Inkerman Writers - Kath Radford

Hospitals are supposed to love and care for the people brought in to them. But what happens when they don ’t....

Care to Die

Chapter One.

It was exactly six-fifteen-am as the doctor entered the ICU. The smell of illness permeated the air. He stood just inside the doorway and felt the familiar surge of adrenalin. He smiled to himself, as he watched the hushed-voiced shadows glide across the dimly lit room. Stepping into the half-light, his voice belied his nervous energy.

‘Good morning ladies. I hope you’re all well?’

A sandy haired young man popped his head up from behind a privacy screen.

‘I hope you’re not including me in that.’ said George Hughes. George was one of only four male nurses in the ICU’s predominantly female workforce. Despite the tempestuous undercurrent flowing through his veins, the doctor maintained his sanguine appearance. Holding his hand up in apology, he said.

‘Sorry George, I didn’t know it was your turn for nights.’ The medic ignored the rest of the staff and ambled over to talk to the young man.

‘Need the money doc.’ George replied, as he rubbed his tired, gritty eyes with the heels of his hands.

The doctor nodded his head toward Night Sister, who was working at the other end of the ward. ‘You must enjoy working with The Bat?’ he said

‘Don’t rub it in.’ George said. Leaning on the screen, he added. ‘Actually these are my rostered nights, last week was overtime. If they gave us a decent pay I wouldn ’t have to volunteer so much.’

‘You should put in for a promotion. They could do with a few more members of the favoured gender in the upper echelons of this place. ’ the doctor said. The two men nodded knowingly to each other before the doctor made his way over to the nurses. ’ station. Depositing his briefcase on the floor, he turned his attention to a tray of tea that littered the desk. He felt the side of the tea pot.

‘Good Morning doctor…’ Maureen Dent’s voice echoed through the hushed atmosphere. A tall willowy woman, the Night Sister always wore her long dark hair in a tight bun that accentuated her sharp roman nose. Others marvelled at her ability, no matter how traumatic the shift, to keep the immaculate chignon unruffled. Maureen paid scant attention as she attempted to shave her patient at the same time as conversing with their visitor. ‘…The tea is fresh. I thought you might pop in again this morning.’ she cooed. The assisting staff nurse knocked Maureen’s hand away from the patient’s face. Splashing the razor around in the bowl of tepid water, the Sister glowered at the nurse. The doctor poured himself a mug of tea and slopped milk into the hot fluid.

‘Were there any problems overnight?’ he asked.

Maureen pushed the wash trolley round to the other side of the bed and sidled over to the desk. ‘No everything’s fine, they’re all stable. It’s been a quiet night really. They designated Frank Hoyle as DNR yesterday. He’s the Pneumonia chap in the sideward. They were going to stop his treatments and terminally wean him from the ventilator, but apparently his wife persuaded them to put it off until this morning. Apart from that there is nothing to report. ’ The forty-two year old divorcee leaned over the doctor to pick up her mug of tea catapulting her bulbous breasts towards his face. He flinched and turned his back on her to hide his disgust. Heading toward the nearest chart table he said.

‘I’ll go round and check the fluids for you.’

Maureen pulled at the ties of the flimsy plastic apron covering her blues. The knot stretched resisting all attempts to undo it. She grabbed the front of the apron. Ripping it off she threw it in the nearest pedal bin and followed the doctor

‘Thanks that would be really helpful.’ she said.

He turned to face her and held up the palm of his hand bringing her to an abrupt stop.

‘No…no don’t bother, I’m sure I can manage.’ he said, picking up the chart. The woman’s fawning attitude annoyed him, but he needed her on side. He made an effort to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘You go back to your patient. I would hate to be accused of holding up the workers. ’ he said.

Maureen blushed. ‘All right, but let me know if you need anything.’ she said. Returning to the bedside she snatched back the razor out of the smiling staff nurse ’s hand.

The doctor sipped his tea and chatted pleasantly to the other nurses as he drifted round the patients in the main ward. Even though he stopped at each bed-space it only took him a few minutes. Returning to the nurses-station, he placed, the now empty, mug on the tray before retrieving his briefcase. He could feel Maureen ’s piercing eyes following him as he headed toward the sideward.

‘I’m pretty sure Frank’s charts are up to date, if you wanted to get away.’ she called.

He pretended not to hear. Entering the sideward, his nostrils twitched with revulsion at the smell of impending death. Securing the door behind him, he drew the curtains across the window and took a moment to survey the dimly lit room. Numerous pieces of equipment blinked at him like Christmas tree lights. An angle-poise lamp flooded the large chart-board in a nebulous yellow glaze. A gold St Christopher pendant dangled from the top of the board. The bright polished metal glinted as it rotated in the air conditioning. A muted glow of light deflected over the patient ’s head and upper torso. Tufted wisps of cotton-wool, stood erect against the grey-white of the pillow, where someone had tried to comb Frank Hoyle ’s hair without lifting his head. Despite many weeks of supplementary nutrition the gaunt skull shaped features showed the ravages of septicaemia. Fingered ribs rose and fell in syncopated rhythm with the ventilator, its soporific whoosh resonating around the small room.

The doctor laid his briefcase on the bedside table and glanced toward Frank’s half-closed, unseeing eyes. Quickly averting his gaze, he flicked both catches simultaneously and opened the briefcase. He wavered momentarily and then crossed to the window and eased back the curtain. He need not have worried. The nurses were too busy gossiping to notice what was going on under their noses. The doctor felt nothing but contempt for these people. He tried to remember when it all started, a year, eighteen months ago, maybe longer. Although he remembered the first, he could not recall her name. For some reason the old woman reminded him of his mother. As a small boy he ’d watched as cancer devastated her body. He had seen the effects of opiates administered by the GP, watched as the highs of analgesia were replaced by the lows of ever increasing pain. One summer ’s day, on returning home from school, he’d seen relief in his mother’s cold flaccid face and had been glad that she was dead.

The nameless woman had been on deaths door for weeks. Her family repeatedly refused to let him stop treatment. It went on and on, all the while her body disintegrating before their eyes. He couldn ’t remember making the decision, but in the end he had found it surprisingly easy. So as to prevent a noticeable rise in the death rate, in the beginning he was careful to only choose those already designated for terminal weaning. It soon became obvious that the nurses were completely ignorant of his mission. Confident in his intellectual superiority, lately he had started to become more pre-emptive in his choice of subjects. A couple of weeks ago he even managed, whilst feigning attempting to resuscitate the patient, to terminate a ruptured aneurism, saving precious operating theatre time. The fact that he ’d managed to do it in front of other doctors as well as the nursing staff, had not only increased the pressure, but also the reward.

A slight movement from the bed startled him out of his reverie. Returning to his task, he pulled on a pair of latex examination gloves and deactivated the alarms before returning to his briefcase. He removed a pre-filled syringe and needle from the pocket in the back of his case and held the clear liquid up to the light. His hand ’s shook imperceptibly as, out of habit, he flicked at the syringe to check for air. The doctor grunted when he realised the absurdity of his action. Bending over the helpless patient he whispered into Frank ’s ear. ‘This is it old man. Prepare to meet thy maker.’ Standing straight, he tensed the muscles in his hands to stop them shaking, took hold of the infusion set, inserted the needle into the injection port and slowly squeezed the plunger with his thumb. The syringe easily gave up its lethal juice. The fatal dose entered Frank ’s sluggish circulation and crept through his bloodstream on its inevitable journey towards his heart. Fine beads of sweat glistened on the doctor ’s forehead as he withdrew the needle from the plastic tubing and threw it into the sharps box. His pulse raced as the omnipotent power of life and death surged through his body. At some point he knew that he would have to release the pent up energy building within him. It was going to be a long day. He gripped his hands together to stop them from shaking. The latex gloves stuck to each other. Taking a deep breath he forced himself to relax, stood on the pedal-bin and flipped open the lid. As he pealed off the gloves, one of them thwacked against the metallic lid with a loud ping. He froze and waited to see if anyone heard. No one came. Annoyed at himself, he screwed the gloves into a ball and threw them in with the detritus of care. After completing a final check of the room, he carefully removed the St Christopher from the chart board and reactivated the alarms. Returning to his briefcase, he snapped closed the locks and then, without a second glance, left Frank Hoyle to his fate.

Re-entering the main ward, he glanced at his watch. The whole episode had only taken three minutes. His timing was improving. ‘I’m off now ladies and gentlemen.’ he said nodding toward George and then added. ‘By the way, I don’t suppose it means anything, but while I was in with Mr Hoyle, he threw off a couple of extra systoles. You never know chaps he might just take the decision out of your hands. ’ Heading for the door he raised his arm in acknowledgment to the chorus of goodbyes. Smiling to himself, the doctor said over his shoulder. ‘Don’t work too hard.’

Chapter Two.

Theatre blues hung loosely over the Senior Sister’s slender frame as she knelt before the two elderly ladies.

‘I am so sorry. We did everything we could…’ Despite having worked in intensive care for many years, Paula Hobson still struggled to find the right words of comfort. The early morning kiss of winter sun brushed her cheeks. Paula glanced up through the grime encrusted window just in time to see it disappear behind thickening, snow-laden clouds. She let her eyes wander. Intended for visitors and relatives, the dreary room was in desperate need of attention. Curling, finger-picked borders, hung limply from dated, floral wallpaper. Someone had padlocked the small battered television to the radiator. The control-panel door hung from one remaining hinge. Its remote control long since lost. A series of landscape watercolours clung, lopsided, to the walls, in a failed attempt at peace and escapism.

One of Paula’s anti-static clogs slipped from her foot. She steadied herself with one hand on the arm of the sofa. Her fingers found a brown edged cigarette burn in the roughened fabric. It looked as though a giant grub had burrowed its way into the furniture. Before returning her attention to the elderly women, she made a mental note, to check if there was enough money in the charity fund, to pay for a full refurbishment.

Dishevelled after a sleepless night, Ethel Hoyle was being comforted by her friend Betty. Ethel plucked at a handful of tear soaked tissues. In front of them, a pitted, ring-scarred coffee table, littered with abandoned tea cups, gave evidence to the women ’s long weary vigil. A nearby waste-paper basket brimmed with sandwich wrappers and scrunched up tissues. The silver-haired widow reached down to retrieve her handbag from the floor. She rummaged inside and eventually produced an old photograph. Her voice hoarse from wept tears she said to the nurse.

‘I promised to show you a picture of Frank and me...That was taken on our wedding day. ’ The old woman’s hand trembled as she held out the well-fingered photograph. Paula studied the sepia print. A tall, slim young man in military uniform stood on the steps of an impressive stone clad building. Forage cap neatly tucked into his epaulet, he proudly displayed three stripes on his right forearm. Frank Hoyle grinned at the camera. The pretty girl, standing next to him, barely reached shoulder height. She clasped a delicate posy in both hands. A pill-box hat perched precariously on bobbed hair. Paula smiled and removed a lump of soggy tissues from the woman ’s arthritic fingers. She added them to the growing pile in the bin and offered up a half empty box of paper handkerchiefs. As Ethel tugged out a few of the flimsy tissues, a muffled tap on the door interrupted the trio and a young nurse peered into the room. Paula swivelled round to see who it was.

‘I’m sorry to bother you Sister, but Mr Edmonds has been on the phone. He asked me to remind you about the away meeting this morning. ’ she said. As well as managing the large Operating Theatre Department, Charles Edmonds was also Paula ’s in-line manager.

‘Thanks Celia, I hadn’t forgotten.’ said Paula. She muttered ‘…unfortunately.’ under her breath. The student nurse eased the door closed behind her. Paula turned back to Ethel. Glancing at the picture again, she said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to know Frank better. He looks like a really nice man.’

‘He…always used to say we were two sides of the same coin. I can’t believe he’s gone. I don’t know what I’m going to do...’ Ethel grabbed Paula’s hand. ‘I want to thank you. I couldn’t have got through these last few weeks without your help.’ she said.

The hard floor was becoming increasingly uncomfortable on Paula’s knees. To relieve the pressure, she eased her hand from under Ethel’s and sat back on her heels. ‘It’s what I’m here for.’ she said.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’ said Ethel.

‘Of course you can?’

‘Last night, I know the doctor said there was no more you could do for him and he wanted to stop Frank ’s antibiotics and things. But he did say, that you’d wait until today before you did anything… didn’t he?’ Ethel hesitated.

Paula cringed at the memory of the previous evening. It was an understatement, to say that the consultant had been insensitive. Without any preamble, he ’d informed Ethel that the best thing they could do for Frank would be to stop treatment and give him something to make him comfortable. The widow had been understandably reluctant to give up on her husband. The consultant, following pressure from Paula, eventually agreed to give Ethel time to come to terms with the inevitable and it was agreed that no final decision would be made until the following day. Sadly Frank had died an hour before Paula started her shift at seven-thirty. Ethel appeared agitated.

‘Did they do something to him during the night?’ she said.

‘Do what?’ said Paula, taken aback by the question.

‘Stop his drugs and things?’

‘No we would never do anything like that without your knowledge. I think he’d just given up fighting and took the decision out of our hands.’ Paula said reassuringly.

‘I wanted to sit with him, but the Night Sister wouldn’t let me. ‘I could have… I should have been there holding his hand ...’ Ethel’s voice was tinged with anger.

‘I know and I am really sorry. I have spoken to the night staff. Sister Dent asked me to apologise again on her behalf... ’ Paula lied. The night sister hadn’t been the least bit apologetic. ‘…She said there’d been no indication that he was deteriorating. His heart stopped suddenly. Honestly, they came for you as soon as they realised something was wrong. ’

Betty interjected on behalf of her friend. ‘He’s been sick for weeks. So why was it so sudden?’

Paula tried to explain how pneumonia could lead to a cardiac arrest. She concluded. ‘I really am truly sorry. All I can say is that he wasn’t alone at the end, someone was holding his hand.’

‘I don’t think I’ll ever get over the sight of him with all those tubes and… machines... They already haunt my dreams.’ she wiped her eyes and nose with a damp tissue.

‘I know it seems hard, but eventually those memories will fade. I promise you he wasn ’t in any pain.’ Paula was beginning to worry about the passage of time, but she didn’t want to be seen to be in a hurry. Her eyes sparkling with genuine sympathy, as she returned the faded picture. ‘He’s a very handsome young man.’ she said pushing herself up stiffly from the floor. Holding out her hand, she added. ‘Come and say goodbye to him.’

Betty and Paula escorted the widow down the quiet corridor toward the ICU. They passed through the double doors of the air lock into the cavernous Intensive Care Unit. The older women winced at the wave of discordant alarms, bleeps and hissing gasses. The busy nurses fell silent as the trio made their way slowly passed the nurses station and across the room. Paula ushered the two women into the shadowy side-ward, easing the door closed behind them. Most of the medical equipment had been removed and curtains drawn across the large observation windows. Someone had dimmed the main lights and turned on the angle poise lamp. The yellow light highlighted a spray of dried flowers and bible on the bedside table. Devoid of precious life signals, the blank-screened monitor faced the wall, as if in disgrace. Frank Hoyle ’s naked body lay motionless between starch white sheets. Tubes and wires removed. His ashen face, eyes closed and mouth slightly ajar. His shaven cheeks were marked from where tapes had secured his breathing and feeding tubes. Frank ’s exposed upper torso was branded with red, circular wheals from where the heart electrodes had been ripped from stubbled growth. Numerous Elastoplasts covered oozing puncture sites in his arms, neck and clavicle. Paula moved a chair next to the bed. She picked up his blood-stagnated arm that was resting on top of the sheet and turned to the distraught widow.

‘Would you like to hold his hand?’ she said. Ethel sat down heavily on the chair and took the mottled, cold fingers in her open palm. Paula rested a supportive arm around her shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

The widow nodded.

‘Would you like some time alone?’

‘Please’ she croaked cocooning her husband’s hand in hers. Tears trickled unhindered down the widow’s cheeks as Betty and Paula left the room.

Clutching a white plastic bag, containing Frank’s personal effects, Betty waited patiently by the air lock. Head bowed, Paula kept her company. She leant against the air-lock door trying not to look at her watch. Ten minutes passed before Ethel emerged. She seemed to have recovered some of her composure. Ethel nodded and gave a tired smile to the nurses as she crossed the room. Paula accompanied the two elderly women as far as the outer doors. Giving them both a final hug, she held open the door and apologised once more.

‘I’m really sorry if you feel that we let you down.’

The widow seemed reluctant to let go of Paula’s hand.

‘I know you did your best. I can never thank you enough for being so kind.’ she said. The nurse watched the elderly friends walked slowly, arm in arm, down the long corridor toward the lifts.

Re-entering the unit, Paula joined her deputy, Nancy Coleman, at the L-shaped nurses-station. Paula had managed Lydale General Hospital ’s Critical Care Services for over six years. The pair’s ability to make each other laugh made for a good working relationship. Paula glanced at the clock on the wall behind them. It read nine-fifteen. An hour and a half of her shift was already over. Taking a deep breath, she plonked herself on the seat next to her colleague and said.

‘Don’t you just hate it?’

The central monitoring system blinked a rainbow of linear readouts. Nancy, four years younger and equivalent inches shorter than her boss ’s five foot six, was flicking through a medical record. The deputy’s elfin features had become more prominent when she adopted her present spiky hairstyle. Her double-pierced, studded ears and matching belly-button stud, not to mention little devil tattoo, gave some credence to her reputation as a proponent of the work hard, play hard principal. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Hate what?’ she said.

‘When they thank you, after their loved one has just died.’ Paula sighed. ‘Even if we’ve messed up somehow, they still say thank you.’ She removed a blue bound HMS stationary book from the top drawer, made a note in it to ring the widow after a couple of weeks then returned the diary to the cluttered desk. Returning the pen to a small breast pocket in the top of her blues, she ran her fingers through her short blond hair. Paula leaned back in the chair, crossed her arms and surveyed the five-bedded unit. It had been nicknamed ‘The Garage’ because of its resemblance to a car maintenance workshop. Only broken bodies, rather than cars occupied the work bays. Three of the five bed spaces, overlooked by the nurses-station, practically filled the open-plan room. Adjustable fluorescent ceiling lights and angle-poised spots enhanced the smattering of natural light that oozed through the high, narrow windows. Each patient area had its own bedside monitor secured to the wall. A profusion of coloured lines slithered across darkened screens, giving instantaneous readouts of vital signs. A cornucopia of tubes and wires snaked over bed covers. Lengthy corrugated plastic tubing connected the unconscious to their ventilator. Individually tuned by a multitude of dials and knobs, each machine flashed continuous read outs. Conveying their life giving drugs and nourishing fluids directly into veins, innumerable infusion pumps and syringe drivers encircled the patients. A triple medi-rail system ran along the walls, like horizontal tramlines, providing piped air, suction and oxygen as well as other vital equipment. The two single side-wards, to the left of the nurses ’ station, made up the compliment of five beds.

As Frank Hoyle’s cold body awaited removal to the mortuary, life moved on. The nurses scurried around their patients like nurturing mothers. Doctors, physiotherapists and radiographers trickled in and out of the m êlée. The two senior nurses seemed not to notice the flashing lights or penetrating alarms that resounded, ubiquitously throughout the room. However any subtle change in the harmonic buzz would produce instant alertness.

Paula stretched, ‘Ohhh…God I hate mornings. That’s the second time this month I’ve had to cope with a weeping widow before I’ve even woken up properly.’ she said.

Nancy pushed the reports she was reading to one side. ‘Yeah, I had an early morning death a couple of weeks ago. Except mine was an emergency aneurysm. It must be the in thing at the moment. Maybe the Bat is hanging on to the bodies just to annoy us …’ Nancy had tagged Maureen Dent, “The Bat” because of the older nurse’s preference for working night duty. ‘…or she’s padded them up with hot water bottles to keep ‘em warm ‘till morning.’ she said making a poor attempt at a vampire impression. Paula grimaced. Noting the lack of laughter from her neighbour, Nancy changed the subject, ‘Anyway, oh great leader, what are you doing today?’ she asked.

Paula made an attempt at bringing some sort of order to the perpetually untidy desk, ‘I’ve been summonsed to the CEO’s “away meeting”’ she said, referring to the Hospital’s Chief Executive Officer. She added. ‘And then I must get started on this year’s audit. Because I know that’s what this bloody meeting is going to be about and I haven’t even looked at the damn figures yet.’

Nancy kicked her heels on the foot rest and spun her chair round. ‘I don’t envy you a minute of it.’ she said. ‘Don’t worry boss, I’ll keep this lot in order. When you get back, the place will still be standing.’ she finished with a flourishing twirl.

‘Thanks mate. I’ll do the same for you one day. Look Nance, I know you can cope without me, but I ’ll take any excuse to get out of there, so do feel free to bleep me if you get an emergency. ’ Paula said pulling a face and then muttered. ‘I’ll probably end up having to take the damn thing home.’

‘What thing?’

‘The audit. It’s the only way I’m ever going to get it started never mind finished.’ said Paula.

The colour was beginning to drain from Nancy’s face. She stopped the spinning chair. ‘Duncan’s going to love you.’ she said.

‘He’ll just have to lump it. It’s the only way I can keep up.’ Paula snapped. Her muscles tensed at the thought of arguing with her boyfriend. She had met Duncan Harvey three years earlier. After suffering a minor ‘burn out’ at work she joined a local scuba-diving club. Far removed from the rapid pace and trauma of the ICU, she fell in love with the peace, beauty and ultimate relaxation of the underwater world. Every movement smooth, slow and easy, nothing could be rushed. It was a world of tranquillity where stresses dissipated, a world in which pagers and phones could not penetrate. Paula loved nothing more than to sit on the sandy ocean floor and watch the gentle gurgle of exhaled air, bubble up through the water. Grabbed hook line and sinker by the combination of his swarthy, George Clooney looks and potent rugby masculinity. She ’d fallen in love with her dive buddy just as quickly. In a rare romantic moment, Duncan once told her that his heart had been melted by her ocean blue eyes peering at him through the mask. Enjoying games of underwater tag, they quickly developed an implicit trust in each other. The relationship progressed at a pace and stepped up a gear when, on the way back from an exceptionally good open water dive, they stopped for a picnic on the moors. Whilst playing a silly game of Cowboys and Indians, inevitably the couple ended up making love amongst the heather. However, lately the pressure of Paula ’s work was beginning to overtax their relationship. Nancy interrupted her thoughts.

‘How about coming out to Busters with us tonight?’ she said.

Paula thought she’d seen an anomaly on one of the monitor readings. She leant forward to get a better look. ‘Uh… no thanks, clubbing is not really Duncan’s cup of tea.’ she said.

‘Who said anything about Duncan? I meant you. I know he’s been giving you a hard time lately. I wish you’d talk to me about it. When it comes to your personal life, you can be such a schmo sometimes. Go on come out with us. ’ Nancy pleaded.

Paula ignored the comment. She stretched over and moved the monitor screen to give her a better view.

‘He’s not that bad. Anyway I’m not going to play gooseberry to you and…’ she struggled to remember the name of Nancy’s latest conquest. ‘Tr…ev…or.’ she said, looking sideways at Nancy.

‘He’s history. I told you last week I’d dumped him. I told him to crawl back into his lab and get it on with his test tubes. No tonight I ’m going out with some of the girls. It would be good for you to let your hair down and get drunk with them. Show them that you are a human being and not this super-nurse you set yourself up for.

‘Thanks, some other time maybe, I appreciate the offer, but things are okay with me and Duncan. ’

‘If you say so, but then you wouldn’t tell me even if there was something wrong. Would you?’ said Nancy.

‘Maybe, I really do need to get started on the audit though. Anyhow what was wrong with Trevor? I thought, for geek, he was an okay nice guy. ’ said Paula.

‘Wrong musk.’

‘Wrong what?’

‘You know pheromones and all that jazz. God boss you can be so old fashioned sometimes. ’ Nancy joked. Paula spun her friend’s chair round.

‘Less of the cheek buggerlugs Coleman otherwise I’ll give you the order of the boot.’ she said.

‘Lets see…oh that’d be only the third time this week you’ve fired me.’

Paula laughed. ‘Who’s counting? I suppose you’re going to the match this weekend.’

‘No. Boro are playing away and anyway I’m working a late shift Saturday. Some of us don’t get every weekend off to watch their boyfriend play rugger.’

‘Excuse me, I do my share of weekends and anyway who did the rota?’

‘I did, but that doesn’t mean I can’t moan about it.’ Nancy said. Not for the first time, the girls began to debate the merits of the two testosterone filled games.

Chapter Two

3 hours earlier

It was six-fifteen-am. The large bed-dividers had been pushed to one side and monitors positioned for optimum viewing. Under Sister Dent ’s keen eye, hushed-voiced shadows glided across the dimly lit room as nurses scurried around at an ever increasing pace.

The doctor began to feel the adrenalin surge into his veins and smiled to himself as he passed through the airlock. He looked around. No one had noticed him standing just inside the doorway. For a brief moment he wondered if he could get in and out of the sideward without been seen. He decided not to take the risk and stepped forward.

His voice belied the nervous energy building within. ‘Good morning ladies. I hope you’re all well this morning?’ he said.

A sandy haired young man popped his head up from behind a privacy screen. ‘I hope your not including me in that.’ said George Hughes. He was one of only four male nurses in the predominantly female workforce.

Although eager to get on with his task, the doctor knew he must not appear to be in a hurry. ‘Sorry George, I didn’t think it was your turn for nights.’ he replied.

‘Need the money doc.’ explained George, rubbing his tired, gritty eyes with the heels of his hand.

Ignoring the rest of the staff, the medic ambled over to talk to the young man. ‘You must enjoy working with the bat?’ he said.

‘Don’t rub it in.’ George leant on the screen. ‘Actually these are my rostered nights, last week was overtime. If they gave us a decent pay I wouldn ’t have to do so many.’ he said.

‘Never mind.’ the doctor soothed. ‘If you ask nicely, Paula might give you a promotion. This place could do with a member of the superior gender in the upper ranks. ’ He nodded to the male nurse before making his way back to the desk. Depositing his briefcase on the floor, the doctor turned his attention to a tea tray on the nurses ’ station. He picked up the tea pot and felt the side of to see if it was still warm.

Maureen Dent raised her voice in the hushed atmosphere, ‘Good Morning’ she called rather too loudly. A tall willowy woman, she’d wore her long dark hair in a tight bun, accentuating her sharp roman nose. Others marvelled at the Night Sister ’s ability, no matter how traumatic the shift, to keep the immaculate hairstyle unruffled. To the consternation of the nurse assisting her, Maureen paid scant attention as she attempted to shave her patient and converse with their visitor. ‘I thought you might pop in again this morning. The tea is fresh.’ she cooed. The staff nurse knocked the Sister’s hand away from the patient’s face. Maureen glowered.

The doctor poured himself a mug of tea and slopped milk into the hot fluid. ‘Were there any problems overnight?’ he asked.

The Night Sister handed over the disposable razor and sidled over to the desk. ‘No everything’s fine, they’re all stable. It’s been a quiet night really. They designated Frank Hoyle Do Not Resuscitate last night. I think they ’re going to stop his treatments and terminally wean him from the ventilator this morning. Apart from that there is nothing to report. ’

The doctor flinched as the forty-two year old divorcee leaned over him to pick up her mug of tea. She catapulted her bulbous breasts towards his face. Hiding his disgust, he turned his back on her and headed toward the nearest chart table. ‘I’ll go round and check the fluids for you.’ he said.

Maureen pulled at the ties of the flimsy plastic apron covering her blues. Resisting her attempts to undo it, the knot stretched. She grabbed the front of the apron, ripped it off and threw it in the bin. ‘Thanks that would be really helpful.’ she said following the doctor.

He held up the palm of his hand and brought her to an abrupt stop. ‘No…no don’t bother, I’m sure I can manage.’ he said, picking up the chart. The woman’s fawning attitude annoyed him, but he needed her on side. So he made an effort to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘You go back to your patient. I don’t want to be accused of holding up the workers.’ he said.

Maureen blushed, ‘Oh all right, but let me know if you need anything.’ she said. Returning to the bedside she snatched back the razor from the smiling staff nurse.

Sipping his tea, the doctor chatted quietly to the nurses as he drifted around the ward. Even though he stopped at each bed-space it only took him a few minutes to complete the round. Returning to the nurses-station he replaced the now empty mug on the tray before retrieving his briefcase. The doctor could feel Maureen ’s piercing eyes following him as he headed toward the sideward.

‘I’m pretty sure Frank’s charts are up to date, if you wanted to get away.’ she called.

Pretending not to hear, the doctor entered alone. His nostrils twitched with revulsion at the smell of impending death. Securing the door behind him, he drew the curtains across the window and took a moment to survey the dimly lit room. Numerous pieces of equipment blinked at him like Christmas tree lights. An angle-poise lamp flooded the large chart-board in a nebulous yellow glaze. A gold St Christopher pendant dangled from the top of the board. The bright polished metal glinted as it rotated in the air conditioning. A muted glow of light deflected over the patient ’s head and upper torso. Tufted wisps of cotton-wool, stood erect against the grey-white of the pillow, where someone had tried to comb Frank Hoyle ’s hair without lifting his head. Despite many weeks of supplementary nutrition the gaunt skull shaped features showed the ravages of septicaemia. Fingered ribs rose and fell in syncopated rhythm with the ventilator, its soporific whoosh resonating around the small room.

The doctor laid his briefcase on the bedside table and glanced toward Frank’s half-closed, unseeing eyes. Quickly averting his gaze, he flicked both catches simultaneously and opened the briefcase. He wavered momentarily and then crossed to the window and eased back the curtain. He need not have worried. The nurses were too busy gossiping to notice what was going on under their noses. The doctor felt nothing but contempt for these people. He tried to remember when it all started, a year, eighteen months ago, maybe longer. Although he remembered the first, he could not recall her name. For some reason the old woman reminded him of his mother. As a small boy he ’d watched as cancer devastated her body. He had seen the effects of opiates administered by the GP, watched as the highs of analgesia were replaced by the lows of ever increasing pain. One summer ’s day, on returning home from school, he’d seen relief in his mother’s cold flaccid face and had been glad that she was dead.

The nameless woman had been on deaths door for weeks. Her family repeatedly refused to let him stop treatment. It went on and on, all the while her body disintegrating before their eyes. He couldn ’t remember making the decision, but in the end he had found it surprisingly easy. So as to prevent a noticeable rise in the death rate, in the beginning he was careful to only choose those already designated for terminal weaning. It soon became obvious that the nurses were completely ignorant of his mission. Confident in his intellectual superiority, lately he had started to become more pre-emptive in his choice of subjects. A couple of weeks ago he even managed, whilst feigning attempting to resuscitate the patient, to terminate a ruptured aneurism, saving precious operating theatre time. The fact that he ’d managed to do it in front of other doctors as well as the nursing staff, had not only increased the pressure, but also the reward.

A slight movement from the bed startled him out of his reverie. Returning to his task, he pulled on a pair of latex examination gloves and deactivated the alarms before returning to his briefcase. He removed a pre-filled syringe and needle from the pocket in the back of his case and held the clear liquid up to the light. His hand ’s shook imperceptibly as, out of habit, he flicked at the syringe to check for air. The doctor grunted when he realised the absurdity of his action. Bending over the helpless patient he whispered into Frank ’s ear. ‘This is it old man. Prepare to meet thy maker.’ Standing straight, he tensed the muscles in his hands to stop them shaking, took hold of the infusion set, inserted the needle into the injection port and slowly squeezed the plunger with his thumb. The syringe easily gave up its lethal juice. The fatal dose entered Frank ’s sluggish circulation and crept through his bloodstream on its inevitable journey towards his heart. Fine beads of sweat glistened on the doctor ’s forehead as he withdrew the needle from the plastic tubing and threw it into the sharps box. His pulse raced as the omnipotent power of life and death surged through his body. At some point he knew that he would have to release the pent up energy building within him. It was going to be a long day. He gripped his hands together to stop them from shaking. The latex gloves stuck to each other. Taking a deep breath he forced himself to relax, stood on the pedal-bin, and flipped open the lid. As he pealed off the gloves, one of them thwacked against the metallic lid with a loud ping. He froze and waited to see if anyone heard. No one came. Annoyed at himself, he screwed the gloves into a ball and threw them in with the detritus of care. After completing a final check of the room, he carefully removed the St Christopher from the chart board and reactivated the alarms. Returning to his briefcase, he snapped closed the locks and then, without a second glance, left Frank Hoyle to his fate.

Re-entering the main ward, he glanced at his watch. The whole thing had only taken three minutes. His timing was improving. ‘I’m off now ladies and gentlemen.’ he said nodding toward George and then added. ‘By the way, I don’t suppose it means anything, but while I was in with Mr Hoyle, he threw off a couple of extra systoles. You never know chaps he might just take the decision out of your hands. ’ Heading for the door he raised his arm in acknowledgment to the chorus of goodbyes. Smiling to himself, the doctor said over his shoulder. ‘Don’t work too hard and sleep well.’

Soulmates

Every Friday for past six years, the old lady would enter McGregor’s department store at exactly 3.45pm. Friday, March the twenty-ninth was no different. She passed by the shoppers as they idly wandering through aisles, browsing and buying at will.

If it wasn’t for her arthritic knee, Mary Boddington would be described as a sprightly spinster. Clear eyed with silver hair, the retired teacher looked ten years younger than her eighty-five years. Leaning heavily on a walking stick, she ignored the make-up and perfume soaked atmosphere and limped towards the lifts. Passing through the fashion department, something caught Mary ’s eye and she made her way over to a rack of silk scarves. Carefully removing one, she examined the pattern closely. Her eyes clouded over as she glimpsed back into a long forgotten world. She raised the silken material and caressed it against her cheek.

Terry Holmes was harassed. As Manager and chief stylist of the Beauty Salon, he ought to be in control, but he wasn ’t. He was already an hour behind schedule and his day was going from bad to worse. Always polite to his customers, in truth, Terry felt the adage you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, fitted most of the elderly ladies that frequented his salon. Notwithstanding his bi-weekly visits to the gym, the hairdresser sported a burgeoning beer belly. Reluctantly edging toward his thirties, Terry felt that life was beginning to pass him by. The roar of the hand-dryer precluded small talk as the hairdresser put the finishing touches to his latest creation. He considered the approaching weekend with mixed feelings. His six-month ’s pregnant partner had gone to stay with her parents for a couple of days, leaving him to decorate the baby ’s bedroom. Mary entered the salon. A powerful mixed aroma of bleach and hairspray caught the back of her throat. Terry shouted above the noise of the hairdryer.

‘Ah…hi Mrs. Boddington, I'm running a little late this week…would you mind sitting at the basin for me please…I won’t be long.’

She limped over to the row of sinks. A line of mirrors on each side of the salon reflected the neat row of chairs into infinity. The place was empty except for the hairdresser ’s penultimate customer, Mary and a young assistant, who was sweeping up the day’s detritus. The girl glanced at her boss, before ushering the sweepings into a cupboard and making a dash for her weekend off.

Terry looked at the clock on the wall, calculating that it was going to be a tight finish. Having concluding business with his next to last client, he turned his attention to Mary Boddington. He knew little about the elderly woman, but found her well spoken, polite if a littler taciturn at times. However she was a pleasant change from the ranting banality of some of his clients. They were now alone in the salon. The stylist sped through her shampoo and set in record time. He finished with a flourishing waft of hairspray.

‘Mr. Holmes…it’s gone very quiet out there.’ said Mary, as the hairdresser stretched over her shoulder for the hand mirror. He held it behind her head whilst she checked the back of her hair.

‘Don't worry Mrs. Boddington the porter never locks up until I've finished.’ Terry said, reassuringly. Mary nodded approvingly.

‘Thank you Mr. Holmes, I am not worried…but please… its either Miss Boddington or Mary.’ she said. This was not the first time she’d corrected his error. Terry removed the protective cape and brushed the loose hair from her shoulders.

‘Yes of course.’ he said automatically. He threw the cape and towels into a laundry basket. ‘…while you get yourself sorted out. I'll just go and check if Bert's still about.’ He disappeared, leaving Mary all on her own.

Unbeknown to Terry the store had employed a new porter, who forgotten about the salon tucked away in the basement. He had locked up and left the building. Terry made his way round the now empty store and found all the exits secured. He returned to the salon where Mary was coated up and ready to go home.

‘Erm…er…’ he stuttered. ‘…I'm really sorry about this Miss Boddington the main doors are locked…don’t worry I’ll find someone to let us out.’ Terry went into his office and tried to ring several internal numbers without success. He was unable to get an outside line and beginning to become concerned. Not least, because he remembered leaving his mobile on charge in his car. Mary suggested they locate the switchboard. Not wanting to leave her alone in the salon again they took the lift together up to the admin offices. Without the bustling human presence the quite dimly lit shop seemed eerily strange. The main office shared the third floor with the furniture department. The doors were locked. Terry uttered an inaudible moan. It was bad enough having to work with old biddies, but to be stuck overnight with one was the stuff of nightmares. Now, Terry definitely was beginning to panic.

‘Look I'm sure there must be a way out … just wait here I won't be long.’ he said, forgetting all about his decision not to leave her alone. Mary decided to investigate her surroundings. It didn ’t take her long to find the staff restroom. Unimpressed by the shabby décor, she thought the room reflected the sloppiness of modernity. Scruffy chairs surrounded low-set tables on a crumb covered carpet. A small utility unit consisting of a worktop and cupboard occupied one corner of the dismal room. Dirty pots filled the sink. A four slice toaster stood atop a grimy fridge. Mary thought the youth of today had lost the standards and dignity of the past. Or maybe it was just that she was getting too old. Inside the fridge she found fresh milk and a couple of unopened packs of sandwiches, which were still within their sell by date. At least they weren ’t going to starve. After clearing up some of the mess, she made drinks for herself and Terry.

When the hairdresser returned, he found Mary drinking tea, comfortably ensconced in a reclining chair. He thanked her for the proffered mug.

‘Mrs. Bodd… Mary I am so sorry, but I can't seem to find any way out. I think we're going to be stuck here until the morning. ’ Terry said. He was extremely embarrassed. ‘…I don't really know what else I can do. Will you be okay? I really am sorry.’

‘We’ll survive. Don’t worry Mr. Homes.’ She showed him the sandwiches. ‘At least we’re not going to starve…and you will be able to take your pick from all these comfortable beds.’ Mary smiled as she swept her hand around the room, taking in the display of double and single beds.

Terry was amazed by the old woman’s easy acceptance of the situation. He pulled up another easy chair and sat down with his head in hands, contemplating the evening before him. He ’d told Jane that he was going to go straight to the rugby club after work. She wouldn't expect him to phone until Saturday afternoon. He loved his partner, but was struggling to find the commitment needed to be a family man. The hairdresser had hoped to sort himself out over the weekend. Instead he was stuck in here. At least it would only be for the one night. He ran a hand through his now tousled hair and watched Mary sipping her tea. She seemed totally unfazed by their predicament. Maybe her life was so boring. She saw this as a bit of adventure.

Mary was pondering whether she could afford to buy the comfortable chair for her creaking bones. Having lived on her own for many years, she felt at ease with the quiet of the empty store. However, silence was an anathema to Terry, who was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He looked over toward the Television and Audio department and wondered whether he ’d get into trouble if he borrowed a portable TV. Struggling for something to say he said the first thing that came to mind.

‘So, Mary how did you hurt your knee?’

‘Parachute training.’ she replied.

‘Uh…did you say parachute training?’

Mary was irritated by his presumption, she said.

‘I wasn’t born old you know.’

‘Sorry, I didn't mean…I… so when did you do that then?’ he said, taking a gulp of his drink.

Mary studied the young man for a moment. He didn’t strike her as being a good listener, but the scarf had churned up so many buried memories. Maybe the time was right to put them to rest.

‘I have arthritis, but I injured it in 1943 when I was training with the SOE.’ she said.

Terry's jaw literally dropped.

‘Say again?’ he said.

‘I have no intension of repeating myself young man.’

The hairdresser remembered what the acronym meant. He used to be interested in the Second World War and had read about the Special Operations Executive. It had been set up to put allied agents behind enemy lines. Terry forgot all about the television. For the first time since they ’d met, he looked at Mary's wrinkled face with genuine interest.

‘Wow … really… would you mind telling me about the war…what it was like?’ he said. Mary was irritated by his childish reaction.

‘It's not the stuff of films… it wasn't glamorous. War is life at its worst… brutal...’ she paused. ‘… It was painful and very… very hard.’ Her voice faltered as forgotten emotions flowed through her.

‘I’m Sorry, I’ll understand if you don't want to talk about it.’ said Terry with genuine concern. He sat back in his chair. Mary wavered, but then began to tell her story.

‘I was 20… I think… maybe 21… I was a language student living in France...’ She sighed. ‘I met a man called Jean Paul. Like many before and after…we fell in love and got engaged. Only Hitler rudely interrupted our happy lives. We managed to escape France and returned to England. I would have been more than happy to leave the war to others, but Jean Paul felt it his duty... ’ She hesitated, taking a deep breath before continuing. ‘… He was right; we couldn’t hide from the world. He joined the Free French and trained with them before jumping back into France to meet up with the resistance …’ Her eyes began to glisten with unwept tears. She continued with a hesitant voice. ‘…the SOE were desperate for French speakers…It didn’t take much to persuade me to join them… of course Jean Paul didn’t want me to do it, but we had to rid the world of the Nazis. Even I could not hide away and ignore it. ’ There was a hiatus, as her past came back into sharp focus. ‘I trained as a wireless operator…’ she gave a telling laugh. ‘…I was young and didn’t realize what I was getting myself into. The SOE taught us how to disguise ourselves … they taught us how to blow up trains…they taught us how to kill with our bare hands… but… they didn’t…they didn’t teach us how to deal with the consequences.’ She was finding it hard to talk now. She put her empty mug on a nearby table and clasped her hands firmly on her lap to regain composure. Terry didn ’t want to break the spell. He asked her what had happened.

‘Eventually I managed to join up with him in France.’ Mary smiled and looked into the hairdresser’s eyes. ‘Did you know that the average life expectancy of a wireless operator was six weeks …?’ she asked rhetorically. Breaking eye contact, she said. ‘…no of course not, why should you. You could say I was lucky. In Holland dozens were executed. It was such a waste...it was all such a waste. ’ The odd pair sat in silence for a while. After a while, Mary broke the void.

‘I saw a scarf downstairs.’ she said.

Terry frowned at the apparent change in subject.

‘It reminded me of the squares of silk we used for our codes. They were printed with thousands of tiny letters. ’ she said, holding her thumb and index finger close together. ‘We used them in coding the messages. The pattern they made was just like that scarf. I would have to conceal the silk in my clothes. After transmitting a message I would cut out the relevant section and burn it. The scarf ended up looking like some strange oversized doily... ’

Terry, enthralled by her revelations, sat forward resting his arms on his knees.

‘…If the Germans got too close I was to burn it. If the Nazi’s captured the silk, they would be able to decode our messages.’ She stopped and smiled gently at Terry.

‘Were you caught?’ he said.

‘No, but we had only been back together for a couple of weeks when he…he… Jean Paul…’ She returned her clasped hands to her lap. Unsure if she wanted to continue. ‘…I’m sorry I am not very coherent.’ she said.

‘It’s okay you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

‘I know… thank you…’ She sighed heavily and squared her shoulders. ‘Jean Paul was an engineer. They were blowing up a railway bridge to stop a supply convoy, but it was a trap …someone had betrayed them. Three of the maquis were killed in the fight. He…he was caught... and handed over to the Gestapo.’ Mary struggled with the memories. ‘…I knew they were torturing him… I knew exactly what they did to him… and yet I could do nothing. I could not help the man I loved.’ Tears began to trickle down her wrinkled cheeks. ‘…I prayed every night…I prayed…I prayed for it to be over quickly... it was all I could do.’

Terry didn't know what to say so he said nothing. Mary was deep in her world of bombs, bullets and fear. Mary continued.

‘In the end I was sure that he was as dead as I felt inside. I worked on like a robot. ’ She wiped the tears away with a tremulous hand. Looking over to Terry, the words began to tumble passionately from her lips.

‘We fought to purge that crazy darkness from our world. We fought for the souls of every person. We fought so they could live in freedom. ’ And then she seemed to deflate. ‘We fought…and we fought… and we won. Of course I celebrated with my friends… but for me it was hollow victory. There was always something was missing…… I…I no longer had my soul-mate...and now… I’m not even sure we made things any better.’

‘How did you manage?’ said Terry.

‘Oh… you do… don't you? You have to carry on…’ she smiled weakly, before continuing more stoically. ‘…I stayed in France for a while to see if I could find Jean Paul… or his body. I tried to help with the schools. Getting them back to some sort of normality … but my parents were old and needed me so in the end I had to come home.’ Mary had to accept that she would never find her lovers body. Never put flowers on his grave. Never feel his strong hands cup her face. Never see him smile into her eyes.

On returning to England, she took up a teaching post close to her parents home and buried herself with children that would never be her own. She put the past in a box and closed the lid, until now.

Now easy in each others company, the odd couple continued to talk well into the night. Terry told his new friend about Jane, the baby and his hopes and fears for the future. He was amazed that this ordinary looking, elderly lady had turned out to be such an articulate, intelligent, selfless and brave woman. The hairdresser realized that she was one of the many to whom he owed his life and freedom. If only he had engaged with her earlier, instead of conversing with the usual hackneyed pleasantries. How much he could have learned from her wisdom.

‘I think it's getting late now Terry. I am a little tired.’ she said. Before they settled down, Terry managed to find her some toiletries. He sorted out bedding for them and made her a small mug of tea. As he turned out the lights out he heard her whisper.

‘Once you’ve recognized your soul-mate… you will be able to live in peace… Goodnight dear’

‘Goodnight Mary.’ said Terry. He drifted off to sleep thinking about her words.

The following morning they were awake and up, well before the store workers arrived. Terry ensured Mary had a drink and something to eat before ordering her a taxi. The cab arrived. After paying the driver, Terry hugged his friend and helped into the back seat.

‘Would you mind if I bring Jane round to meet you sometime?’

‘Of course you can my dear. I’d love to meet your beautiful wife.’ Mary smiled and folded her stiff limbs into the car. ‘Goodbye Terry… and thank you for your company.’

Terry waved after the taxi as it sped away. The episode was cathartic for him and he felt more at ease within himself than he had for a long time. He bought himself a new shirt and worked on until noon. He longed to hear Jane ’s voice and rushed home to call her.

‘You won't believe what’s happened…’ he said. Terry gave his girlfriend a brief résumé of the previous evening, ending with. ‘…will you marry me…come on let’s get married… please… I love you…I want you to be my soul-mate.’

His partner laughed at his enthusiasm. Despite the less than romantic proposal, she accepted. Terry spent the remainder of the weekend happily contemplating his future and preparing a room for his very special free soul.

The following Monday, he was at his lunch break reading the local paper. That morning Jane had agreed to phone Mary and make arrangements to visit that evening. Terry turned the page. A brief announcement leapt from the paper.

Boddington: Mary, OBE: Aged 85 years of North Cottages: Died peacefully in her sleep on the 29th March. Dear and much loved friend, reunited at last with her soul mate will be sadly missed. No flowers, donations to charity. RIP.