Ken McClure - Pestilence

“Yes Doctor.”

“Permission forms?”

“There’s a problem.”

“Can’t contact the parents?”

“No, it’s not that. They are here…but they won’t give permission for a blood transfusion. Religious reasons. They are Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

Saracen’s head dropped and he massaged his left temple with the fingertips of his left hand. It was his way of counting to ten.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“The small waiting room.”

“Put them in the office will you. I’ll talk to them.”

Saracen took a deep breath and entered the room to find a middle aged couple sitting there with their arms around each other. The woman was sobbing quietly into a handkerchief. Saracen said who he was and came straight to the point. “Let me be perfectly frank with you,” he said, “If your daughter does not have a blood transfusion soon she will die. There is no other possible outcome. Do you understand?”

The man nodded silently. The woman continued to sob.

“Will you please give me your permission?”

The woman sobbed harder. The man squeezed her shoulder and said, “I am afraid our beliefs forbid such a thing Doctor. We cannot give our permission.”

Anger simmered inside Saracen and he remained silent for a moment until he had regained his composure. He was about to say something else when they couple looked up at him and his anger was replaced by frustration. Instead of the smug self righteousness he thought that he might find in their faces he could see only pain and torment. The couple were suffering doubly, firstly because their daughter had been so badly injured and secondly because they felt compelled to block the one thing that could save her.

Saracen said, “I will now apply to have your child made a ward of court for the duration of her treatment. Do you have any questions?”

The couple remained silent but as Saracen got to the door the woman asked, “How long will that take Doctor?”

“One hour maybe two.”

“Will she…” The words died on the woman’s lips as she realised that it was a question she should not be asking.

Saracen left the room with the impression that the couple were really quite glad to have had the onus removed from them although he also suspected that they would never admit as much to anyone, not even themselves. The games people play, thought Saracen as he returned to the treatment room to check on the girl’s condition before entering Nigel Garten’s office to find the card that held the telephone numbers and instructions for instigating ward of court proceedings.

The number was engaged and Saracen cursed under his breath. When he still got the engaged tone after the third attempt he slapped down his fist on the desk in frustration and caused some ink to jump out of its silver pot and splash on to the leather desk top. He searched quickly through the desk drawers for blotting paper and found some, but there, just below it, was an open letter. Saracen’s eye caught the underlined name near the top of the page. It was Myra Archer.

When he had finally got through to the authorities and set things in motion Saracen returned to the drawer where the letter was lying and drew it out. He overcame his feelings of guilt at what he was about to do and read it. The letter came from British Airways and referred to a request made by Nigel Garten that all passengers and crew on the flight that had brought Myra Archer to the United Kingdom be contacted and treated as recommended. The letter confirmed that this had been done.

“What the hell for?” said Saracen softly as he stared at the letter. If the woman had died of a heart attack. What was all this nonsense about treatment for fellow passengers? Did this mean that Myra Archer had not died of cardiac failure? To find out the answer Saracen knew that he would have to find Garten’s original to British Airways. He started searching through the files.

After a few minutes which seemed like hours he found what he was looking for and read the letter still crouching down beside the filing cabinet. It advised the airline that Mrs Myra Archer, a passenger on their flight BA 3114 to London Heathrow had been shown to be suffering from a Salmonella infection. As a precaution it was deemed advisable for all persons on the flight to undergo a course of preventative antibiotic therapy as there was a possibility that food served on the aircraft might have been responsible.

“Food poisoning?” said Saracen out loud. Myra Archer had been suffering from food poisoning? He shook his head in puzzlement but did not have time to consider the matter further before Chenhui came through the door and said anxiously, “Dr Saracen, I need your help. You come please.”

Saracen followed Chenhui back to the side room where the teenage girl lay.

“I not happy,” said Chenhui.

Saracen examined the girl and checked the monitors. He agreed with Chenhui. “We can’t wait any longer,” he said. “We’ll have to give her blood right now. Has it come up from the bank?”

Sister Lindeman said that it had.

“Cross-matched?”

“Yes. How about the paperwork?”

“We can’t wait.”

“If you say so.” Sister Lindeman enunciated the words very clearly and Saracen recognised that she was inviting him to take responsibility publicly. “I say so,” he said with a barely perceptible smile.

Saracen had set up the transfusion and was washing his hands when Chenhui came up beside him and said, “I puzzled. Why parents say no blood?”

“A religious objection to transfusion,” replied Saracen, pushing off the taps with his elbows.

“I no understand.”

“Frankly Chenhui, neither do I,” said Saracen, baulking at the thought of attempting to explain something he had no heart for. “It’s all part of God’s little obstacle course.”

Chenhui looked more puzzled than ever.

“Let’s go have a cup of tea.”

As they walked across the floor towards the duty room a trolley came through the swing doors bearing a tear stained young boy holding his left arm gingerly. “He fell off a swing,” said the attendant.

“I will do,” announced Chenhui and Saracen nodded. He went to have his tea and found Jill Rawlings had beaten him to it. She was sitting on a corner of the desk holding cup and saucer. “I hear you gave blood to the JW,” she said.

“No option.”

“The authorities might disagree.”

“Sod ‘em.”

“My hero,” grinned Jill.

Saracen ignored the remark and asked, “Did Mary Travers say anything about Myra Archer having had a Salmonella infection?”

“Yes she did, come to think of it. Some days after the Archer case she and the ambulance crew were given a course of antibiotics as a precaution. It didn’t seem to be relevant to what you were asking at the time.”

“I suppose not,” said Saracen deep in thought.

“You’re not dropping the matter?”

Saracen screwed up his face. “So many things are bothering me. For instance how did they know the woman had a Salmonella infection if it was a treble nine call to a heart attack?”

“Presumably it was something they discovered afterwards at Post-Mortem,” said Jill.

“A Salmonella infection is hardly something the pathologist would be looking for in this woman’s case,” said Saracen.

“What are you getting at?”

Saracen shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “To be quite frank,” he said, “I’m not at all sure myself.”

Jill smiled and touched him on the forearm.

“I have another favour to ask,” said Saracen.

“Go on.”

“Would you ask Mary Travers what day she was given the antibiotic cover on?”

“All right,” sighed Jill, “If it will make you happy.” Then, as an afterthought she said, “If they did know that Myra Archer had food poisoning at the time of the call that would explain why they decided to send her on to the County Hospital wouldn’t it?”