Pestilence

PESTILENCE

by

KEN McCLURE

Have you built your ship of death, O have you?

O build your ship of death, for you will need it.

The Ship Of Death

D.H. Lawrence

Chapter One

James Saracen carried a loaf of bread in one hand and a carton of milk in the other as he climbed the stairs to his apartment. When he got to the third floor he put the loaf under his left arm leaving his right hand free to search in his trouser pocket for the key. The pocket was empty. “God was it ever different,” he muttered, changing over the groceries. He found the key and opened the door; it swung back like a snowplough, clearing mail behind it. He closed it again with his heel and put down his things before clicking on the hall light and picking up the assorted pile of paper. A card to say that the electricity man had called, a circular from Safeways promising ten pence off washing powder, a brown envelope marked ‘Inland Revenue’ and a white one marked ‘Northampton’ which said it was a Visacard bill. Good, there was nothing to make him change his plans. It was Saturday, it was eight in the evening and he had promised himself something special. He was going to take off his clothes, get into bed and sleep until he woke up.

Saracen woke two hours later but not of his own accord. The bleeper in his jacket pocket had just gone off. “I don’t believe it…I just do not believe it,” he complained as he struggled to free an arm from the bedclothes. He lifted the telephone from the bedside table and balanced it on the edge of the bed while he dialled the hospital number.

“Skelmore General,” said the voice.

“Doctor Saracen, you were paging me.”

“One moment.”

Saracen scratched his head sleepily as the operator did whatever operators do with jackplugs.

“James? I know this is your first night off in God knows how long and I know you have just worked an eighteen hour shift…”

“But?”

“The fact is we need you. A&E is going like a fair and now there has been an accident up on the By-Pass. Someone will have to go up there. It’s a Fire Brigade affair.”

“So why don’t you go?”

“I’m the only one on.”

“What?” exclaimed Saracen. “Where is Garten? He is supposed to be on tonight.”

“You know how it goes. Something social cropped up at the last moment and our leader wriggled out of it. ‘Said he felt sure I would cope, had absolute confidence in me, the usual shit before it was Hi-Ho Silver Away.”

“I’ll come in. I’ll go out with Medic Alpha.”

As Saracen turned into Skelmore General he saw Medic Alpha standing outside A&E. The vehicle, a white Bedford with appropriate markings, was Skelmore’s latest acquisition and the nearest thing to a hospital on wheels. It was designed for attendance in situations where on the spot medical treatment might make the difference between life and death and had been donated to the hospital by a wealthy local man whose son had died after a road accident.

Saracen saw that the windscreen wipers on Medic Alpha were operating and that the driver was already aboard and waiting. He parked his own car alongside and shouted to the gate porter to park it before climbing into the back of the ambulance.

“Have a good sleep?” asked Jill Rawlings, the Staff nurse who was checking the vehicle’s inventory.

The question had been tongue in cheek. Saracen didn’t reply. He struggled into the jacket that Jill Rawlings handed to him as the vehicle gathered speed and cleared the way ahead with a siren that proclaimed its origins in the streets of San Francisco rather than the English midlands. He had both hands in the armholes behind him when the ambulance lurched to the right to avoid a car emerging from a side street. Saracen crashed against the side of the van, his head narrowly missing an Oxygen cylinder. The driver gave a quick glance back. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

Saracen grunted and did up the rest of his jacket.

“Now we all know who we are,” said Jill Rawlings, referring to the white, plastic jackets they all wore. Each carried a fluorescent strip with the designation, Doctor, Nurse or Ambulance according to its wearer.

“I always feel as if I’m part of one of these sets you get when you’re a child,” said Jill.

“Could be a money making idea,” said Saracen. “Any details on the accident?”

“An articulated lorry and two cars.”

Saracen screwed up his face. “Direction?”

“Head on then a rear shunt.”

Saracen gave a low whistle then asked, “Morphine shots?”

“All ready.”

“Cutting gear?”

“All ready.”

The rain lashed against the windscreen as Medic Alpha lost the protection of town buildings and sped out on to an exposed section of the ring road. From where Saracen sat in the back the lights outside merged into blobs of yellow and red in the rivers of water flowing down the glass. Somewhere up ahead blue blobs appeared and Medic Alpha slowed as they reached the scene of the accident. Two fire appliances were present, their arc lights already in position while three police cars sat angled across the carriageway.

Blue lights flashed asynchronously in the night sky as Saracen got out and bowed his head against the rain that was whipped into his face by a malevolent wind. The Firemaster led him into the lee of one of the police cars to brief him but still had to shout above the sound of the generators.

“First car nose-dived under the artic, decapitated the two in the front. There’s a kid in the back; we think it’s dead but we don’t know for sure.”

“And the other car?”

“Driver’s dead, steering wheel crushed his chest. His passenger, wife I think, is trapped by her feet. My lads are trying to free her right now.”

“Is she conscious?”

“No.”

“Staff Rawlings will see to the woman. I want to see if I can reach the child,” shouted Saracen through cupped hands.

The firemaster gave an exaggerated nod to signify that he had understood and indicated that Saracen should follow him. They picked their way through cables and hoses to reach the towering front of the truck, now deformed into a giant mouth that had half swallowed a Ford saloon.

“Your best bet is to go in from the left!” yelled the firemaster against the noise.

Saracen got down on the cold, wet tarmac and wriggled under the front bumper of the truck. He paused to reach out his hand behind him and accept the powerful torch that a fireman handed him then crawled in deeper to search for some breach in the car’s side where he could gain access. The wetness of the road changed to stickiness where blood had poured out from the floor pan to form a puddle. Somewhere behind him rainwater had found a path through the twisted metal to flow steadily on to the back of his legs.

Saracen finally managed to get his arm between the rear door of the Escort and its pillar which had bowed on impact. He levered himself against the inside of the truck’s front wheel to reach in deeper and felt his way along the rear seat until he touched something. It was a hand and it was cold and limp. He tried for a pulse but could feel nothing.

Saracen pulled the child’s wrist until its body flopped over on to his forearm then he drew back a little and felt for the head. He touched curly hair and moved his hand down to search for a carotid pulse. Still nothing. As he tried to remove his arm from the crack he brought the child tumbling forward to lie against the back of the gap. He brought up his torch and shone it through the opening. He could now see that it was a little girl. Her eyes were open but she was quite dead.

Saracen started to wriggle out backwards, for there was no room to turn round, when a woman started to scream. He looked out from under the truck and saw the yellow leggings of a fireman running towards him. A face squatted down to look under the truck. “Doctor! The trapped woman has come round. She’s in a lot of pain.”

Almost before he had had a chance to reply the screaming subsided and Saracen knew that Jill Rawlings had taken care of the situation. The strict who-does-what regime of hospital life did not always apply in the searing reality of Medic Alpha’s world.

Saracen was aware of a fireman recoiling as he got to his feet and looked down to see that the front of his jacket was covered in blood where he had been lying in the puddle. A policeman handed him some rags and he wet them at the trickling end of a hose on the ground that had been used to flush away spilt fuel before sponging away the sticky mess.

“How is she?” he asked Jill Rawlings.

“They can’t free her. Take a look.”

Jill Rawlings moved back and Saracen knelt down to peer into the crushed foot well of the car that had ploughed into the back of the Escort. He could see the problem for the woman’s foot had been snapped at the ankle and crushed between an engine support member and the bulkhead of the car. Her foot was a bloody, broken pulp sticking out at right angles from her ankle. There was no room for the firemen to use hydraulic jacks in such a confined area.

Saracen withdrew from the front of the car and said, “I’ll have to take her foot off.”

“I thought you’d say that.” said Jill. “I’ve prepared the instruments.”

“What did you give her?”

Jill told him and he nodded. “Ask the firemen if they can rig some kind of shelter to keep some of this bloody rain off will you.”

Saracen returned to examining the trapped woman’s foot with the aid of a better torch while Jill went to speak to the firemaster. Now satisfied that he knew exactly what he was going to do he began to assess his patient in more general terms. She was a woman in her early thirties, well dressed, slim, attractive and apparently in good health before the accident that was about to shatter her life. Probably the wife of a successful professional man, thought Saracen, considering the make and year of the car and the quality of her clothes. She was a woman with everything going for her who was going to waken up a widow with no left foot.

Saracen stood up and moved out of the way while two firemen rigged a makeshift shelter out of a tarpaulin. While he waited he asked one of the senior policemen about the contents of the woman’s handbag. “Anything I should know about? Any discs or medallions?”

The policeman shook his head. “She did have a kidney donor card though.”

“Did her husband carry one too?”

I put it in the ambulance with the body and alerted the hospital.”

Saracen nodded. That might be something else to tell the woman when she came round. “All right?” he asked Jill Rawlings.

“All ready.”

The firemen and policemen knew what was going on behind the screen but had only their imagination to fill in the details until the sound of Saracen using a saw painted too vivid a picture for one of them. A constable retched up the contents of his stomach on the wet road. He supported his head on his forearm as he leaned against one of the fire appliances.

“Clips!” said Saracen.

Jill Rawlings pressed them into his hand and knew that Saracen was now working on stemming the blood flow from the stump. She anticipated each request before it came. Swabs, pressure pads, tape. The seconds ticked past then Saracen sighed and said, “All right. She’ll do.” He got to his feet stiffly and rubbed at his legs to restore the circulation then he moved out of the way to allow the ambulance men to come in and lift the woman gently from the wreckage and carry her to the ambulance.

“What happened to the truck driver?” Saracen asked the senior policeman standing beside him as he cleaned his hands and watched Jill Rawlings gather together their equipment.

“Minor cuts and bruises. He went to hospital for a check-up in the first ambulance.

Saracen nodded and said, “That’s it then. I’ll leave the rest to you. He started to walk towards Medic Alpha with Jill Rawlings.

“Be seeing you,” said the policeman.