Ken McClure: Pestilence

It was another full minute before Saracen could bring himself to try moving his legs off the table. He slid the left one slowly over the edge of the steel table and let it dangle down while he brought the right one round to join it. Then, holding his breath, he attempted to stand up. It was a disaster. His legs buckled beneath him and, as he fell, his fingers caught in one of the channels that were etched into the table for the drainage of blood and body fluids. His wrist was wrenched painfully as he slid to the floor.

Saracen cursed in frustration as he dragged himself up on to his hands and knees. He had to stop at that and hang his head for a moment as the pain increased in successive waves like an incoming tide. He knew that he was going to be sick but there was little he could do about it. He just had to let it happen and threw up on the floor. The involuntary convulsing of his stomach brought on an exhaustion that made him feel faint. He felt that consciousness was slipping away from him fast and his last act, before passing out, was to push himself to one side so that he would not fall into his own vomit.

When Saracen came round for the second time he felt icy cold and was shivering uncontrollably but this time he could think more lucidly. He had to get to a telephone. There was one in the room and he knew where it was, it was just a matter of reaching it. He did not attempt to stand up this time. Instead he dragged himself across the floor, keeping as horizontal as possible to maintain the blood supply to his head and having cause to be grateful to the smooth, sluicable surface that minimised the friction factor in his progress. He reached the far wall and risked pulling himself up into a sitting position by reaching up and gripping a metal hose reel that was mounted low down on the tiled wall. He could see the pathologist’s telephone sitting invitingly on the desk above him. It encouraged him to make the final effort and he stretched up to take it from the hook.

“It’s Doctor Saracen…I’m in the PM room…send someone.”

The voices in the tunnel suddenly lost their echo and began to make sense.

“So you are back with us!”

Saracen understood the words but could not reply at first.

“Care to tell us what happened old man?”

Saracen opened his eyes and recognised Martin Saithe, the Physician Superintendent at Skelmore General, a man he did not much care for but contact between them had been minimal so this had not become a problem. Standing beside Saithe was Alan Tremaine and beside Tremaine a policeman in uniform. The face of Sister Vera Ellis swam into view and told Saracen that he was in Ward Four, the ward immediately above A amp;E.

When the power of speech had returned, Saracen told the assembled group of the incident outside the mortuary and how he had been hit from behind. He was puzzled to find that no one seemed particularly surprised. Saithe nodded and said, “Yes, we had concluded as much. You had the misfortune to disturb our intruders last night.”

“Intruders?” asked Saracen.

“Thieves,” said Saithe with an air of distaste. “Dr Garten informs me that a new compressor due to be fitted to the refrigeration system in the mortuary was stolen last night. A grubby little crime.” Saithe adopted the expression that Saracen associated with him most, a narrowing of the eyes and the adoption of a pained expression that was meant to convey to his fellows that an extreme sensitivity to things vulgar and distasteful. Saithe now betrayed a restlessness and obvious desire to be off. “Well,” he said, eyeing his watch, “I think it’s quite clear what happened. You got a nasty crack on the head but nothing too serious. Dr Garten will have to soldier on without you for a few days but then you’ll be back, right as rain.”

The idea of Garten ‘soldiering on’ made Tremaine look at Saracen and cover his mouth with his hand. He was grateful that Saracen, in his present state, did not feel much like smiling.

Saithe said to Saracen, “Perhaps you might tell the constable here anything that you think might be useful or helpful in the investigation.” With that, he gave a dutiful smile, said thank-you to the ward sister and left the ward.

“If there is anything you could tell me sir,” said the constable. “Anything at all.”

“Yes, I’m going to be sick,” said Saracen.

“Nurse!” Sister Ellis conjured up a student nurse with a suitable receptacle before Saracen could even contemplate defiling her smooth blanketry or mirror shine floors.

The stomach convulsions ceased and Saracen lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes until the throbbing in his head had subsided. When he felt better he turned to the young policeman and said, “There were three of them.”

The policeman looked pleased and started to write in his notebook. “Did you get a good look at any of them?” he asked.

Saracen told him about the overalls and visors.

The policeman nodded thoughtfully and said, “That could be very helpful. From what you say it sounds like the sort of gear they wear to strip out asbestos from old buildings and the like. That could be a valuable lead.”

“Good,” said Saracen without much enthusiasm for he still felt ill.

“I’ll let you get some sleep sir,” said the officer getting to his feet and pocketing his notebook. He placed his helmet on his head using both hands coronation style and adjusted it well before nodding to Saracen and Tremaine and saying good-bye for the moment.

“You look awful,” said Tremaine when he and Saracen were alone.

“I feel awful,” conceded Saracen.

“You know,” Tremaine began cautiously, “The bump on your head isn’t that bad and the X-Rays were perfectly OK…I’m surprised you’re having so much discomfort.

Saracen’s first thought was to hit Tremaine but physical effort was beyond him for the moment. “There was more to it than the bump on the head,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

Saracen screwed up his face at the question he himself had invited but could not answer. “I don’t know exactly but I think I may have been poisoned. There was something in my lungs when I came round, something that stopped me thinking clearly.”

“You’re serious?” exclaimed Tremaine.

“When I came to, my chest felt as if I had been breathing in some sickly sweet gas. It was heavy, unpleasant, but by the time I awoke I had been inhaling it for so long that I couldn’t recognise it. Were you one of the people who came down to the PM room when I called?”

“Yes I was.”

“You didn’t notice any strong smell?”

“Formaldehyde, but you’d expect that in the PM room.

“Formaldehyde,” repeated Saracen slowly. “It could have been that but there would have to have been an awful lot of it. You didn’t come across a broken bottle did you?”

“No, but then I really didn’t look. We were all too concerned with getting you out of there. If you like I’ll go down and check.”

“I’d be obliged. Tell me, did you go into the mortuary itself?”

“The connecting door between it and the PM suite was locked.”

“It’s not usually kept locked.” said Saracen.

“Probably to keep these fridge engineers out of the autopsy room. Mortuaries are bad enough in themselves for the morbidly curious but PM paraphernalia tends to lend wings to already vivid imaginations.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Tremaine got to his feet and said, “Do you know what I’m going to do now?”

“What?”

“I’m going to call Garten and tell him that you will be out of action for a few days. That should obviate our leader’s need for a morning laxative. He is going to have to come in.”

“Who are the housemen on A amp;E today?”