Ken McClure - Wildcard

Steven had been sitting with Caroline for about half an hour, holding her hand and soothing her, when she became restless again, as if in the throes of a bad dream. He tried shushing her through it, but this time to no avail. After a few more moments, he felt a convulsion ripple through her body and just managed to get a papier-mache bowl up to her face in time to catch the bloody vomit that erupted from her mouth.

‘Easy, my lady,’ he soothed.

Caroline continued retching until there was nothing left in her stomach, her face reflecting her pain as the spasms racked her. When they at last stopped, her head flopped back on the pillow in exhaustion, blood trickling from her nose. He wiped it away and rinsed the sponge. Her eyes flickered open and recognition registered in them.

‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘God, I feel awful.’

‘But you’re winning,’ said Steven with every ounce of conviction he could muster. ‘Hang in there.’

She started to answer but another convulsion ripped through her and Steven held up the bowl again. Although her stomach muscles contracted so violently that her whole body heaved, she brought up only a trickle of bloodstained mucus.

‘Jesus,’ she complained, seeking relief from the pain of the spasms by wrapping her arms tightly round her stomach. Her nosebleed restarted with a vengeance and this time, when her eyes opened, Steven could see that conjunctival haemorrhages were turning the whites of her eyes red. He got up and waved his arm to attract the attention of one of the nurses. He asked her to stay with Caroline while he emptied the sick bowl and washed out the blood-soaked sponges at the sluice.

When he returned, the nurse said, ‘I’d better call Kate.’

Steven knew the crisis had come. He sank to his knees beside Caroline again and did his best to make her as comfortable as possible with tender words and loving care. When she had a momentary respite from the spasms, she said haltingly, ‘I remember telling you I hoped someone would be there to look after me if I ever needed them… I didn’t realise it would be you.’

‘I guess you drew the short straw,’ said Steven.

Her attempt at a smile was cut short by another convulsion.

‘I think I’m going to have to get some fluid into you, my lady,’ murmured Steven, reaching for a saline pack. ‘You’ve been losing too much.’

‘Be… careful,’ she cautioned. ‘I’m not… too responsible for… my actions… right now.’

‘Just try to relax.’

‘You’ve no idea… how ridiculous that sounds,’ said Caroline, grimacing with pain and drawing up her knees involuntarily.

A nurse appeared at Steven’s shoulder and whispered, ‘Kate’s on her way. Can I do anything?’

Steven asked her to hold Caroline’s arm steady while he inserted the needle. When it was secured in place he looked around for something to hang the saline reservoir from and settled on a corner of the memorial board. He pinned it next to the name of one Sergeant Morris Holmes who had died for King and Country at the battle of Ypres. He said, ‘Just you hold that there for the time being, Morris.’

Steven’s spirits rose as Caroline’s spasms gradually became more infrequent and finally stopped, and she was able to relax into the margins between sleep and consciousness. But his optimism was short-lived: another wave of nausea overtook her and she started to retch all over again. When she at last settled again, she murmured, ‘I think something just snapped inside me. I could feel it go.’

‘What sort of feeling?’ asked Steven.

‘I think it was… my rubber band,’ replied Caroline with a smile so distant that it froze Steven with its poignancy. It was the moment when he knew that she was drifting away from him.

‘You’re going to be just fine,’ he said, although the words stuck in his throat and he had to swallow before he could say any more. ‘You’re over the worst now; the convulsions have finished and you’re on the mend. You must rest and build up your strength.’

He was aware that Kate Lineham had arrived and was standing there with one of the other nurses. She chose, however, not to move into Caroline’s line of sight or to say anything.

Caroline looked at Steven and he could read in her eyes that she was only minutes from death. He’d seen that look before in the eyes of fatally wounded soldiers. It was an almost serene acceptance of the inevitable. ‘Oh, my lady,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Hang in there. Please hang in there.’

‘The joke, Steven.’

He looked at her questioningly.

‘Tell me… the joke.’

Steven realised what she meant and slowly removed his hood and visor. He lay down beside her and put his cheek next to hers on the pillow. He kissed her hand and began, ‘There was this little polar bear sitting on a rock, watching the ice floes drift by…’

As he delivered the punchline, Steven felt Caroline give his hand a tiny squeeze. He couldn’t risk looking at her, because of the tears running down his face. All he could do was squeeze her hand back and remain there motionless, hating the entire world and its ‘All things bright and beautiful’ philosophy. Why didn’t they understand what an awful place it was in reality? Not the fucking Disney theme park they kept pretending it was! Dog eat dog. Kill or be killed. Nature red in tooth and claw. Fucking nightmare!

The rolling tide of anger and grief that swept over Steven gradually abated, and he took a few deep breaths to try to get a grip on himself. Kate made the first move: she bent down and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘She’s gone, Steven,’ she said gently. ‘Caroline’s gone.’

He nodded and got up slowly. He replaced his hood and visor and acknowledged Kate’s sympathy by taking her hands in his for a moment, before turning to head for the exit tunnel and the shower.

Back in his room, he managed to down the best part of a bottle of gin before sleep — or maybe it was unconsciousness — overtook him and excused him any more pain for one day. It was there waiting for him, however, when he awoke at ten the next morning with the maid wanting to do the room.

‘Okay,’ he said, his eyes closed against the light. ‘But just leave the bathroom.’ Suddenly fearing that the maid was going to use a vacuum cleaner, a sound he loathed even without a hangover — he felt sure that hell would be filled with the sound of vacuum cleaners — he opened one eye and saw that she was trailing an electric lead across the floor. This spurred him out of bed and sent him padding across the floor in his bare feet to seek refuge in the shower. He stayed there until he felt sure that the maid and her fearsome machine had gone, and then sent down for orange juice, coffee and aspirin. He got dressed while he waited.

Despite the distraction of a headache, he knew that this was going to be a crucial day for him. He wanted to grieve for Caroline — in fact, he wanted to wallow in grief, self-pity and sadness — but he couldn’t afford to. He had gone through one personal hell when he’d lost Lisa and the world had ceased to have any point or meaning, and he recognised some of those signs and symptoms in himself at the moment. He couldn’t let himself go down that road again, or he might end up in an institution staring at a blank wall. He would have to deal with Caroline’s death by blocking it out of his mind as much as he could. Throwing himself into his work was going to help: he had to decide what to do about Greg Allan’s list.

The hospitals probably wouldn’t hand out the information he needed about the new names, so he asked Sci-Med for help. He hoped that once he had established who the donors were he might be able to see something they had in common.

The information when it came through left Steven speechless.