Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

The traffic cop who swaggered up to my driver’s window looked visibly shaken at the sight of a woman in her thirties behind the wheel of the pimpmobile. He was even more disconcerted when Scarlett started shouting from the back seat.

‘Give us a fucking escort,’ she yelled.

‘She’s in labour,’ I said. Pretty needlessly, I thought.

‘Is that—’

‘Yes,’ I said impatiently. ‘And if we don’t get her to hospital soon, you might find yourself in the headlines for making a roadside delivery.’

I could see the cogs turning. ‘OK. Follow me.’ He turned and headed back for his car.

‘Wait,’ I yelled. ‘You don’t know where we’re going.’

He turned, laughing. ‘You’re going to the nearest hospital. She’s in no condition to wait.’

He’d get no argument from me, though Scarlett was swearing like it was an Olympic sport. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the pain or because her carefully orchestrated plans had all gone tits-up.

By the time we got to the hospital, Scarlett was mostly howling like a wolf or whimpering like a chained-up puppy. Sod compassion. All I wanted was for it to stop. I got my wish soon enough. The moment we arrived, Scarlett was whisked away on a trolley and I was directed to the reception desk to book her in. I thanked the cop, who was already preening himself at the desk. ‘I called ahead,’ he said. ‘That’s why they were waiting for her.’

‘I know she’ll appreciate it when she comes out the other side of this,’ I said.

‘Are you her PA, then?’

‘No, I’m her friend.’ I caught his sceptical look and checked myself out. A pair of Scarlett’s joggers, about four inches too short for my longer legs. A sagging T-shirt sized for her bosom rather than mine. It had been that or my best frock, which didn’t seem quite the thing for a hospital dash in the middle of the night. I looked more like a cleaner than any PA I’d ever met, apart from the fuck-me party shoes. But I wasn’t about to explain myself to a cop. Instead, I made a point of getting a piece of paper from the receptionist and taking down his details. George could send him a bottle of Scotch later.

When it came to booking Scarlett in, I was impressed by how much detail I had at my fingertips. Date of birth, full name, address. I even knew where her GP’s surgery was because I’d picked up a prescription one afternoon on my way out to her place. At least it made me look credible in the eyes of the receptionist. I really knew her. I wasn’t just some passing stalker.

Up on the ward, I felt like I’d stepped into a no man’s land between two irreconcilable states. On the one hand, the calm and capable midwives. On the other, the women crazed with pain, fear and discomfort. I found Scarlett in a small side room, squatting on the floor in a hospital gown. ‘Are you OK?’ I said. ‘Sorry, that’s a really stupid question. What have they said?’

‘Nothing much.’ She groaned. ‘Somebody’s coming to examine me properly in a minute.’

‘I’m going to go and try to get hold of Joshu again,’ I said.

‘No,’ she yelled, reaching out and grabbing my wrist like a vice. ‘Stay here with me. I don’t want that useless twat. It’s our wedding night and where is he?’ Another contraction gripped her and she subsided on to the floor, holding her bump and rocking from side to side. I was pretty sure this wasn’t the best idea.

I didn’t have to make the call, luckily. A strapping Scottish midwife strode in and got Scarlett on to the bed apparently by magic. ‘Doctor will be along in a minute,’ she said. ‘Are you the birth partner?’ I said no, Scarlett said yes. The midwife gave a prim little smile. ‘That’ll be a yes, then. Now we’ve got her on her side, you can rub her back.’ Then she was gone.

‘This is not a good idea,’ I said. ‘I’ve no bloody idea what to expect.’

‘A baby. That’s what I’m expecting.’ Scarlett gave a feeble chuckle. ‘I’m the one doing all the work, Steph. You just have to be here.’

And so I was. Because I hadn’t a clue what was going on, it’s hard to describe what happened over the next four hours. I know they gave her an epidural almost as soon as the doctor examined her. Between that and the gas and air she was sucking on, Scarlett wasn’t making much sense about anything. ‘They zone out in the second stage,’ the midwife said, as if that was an explanation. She might as well have said, ‘Cabbages dance on the moons of Jupiter,’ for all the sense it made to me. I kept stroking her back and her head and her hands and mumbling platitudes. And trying not to pay too close attention to the business end of things.

The professionals didn’t appear worried. It all seemed to be going calmly and smoothly. Until it wasn’t. The medical team didn’t flap or raise their voices. But all of a sudden there was a flurry of activity. There were more people in the room and they looked more serious, as if something had happened to make them stop coasting and pay particular attention. Scarlett seemed oblivious; she was sweating and swearing and panting and proving remarkably obedient to the midwife’s instructions.

‘What’s happening?’ I chose my words carefully. I wanted to ask what was wrong but I didn’t want to frighten Scarlett.

‘The baby’s got a big head,’ the doctor said. ‘It’s stuck in the birth canal.’

‘That’s not what’s supposed to happen, right?’

She gave me an impatient glance. ‘No. We’re going to take Scarlett through to another room, where we can carry out procedures more easily.’ As she spoke, the nurses were raising the sides of the bed and freeing the wheels from their brakes.

‘Procedures? What procedures?’

‘We’re going to try something called a ventouse,’ she said. By now, we were both following the bed down the hall.

‘What’s that?’

‘Think sink plunger. Only kinder. Have you done any preparation for this?’ she said as I trotted after her into a large room kitted out like a set from Casualty .

‘I wasn’t expecting to be doing this,’ I said with some asperity. ‘She’s got a husband.’

The doctor tipped her head towards me and smiled. ‘You’re doing OK for a first reserve. Now keep out of our way.’

In a few moments, everything had changed. Now I was in the thick of a medical process. Scarlett wasn’t an individual any more; she was a patient. A body to be worked on. A problem to be solved. It wasn’t that anyone was unkind or careless of her. It was simply that kindness wasn’t a factor in what was happening now. There was a sense of urgency in the room that hadn’t been there before. Fear had taken up residence in the back of my throat and I felt on the verge of tears.

A few minutes in, a passing nurse said over her shoulder, ‘Things will move fast now. We have to make sure the baby’s getting enough oxygen.’

She was right. I was at the heart of a whirlwind of action. Apparently the ventouse wasn’t working. The baby was stuck fast. All at once we were on the move again. A clipboard appeared out of nowhere with a pen tied to it. The doctor put the pen in Scarlett’s hand as we headed back out into the corridor. ‘You need to give your consent,’ she said, sounding much more relaxed than anybody looked.

‘Consent for what?’ How could this be consent? Scarlett was off her head on pain relief and pain itself.

‘We need to do an emergency C-section,’ the doctor said. She looked around and snagged one of the nurses. ‘You, help Stephanie here. She needs to get gowned up and into theatre.’

‘Me?’ I yelped. ‘Surely you don’t expect—’

‘Just do it. Please,’ the doctor said as they all disappeared round a corner.