Quicksand (14 page)

 

As always, his imagination conjured up a painful vision of being resident
here in conventional fashion, having to lie awake night after night
listening to that maddening cracked bell overhead, until exhaustion
drove him to a fatal error, a patient killed himself, censure followed
from the General Medical Council . . .

 

 

With an effort Paul dragged his mind back to the things that had attracted
him about his post. In particular, the psychiatric registrar here enjoyed
a large measure of independence compared to his opposite number in a
hospital with more patients, because there was a gap in the ladder
above him. What he had failed to reckon with was the way in which the
extra responsibilities piled on top of his routine work, thus slashing
the time he had expected to devote to study.

 

 

-- When did I last have a clear weekend? Beginning of December, I think,
when Iris insisted on doing the Christmas shopping. . . . Oh, come off
it. Suppose I were at Blickham General: I could easily be working a
twenty-hour day, with premature labours, survivors from car accidents,
scalded children, drunks with their heads cut open . . .

 

 

There would be a chance to catch up with his textbooks tonight, at least;
he'd jammed three of them into his overnight bag. He'd have to look
in at the patients' dance, but he could get away with an hour of that,
possibly less, and retreat to the staff sitting-room for peace and quiet.

 

 

He sneaked a glance at the clock on the wall. They were down to the halfway
mark on the agenda and it wasn't quite ten o'clock yet. Marvellous:
and an even shorter session than usual, and he hldn't been called on to
utter a word.

 

 

"Thank you," Holinshed murmured as yet another item on the agenda was
rubber-stamped. "That brings us to number ten, any other business.
Has anybody . . .?"

 

 

"I think we should discuss the item which appears in this week's local
paper," Dr Jewell said firmly. "Dr Fidler, you have a copy of it. Perhaps
you'd show the chairman?"

 

 

Dismayed, Paul pushed his copy of the paper towards Holinshed. There was
a frigid pause.

 

 

At length Holinshed said, "Are you certain that will serve any useful
purpose?"

 

 

"It's aroused a lot of public concern," Jewell countered. "Several of
my patients have raised the matter with me. A mental hospital is an
awkward neighbour at the best of times, but when something like this
happens the situation is aggravated."

 

 

Paul edged forward on his chair. "Dr Jewell, you're talking as though
one of our patients had escaped! The way to look at it, surely, is to
remember it's just as well it happened near here, so that there were
people on the spot capable of coping with the problem."

 

 

-- I think I just earned a smidgin of approval from Holy Joe!

 

 

"I'm afraid you aren't quite with me," JeweIl said. "What I'm referring
to is not the event itself but the way it was handled. I don't wish to
bring personalities into this, just to remind everyone that relations
between Chent and the public aren't improved by discounting the legitimate
fears of lay people regarding lunatics."

 

 

The words burst from Paul's lips before he could check them: "Has Mrs
Weddenhall been getting at you?"

 

 

"Dr Fidler, please!" Holinshed muttered.

 

 

"I don't know what you mean by 'getting at me,'" Jewell retorted.
"But she's taken a good deal of interest in all this, and as a JP and
a prominent local figure she'd bound to influence public opinion."

 

 

Somehow, without realising, Paul was on his feet. "Then let me tell
you something which she didn't! What your precious Mrs Weddenhall was
proposing to do was to hunt this maniac down with wolf-hounds and a
posse armed with shotguns! And the -- the
maniac
turned out to be a
half-pint girl who wouldn't come up to the shoulder of the man she's
supposed to have attacked. Do you want me to send for her so that you
can see for yourself?"

 

 

"I hardly think that will be necessary," Holinshed declared in a forceful
tone. Paul sat down again, shaking as much from embarrassment at his own
uncharacteristic outburst as from the anger that had prompted it.

 

 

"My apologies, Dr Jewell," Holinshed continued. "But I'm compelled to
agree with Fidler -- though not with the way he expressed himself. The
matter does not fall within the purview of this committee and I propose
to rule further discussion out of order. And if that's all, I think we
should adjourn right away."

 

 

 

 

The door of the hall was open. Still trembling. Paul walked towards it
for a breath of fresh air.

 

 

-- Christ, there are times when I want to get to hell out of this place
and forget I ever saw it!

 

 

He lit a cigarette with unsteady hands, eyes fixed on one of the big
white Daimler ambulances which was parked across the driveway, rear
doors open. People moved towards it. For a second he didn't recognise
who was among them, his mind being too full of other things. Suddenly it
penetrated. He checked his watch: not quite twenty to eleven, and he'd
made the appointment at Blickham General himself for eleven sharp. He
swung on his heel, catching sight of Ferdie Silva making for the stairs.

 

 

"Ferdie! Do me a favour? Are you going to be in for lunch?"

 

 

The plump Guianese nodded.

 

 

"It's my duty. Stand in for me till I get back, will you?" The duty tour
ran from noon until noon, though this was seldom a nuisance except at
weekends.

 

 

"Provided you're not too long about it," Silva consented doubtfully.

 

 

"No, two o'clock should be the latest." Feverishly Paul thrust his
overnight bag through the window of the porter's office. "Look after
this for me, would you? Thanks a million, Ferdie -- do the same for
you sometime."

 

 

And he dashed out of the door just in time to flag down the ambulance
taking Urchin for her head to be X-rayed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

*17*

 

 

This ambulance, he noted with relief as he squeezed in alongside the male
nurse occupying the passengers' section of the bench seat in the cab,
was not one of the security vehicles used for transporting the badly
disturbed cases, but what he'd heard one of the drivers refer to as a
"walking wounded bus" -- its stretcher-racks convertible into ordinary
seating or else capable of being folded back to make room for wheelchairs.

 

 

He twisted around in his place and peered through the glass separating the
cab from the rear compartment. The security vehicles had such glass, too
-- more of it, indeed, if you thought only in terms of area -- but theirs
was reinforced with wire until what it brought to Paul's mind was the back
of Mrs Weddenhall's Bentley, caged for the transport of her enormous dogs.

 

 

The moment he showed his face, Urchin made as though to jump from her seat.
She was dragged back by the nurse beside her, a girl called Woodside,
pretty, but much too tall to be popular with the men -- easily matching
Paul's five feet eleven. She had a reputation for treating patients
roughly. He scowled at her.

 

 

There was only one other patient in the back, a harmlessly silly man
called Doublingale. Paul decided he should have ridden there rather
than in front -- the nurse beside him had extremely sharp hip-bones --
but it was too late to change his mind now.

 

 

The trip was slower than usual owing to the Saturday morning shopping
traffic in Blickham. Paul kept sneaking glances over his shoulder, noting
Urchin's reaction to her surroundings. These were hardly attractive: the
fringe of red-brick houses that turned the nearer side of Yemble into a
dormitory for the larger town was itself dull, and beyond it lay bleak
towers of council apartments served by another parallel road. It gave
way shortly to small untidy factories, a scrapyard, the cattle-market
and some railway goods sidings.

 

 

To Urchin, however, the view was apparently something to be absorbed
without criticism. Only at one point did she display anything but intent
interest: when they halted for a red light outside a butcher's shop just
before reaching their destination. For a long moment she gazed in seeming
disbelief, then swallowed hard and shut her eyes until they moved off.

 

 

-- Of course. The episode with the bacon. Hmmm. . . . Not just vegetarian,
but actually revolted by the sight of meat. Which brings me back to this
notion of culture shock. But what the hell kind of culture?

 

 

He'd sent the tape and sample of writing to the university, but there
was no telling when he would receive a verdict from the experts.

 

 

 

 

The young houseman in charge of the morning's X-ray schedule at Blickham
General was very apologetic about the three emergencies from a car-crash
who had shot his appointments to hell, but by the sound of it all three
might be suffering from skull fractures, so Paul was undisposed to complain.
He glanced around the outpatients' waiting-room, chilly and depressing,
and abruptly snapped his fingers as he recalled what Hofford had said
about photographs of Urchin.

 

 

"That's all right," he exclaimed. "In fact, it suits me very well.
I'll bring her back later, shall I?"

 

 

"Suit yourself, but try not to be longer than thirty minutes." The
houseman looked lingeringly at Urchin, huddled in a child's woollen
overcoat. "Nothing serious, I hope?"

 

 

"It's hard to say. The poor kid doesn't speak English."

 

 

"As a result of something? I see. Pity! Dreadfully young to go off her
rocker, isn't she?"

 

 

 

 

-- Are you? Aren't you?

 

 

The problem buzzed maddeningly in Paul's brain like a trapped fly as
he led Urchin across the entrance yard of the hospital, very conscious
of the eyes of the driver in the ambulance which had brought them. The
photographer's shop he had mentioned to Hofford was virtually opposite,
and the driver watched them all the way.

 

 

Portrait photos mounted on thread jumped as he pushed open the door.
Behind the counter, a suave young man framed by a black velvet curtain
looked up.

 

 

"Good morning, sir, Harvey Samuels at your service, what can I do for you?"

 

 

His tone was weary, as though he was tired of doing anything for anyone.

 

 

"You do passport photos while you wait?" Paul asked.

 

 

"Yes, sir. Fleeing the country, are you?" An insincere smile. "Never
mind me, sir, just my little joke, you know. Is it for yourself or the
young lady?"

 

 

"For her."

 

 

"Three for ten and six, that all right? Come this way, please," be added
to Urchin, raising a flap of the counter.

 

 

"I'll have to come with her, I'm afraid," Paul said. "She doesn't understand
English."

 

 

Surprise fleeted across Samuels's face. "The pictures are for a British
passport, are they, sir? I'm afraid I wouldn't know if they're suitable
for any other country."

 

 

"They're not for a passport at all. I just want some pictures in a hurry."

 

 

Samuels shrugged and pushed back the curtain. Encouraging Urchin with
a smile, Paul accompanied the photographer into a cramped little room
dominated by floodlights and a group of three cameras aimed at a plain
metal stool. On the wall behind the stool a white sunburst was painted
to give portraits a sort of halo effect.

 

 

"Get her to sit down, please," Samuels said, switching on his lights.

 

 

"Don't go to a lot of trouble," Paul warned. "A good plain likeness is
all I need."

 

 

"Making the young lady plain is probably beyond even my abilities, sir,"
Samuels answered as though it were a stock compliment,

 

 

Paul attempted to lead Urchin to the stool, but she baulked and clung
to his hand, wide eyes staring at the cameras.

 

 

-- Don't let me down now, Urchin! You weren't put off by the
tape-recorder, so why should this bother you?

 

 

He gave her shoulder a reassuring pat, and she timorously yielded.
But the hard fear remained on her face. Since Samuels took the injunction
about a simple likeness literally, it was captured on the plate.

 

 

-- I hope her friends or family or whatever recognise her with that
ghastly expression!

 

 

Relieved that the job was over, she stood as close to the door as possible
while he was paying for the pictures and arranging to pick them up before
returning to Chent.

 

 

-- Did she expect to be shot, or something?

 

 

But she surprised him for the latest of many times when he opened the
door to go out. Catching his arm, she pointed at one of the pictures
on display, then at her own face. She suddenly turned down her mouth
and narrowed her eyes in a parody of the expression she had worn in the
studio. It lasted only a second, and was wiped away in a peal of laughter.

 

 

-- in other words: I must have looked hideous!

 

 

Grinning, he escorted her back to the hospital. A car drove by as they
left the shop; absently he put his arm on her shoulder to prevent her
walking in front of it. Equally absently he forgot to take it off until
they were crossing the hospital yard and he realised the ambulance driver
was still at the wheel of his vehicle.