. "But she would like you a lot better if you were to ask her for something to eat and drink. Tommy. I know you don't feel hungry, but that is because your stomach is very small and not used to much food. But you need food to help your broken arm and legs mend and to make you feel better generally. Do you understand that? And it's nice, clean food, like the Uppers eat. If you eat lots of it you won't need the IV tube and you won't dream of rats biting your arm. Just ask Nurse if there is anything you want."
The boy's large, brown eyes grew even larger and he blinked away tears as he said, "Mary. I want Big Mary."
"She'll come, Tommy," said Malcolm, "just as soon as she finds out where you are. Or we might be able to find her for you if we knew something about her."
"Big Mary," said the boy drowsily as his mind slipped back into the neomorph-induced fog. "Big and soft and nice. Her face ... is nice ..."
Caldwell turned her eyes, the only features clearly visible above her mask, on Malcolm.
Defensively, he said, "There isn't anything I can do, Nurse, so don't look at me like that ... If he was ever given a surname he's forgotten it, and all she has to look for on the casualty lists is a juvenile RTA called Tommy. If she is able to read, that is. As for big, soft, nice Mary, what kind of description is that? How big is big to a skinny little runt so badly under-nourished that we can't place his age more accurately than somewhere between eight and eleven?"
Tommy had been unfortunate enough to be knocked down by one of the city's relatively few powered vehicles, and fortunate in that it had been an ambulance slowing to take a corner on its way to the hospital. He had been very lucky in receiving prompt and expert attention to his injuries sustained in an area of the city where road traffic accident cases, victims of muggings, rioting, and the unwanted very old or very young were left to lie and die until the waste reclamation Squads or a cannibal club removed them during the night. But the hospital could do nothing in the short term about the effects of living since infancy at subsistence level or below—the spindly, deformed limbs, the diseased and incredibly brittle bone structure and the irreversible damage sustained by his heart as a result of a number of severe bouts of rheumatic fever.
Despite his good fortune, young Tommy was expected to be a very short-term patient.
"It's difficult to be sure whether anything he says makes sense," Nurse Caldwell said quietly. "But he did say that Big Mary followed John, and that she carried him like a wee bairn. That would mean that she's big, or strong, anyway. And she talks about climbing all the time. I have the strong feeling that she's a power walker."
"There are a lot of ..." began Malcolm.
"I know, Doctor. But there is a police guard on Mr. Hesketh. A policeman, if you asked him nicely, should be able to tell us how to find the one special power walker we're looking for."
Malcolm felt stupid for not thinking of that idea before Caldwell had, and he tried to hide his irritation as he said, "It's an idea. I'll ask him first chance I—"
He broke off as Ann's voice spoke from the cubicle's communicator. She said, "Sister here. Sorry to interrupt, Doctor, but the Professor has arrived with the night superintendent in tow. The overdose is coming to sooner than expected in cubicle Five, and Collins would like you to look at her as soon as possible. Mr. Hesketh, the multiple gunshot in Four, is worrying Nurse Bandhu. Ectopics, blood pressure down and increased haemorrhaging.
"Is that all?"
"For the present," said Ann cheerfully. "If you would look at Mr. Hesketh I'll keep the Prof. out of your hair while you're doing that."
There was nothing Malcolm could do except look at Mr. Hesketh. The emergency admissions theatre had tried their best, but there was nothing that they could have done, either, for an old man who had stopped four bullets. One of them had shattered his left shoulder and another, deflected and deformed by something he must have been carrying in his tunic pocket, had dug a deep trench along his left side at waist level. The other two had virtually followed each other through the stomach and left lobe of the liver until they were stopped by the sixth and seventh dorsals, below which the patient had neither muscular control nor sensory response.
Malcolm studied the bedside monitor for a moment. Despite massive and continuing blood transfusions the central venous pressure was low and falling slowly while the arterial pressure remained relatively high. Cerebral perfusion and oxygenation should be adequate for coherent thought and speech if the patient regained consciousness. The pulse was elevated, but not dangerously so, with ectopics showing on the screen like irregular, extra heart-beats once every ten to fifteen seconds. Because of the liver damage the skin and eye-balls were severely jaundiced.
"Good evening, Mr. Hesketh," said Malcolm, not expecting a reply. "How are you?"
"F ... Fine, thank you."
The automatic response of a friendly, timid and polite old man who must certainly know that he was not fine, but who did not want to give offence. Malcolm watched the half-open eyes begin to blink, then open fully and look around.
On one side Nurse Bandhu was a study in white and almost black, her dark brown forehead and eyes showing in startling contrast to her white uniform cap, mask and gown while, on the other side of the bed, the same area of the policeman's face was a white blur between his black cap, gas-filter mask and uniform.
"Have you any pain, Mr. Hesketh?" said Malcolm. "Is anything worrying you?"
It was obvious that something was troubling the old man, but his eyes were beginning to close again and the effort required to talk was becoming too much for him.
"Mr. Hesketh," said the guard in a low, clear tone. "We want you to help us find the people who did this to you, and for killing the man who was lying beside you. They are responsible for the deaths of ... many other people as well. We need descriptions, mannerisms, anything that was said. You are the only one alive who saw them, Mr. Hesketh. Please try."
This is not a routine case, thought Malcolm as he saw the concentration in the other's face.
"The man who ... shot me is dead," said the old man weakly. "He fell beside me ... just before I passed out. My clothes ... Get my clothes ... Tape ..."
"We'll bring you your clothing as soon as you are ready to go home, Mr. Hesketh," Malcolm said gravely, because the old man would not be going anywhere, alive. "And we can tape any last message whenever you consider it necessary."
But the old man was not even looking at him. Instead he was trying to raise his head from the pillows while he stared at the guard. The effort had the expected effect. He began to go under again, and his voice was barely audible as he said, "My clothes ... now. Want to explain. Nice man ... He let me help him ... Needs both his hands for ..."
The policeman sat back in his chair and said to nobody in particular. "I suppose that was a confession of some sort. Apparently he has something which doesn't belong to him, given to him by the person who stole it. He likes this person and doesn't want him to be punished. He is also, in the manner of most thieves, or receivers, worried in case something is stolen from him, namely his clothing or the contents of his clothing. But if he only knew! We would excuse him robbing a token bank if he would only give us the information we need."
It was impossible to read the guard's expression in any detail from the narrow strip of face visible, but there was evident pallor and he sounded rather emotional. Perhaps he was one of the forensic specialists, unaccustomed to direct contact with the dead or dying, and was suffering from an over-sympathetic reaction.
Malcolm glanced at the policeman's ID patch as he straightened up and said, "Sergeant Telford, I consider it very unlikely that Mr. Hesketh is a thief or receiver of stolen property. If he was a successful thief he would not be so under-nourished. If unsuccessful, then he would be missing his left hand. In any case, I think he is too old-fashioned and timid to risk the kind of punishment meted out to thieves these days. And I recognise that look in your eye, Sergeant. I get it, too, when somebody with less experience in my job than I have tries to tell me what to do."
Sergeant Telford sat stiffly silent for a few seconds, then he shrugged and said, "So far you are making sense, Doctor, please go on."
"Very well," said Malcolm. "Mr. Hesketh is an old man, but not senile. Anything he says should be considered as meaningful. Now, he gave you one piece of evidence to the effect that the man who had shot him had himself been shot. He said that talking about it was a waste of time. Why was that? And he was worried about his clothing, which had been removed in the Admissions Unit. Suppose he was also worried about dying without leaving—"
"A terminal tape!" said the sergeant excitedly. "Of course, Doctor. When he was threatened with death he turned it on, and that is why it would be a waste of time answering my questions. I'm sorry, I just wasn't thinking at all. It was such a serious crime and I was concentrating on obtaining evidence; and protecting the old man in case somebody broke in here and finished the job. Do you know where I can find his clothing?"
"We can do better than that," said Malcolm, punching the internal code for the Admissions Unit.
"I remember that old man," said the sister-in-charge. "He went directly to theatre, but his effects are still here and, frankly, we've been too busy to process them. There's been an armed protest and associated major traffic incident. You should have one of the serious casualties by now, a burns and multiple thoracics. But the old man didn't leave one tape, Doctor, he had pockets full of them. A bit morbid, that, I thought. But when the clerk played back some of them, looking for information about his next-of-kin, you understand, she found only music and dialogue. Do you want me to send everything to you in ICU?"
"Yes, please," said Malcolm.
"As soon as there is a porter free," said the Admissions Sister, "I'll send them up."
As Malcolm was replacing the phone, Sergeant Telford said, "Thank you again, Doctor. The, ah, number of tapes this man was carrying is surprising. Maybe he is some kind of harmless nut. But you drew my attention to this potential source of information, and I am grateful."
The stilted tone was that of a man who was not used to thanking people but, if such an unusual action became necessary, it was obvious that the sergeant believed in doing a thorough job of it.
Tommy ... thought Malcolm.
"Glad to help, Sergeant," said Malcolm deprecatingly. "But there is a small favour you might be able to do for us in return, if you wouldn't mind. We're having difficulty tracing the next-of-kin of a juvenile RTA. But with the benefit of your professional expertise ... What the blazes!"
The quiet of the unit, where normally the loudest sounds were the hushed voices of the staff and the quiet hissing from the beds where the patients were on positive pressure ventilation, was being disturbed by what sounded like the beginnings of a Grade Five incident. Grade Fives were the least serious of disturbances, family or group fights in which fists and feet only were used, and usually the police allowed them to burn themselves out without taking official cognisance of the incidents unless someone was killed. But minor or not, they were not supposed to take place, ever, in an intensive care unit.
Malcolm left the Hesketh cubicle at a run and with the sergeant, his gun drawn, following closely behind him.
Chapter Two – Complications
THE DISTURBANCE was centred around the bed occupied by the female overdose who, since barrier nursing was not needed in her case, was in the open section of the ward. For this reason Malcolm was able to hear as well as see the patient's fist connect with Nurse Collin's eyebrow and the nurse's unladylike verbal response as she gripped her attacker's wrist with both hands and, with the help of a knee pressed against the patient's bicep, immobilised the limb.
Meanwhile Ann was sitting on the patient's thighs and holding the other arm steady so that the professor, looking incongruous with his mask dangling from one ear and blood dripping steadily from two long, vertical scratches on his left cheek, administered a hefty sedative shot. The overdose, who had been shouting "John! John!" at the top of her voice and screaming curses at everyone, subsided very slowly.
For a few seconds Professor Donnelly watched her, his face reflecting the sincere but somewhat detached concern with which he seemed to regard not only his patients but the whole world at large. Many of the nursing staff, and not just the young and impressionable ones, said that he looked saint-like. Those same nurses were at pains to add that the Prof. was not one of your smooth-faced, holier-than-thou and rather effeminate saints, but more the type who had come to his vocation late in life after a background of coalmining or the like. His diagnostic and surgical skill, however, had not been learned in any coalmine. Finally the Prof. looked up and nodded at Malcolm.
"I realise, Doctor," he said calmly, "that administering such a large dosage is not always a good idea with an OD who has already self-administered far too much medication. But she seemed to be verbally lucid, if a trifle vehement in her speech, and her muscular co-ordination was such that the earlier medication appeared to have been neutralised. The risk is therefore minimal. Besides, if I hadn't knocked her put, Nurse Collins would probably have used karate."
"Undoubtedly," said Malcolm, smiling, Nurse Collins's smile was forced and slightly lop-sided because her face was beginning to swell on one side. The night nursing superintendent looked disapprovingly at everyone, which was what she had been doing for the past twenty years.
Ann dismounted from her uncomfortable seat on the OD's knees and said, "If you'll come to my office, sir, I'll put a dressing on your face ..."
At that moment the red emergency light started flashing above the door of patient Hesketh's cubicle, and an Indonesian nurse Malcolm had never seen before hurried up to tell Ann that Theatre had called to say that they were sending up a severe burns and thoracic injuries in about twenty minutes, and was there an air-bed available?
The professor waved dismissal and said wryly, "Thank you, Sister, but as the most highly qualified surgeon here present I should be capable of treating a couple of simple lacerations. Carry on, it looks like being a busy night."
As Malcolm turned away he collided with the sergeant, who said, "Sorry, Doctor. I didn't mean to get in the way, and I thought I might be of some help. But, well, can you tell me something? Is that girl personally acquainted with your professor: She called him John, among other things."
"I doubt it," said Malcolm as he walked briskly towards the flashing light. "His initials are F.S."
The red light stopped flashing seconds before he reached the cubicle. Nurse Bandhu's voice came from the grill above the door, saying, "Sorry, Doctor, a false alarm. For about half a minute there his cardiac trace was all over the screen, but it has steadied nicely again, as you can see."
Malcolm studied the screen through the glass panel in the door for a moment, then he said, "Right. He should be all right for a while, but I'll come by as often as possible."
The sergeant followed him as he walked to the pharmacy room at the other end of the ward. Only one cubicle and two beds were empty and there was another patient on the way. Sixteen patients, two short of capacity—it was going to be a busy night. It was not until he had finished soaking a square of lint in surgical spirit and was on the way back to the OD that Telford said, "The old man is going to die, isn't he? Is there anything you can do?"
"Anything I could do," said Malcolm, "would only delay the end by a few days. I could perform a tracheotomy and hook him on to a ventilator, which would relieve him of the physical effort of breathing and take some of the strain off his heart. I don't know why Theatre didn't trachy him when they had the chance, because it was strongly indicated and—"
"That was our fault," the sergeant broke in. Apologetically, he went on, "we wanted him to be able to talk, and apparently talking is impossible once a tracheotomy has been done and a ventilator is assisting his breathing. Your professor wanted it done, but when he was told, in strictest confidence, of course, about the magnitude of the crime which had been committed and the necessity of obtaining the old man's evidence as quickly as possible, he agreed to keeping the patient off a ventilator. He argued about it, though."
"I bet he did," said Malcolm.
"I'm sorry Mr. Hesketh has not received the optimum treatment," the sergeant went on, "but we must get him to tell us what he knows, especially if your tape idea doesn't work out. I wish I was at liberty, Doctor, to tell you what we told your professor."
Malcolm sighed and said, "In this place I have seen the end results of all kinds of mental and physical violence. I don't think I'd be shocked at anything you could tell me."
