Ken McClure - Donor

He wriggled up to the corner of the building on his belly and decided on his route. It wasn’t going to be as difficult as he’d first imagined. The gate-house was designed mainly to monitor people coming in rather than leaving. If he could cross the twenty metres of open ground between the main building and the gate-house without being seen, he could get round the back and into the neighbouring field at the corner where the electric fence ended. He got up on to his haunches and prepared for the short sprint. He was still a little unsteady so he took his time in composing himself. A stumble could be fatal.

The men inside the gate-house seemed to be moving around a good deal. Dunbar waited until none of them was near the window facing the main building, then sprinted across the tarmac and into the welcoming shadows. He paused, motionless, for a few moments before continuing round the blind side of the gate-house and squeezing through into the neighbouring field where the electric fence ended.

Dunbar started out on his journey towards the abandoned rail station where his hopes were pinned on the Land-Rover still being parked. The night was so dark that he kept stumbling and losing his footing as he made his way diagonally across the first field to follow the line of the road. The icy rain was doing something to clear the mess from his head and face but he desperately wanted to find water flowing in one of the many ditches he had to cross. It wasn’t until he was on the far side of the second field that he found a small stream running down the side of a pine wood. The water was freezing cold, but sluicing himself down with it was preferable to carrying on in his current condition.

It seemed as if every muscle in his body went into shivering spasm as he stripped off his contaminated clothing and knelt down in the water to clean himself. When he’d finished, he scrambled out on to the bank in ungainly fashion and brushed off excess water with the palms of his hands as best he could before extracting the towel from the binsack and rubbing himself down vigorously to maintain circulation. He put on the surgical tunic and trousers, cursing the fact that it was difficult because he wasn’t properly dry and his movements were jerky because he was shivering. He emptied the pockets of his old clothes and then stuffed them as a rolled-up bundle under a stone below the bank. He started running as fast as he dared in an effort to work up some warmth. He was still shivering all over when he finally reached the car park and saw that Jimmy’s Land-Rover was still there.

The engine rattled into life. Dunbar willed it to heat up quickly so that he might have the warmth of the heater to fight against threatening hypothermia. He crunched the vehicle into gear because the shivering of his leg made holding down the clutch pedal difficult. He bumped a little too fast over the broken surface, bouncing himself off the seat as the vehicle lurched out on to the road. He had to get to a phone box.

Although he was trying to travel as fast as he could he had the feeling of being trapped in a slow-motion world. Every gear change seemed to take for ever as the revs fell, the gears crunched and the build-up suggested he was towing a juggernaut. He resorted to staying in low gear and screaming the engine as he fought his way along the twisting country road back to town.

There was a woman dialling in the first phone box he came to. Dunbar screeched the Land-Rover to a halt beside her and got out. The mere sight of him, staggering from exhaustion, hair soaking wet and wearing medical attendant’s clothing, made the woman change her mind about the urgency of her call. She stumbled out of the box and took to her heels, looking anxiously behind her at what she obviously saw as an escapee from a lunatic asylum.

There was an awful moment when Dunbar couldn’t remember the number of the Sick Children’s Hospital but it came back to him. He then failed to dial it properly because the trembling in his hand made him hit two buttons together no fewer than three times. He took a deep breath, calmed himself and succeeded at the fourth attempt. He asked for Clive Turner, praying that he’d be there. He had no idea of time or date for that matter.

‘Dr Turner.’

‘Thank Christ,’ stammered Dunbar.

‘Who is this?’ asked Turner.

‘Clive, it’s Steven Dunbar. Has Amanda Chapman had her operation yet?’

‘Steven? Where the hell are you? What’s happened? You sound strange.’

‘Just tell me. Has Amanda had her operation yet?’

‘It was scheduled for eight this evening. Her father phoned me this morning. What’s happening? Where are you?’

Dunbar’s heart sank. ‘What time is it now?’ he asked.

‘Ten past nine. What is it? Where are you? What’s wrong?’

‘Listen! They’re deliberately giving Amanda the wrong kidney. They want her to die so they can steal her heart and give it to another patient.’

‘You can’t be serious,’ exclaimed Turner.

‘Believe me, it’s true. We’ve got to do something to save Amanda if there’s still time.’

‘What can we do? If you say they’re giving her the wrong kidney…’

‘They’ve had the matched kidney sent from Geneva. It must have arrived by now if they’re doing the operation, but they only plan to give it to Amanda after she’s dead. If we can get there in time we can see that she gets it instead of the bloody animal organ they’re giving her!’

‘I just can’t believe this is happening,’ stammered Turner.

‘Clive, just trust me. It’s true. Can you get a surgical team together and meet me in the car park at Medic Ecosse as soon as you can? I’m going to call in the cavalry.’

‘There’s only a surgical houseman and one theatre technician on duty at the moment.’

‘Do what you can. I think I can get you a theatre nurse.’

Dunbar called Lisa next.

‘Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s been two days!’

‘I’m sorry. There’s no time for explanations,’ said Dunbar. He gave her the briefest of summaries of what was happening and said, ‘They may need all the help they can get tonight. You’re an experienced theatre nurse. Will you help?’

‘Of course. What do you want me to do?’

‘Get over there as quick as you can. Meet us in the car park.’

Next Dunbar called Sci-Med in London. He had to reverse the charges. His money had run out. Luckily his call was accepted automatically.

‘This is Steven Dunbar in Glasgow. I need help urgently. Everything will have to be done from your end. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ said the duty officer. ‘But I may have to call for authorization.’

‘Do what I ask first!’ insisted Dunbar. ‘Then call anyone you like. I’ll take full responsibility. I need police back-up at the Medic Ecosse Hospital as fast as you can get them there, and some of them should be armed. They’ve not to do anything until I get there but I won’t be long. Tell them to wait outside the car park and out of sight. Okay?’

‘You’re sure about the arms?’

‘I suspect at least two of the opposition are carrying.’ Dunbar was thinking of the Arab guards on the Omega Wing. Hopefully they wouldn’t be involved but it was better to be safe than sorry.

‘Anything else?’

‘I need a couple of WPCs in the squad.’ Again, he was thinking of the Omega wing.

‘Anything else?’

‘I need a forensic pathologist to examine a kidney biopsy.’

‘We’ll ask the police. Is that it?’

‘Those are the priorities but the police might like to take a trip out to a place called Vane Farm; it’s north of Glasgow on Lomond Road. I’ve been held there for the last two days by some Arab gentlemen, one of whom might have been admitted to hospital by now with severe hand and arm injuries.’