Scorpion [Scorpions 01] (3 page)

    Chris parked the Spitfire in the visitors’ car park and hurried into the hospital’s reception hall. She crossed to the long desk and caught the attention of one of the receptionists.

    ‘Can I help you?’ the girl asked.

    ‘You had a patient brought in a few hours ago,’ Chris explained. ‘Mason, Les Mason.’

    The girl checked her admission sheet. ‘Are you a relative?’

    ‘No. But I’m the nearest he’s got to one,’ Chris said. ‘Please, I must know how he is.’

    The girl frowned as she read something marked in red on the admission sheet.

    ‘Will you excuse me a moment,’ she said. She left the desk and crossed to the far side of the reception area, picking up a phone and dialing quickly. After a short delay she spoke to someone on the other end of the line.

    ‘Sorry about that,’ she apologized as she returned to Chris. ‘A doctor will be down in a moment. If you’d like to take a seat, Miss.’

    Chris nodded. ‘Thanks. By the way, the name’s Lane. Chris Lane.’

    Moving away from the desk Chris went over to the line of seats against the far wall and sat down. She’d only been there for a couple of minutes when a white-coated figure descended the stairs from the upper floor. He was a tall man, with a rather thin, sunken face. His pale hair was receding badly. He walked to the desk and spoke to the girl who had dealt with Chris. He turned and came towards her.

    ‘Miss Lane? I’m Doctor Renshaw.’

    Chris stood up, almost afraid to ask the inevitable question.

    ‘Can you tell me how Les… I mean Mr. Mason… is?’

    Renshaw frowned. ‘He’s very ill. At the moment we are trying to stabilize his condition. Unfortunately we don’t seem to be having a great deal of success.’

    ‘Is it that serious?’

    ‘I’m afraid it is, Miss Lane. Do you have any idea what stung Mr. Mason?’

    Chris shook her head. ‘All I can tell you is what Les told me, that he’d been stung on the hand. He didn’t know what had done it. Very shortly after he began to feel sick. I took him straight home and saw him settled in bed. He was going to ring his own doctor. I had to leave then. When I returned some time later I learned that he’d been taken to hospital.’

    ‘I’m afraid we’ve been unable to identify the origin of the sting,’ Renshaw said.

    ‘Les seemed to think it was either a bee or a wasp.’

    Renshaw looked doubtful. ‘It can’t be ruled out of course. Victims of such attacks
have
been known to exhibit extreme symptoms. An individual might just react in the way Mr. Mason has - but it is the swiftness of the reaction that raises doubts.’

    ‘What about a snake bite?’ ‘Again a possibility,’ Renshaw said. ‘The adder has a particularly effective - if you’ll forgive the word - venom, though the chance of such a reptile in this area is remote.’

    ‘Doctor Renshaw,
something
caused Les’s condition. Something that stung him.’

    A tired smile nickered across Renshaw’s face. ‘We had reached that conclusion ourselves,’ he remarked.

    Chris flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean to suggest… ‘

    ‘You’re worried… it’s natural that you should be impatient.’ Renshaw smiled again, this time reassuringly. ‘We’re doing all we can. There is an excellent research department attached to this hospital - Tropical Diseases. They have a section which deals exclusively with toxicology. I’ve already spoken to Doctor Camperly, the department head, and he is going to carry out investigative tests. Once we can determine the cause of Mr. Mason’s symptoms we can affect a cure.’

    Chris nodded automatically. She’d listened to Renshaw, taking in his reassuring words, but inwardly she was not comforted in any way. Renshaw hadn’t given anything away - but Chris was reaching her own conclusions.

    ‘Can I see Les?’ she asked.

    Renshaw cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid not. Mr. Mason is in an isolation room, and at the moment we can’t allow visitors.’

    ‘Can I keep in touch?’ Chris asked. ‘Find out how he is?’

    ‘Yes, of course.’

    The girl at the reception desk called Renshaw’s name. He excused himself and crossed to the desk. The girl handed him a telephone. The call was brief. Renshaw replaced the receiver and returned to Chris.

    ‘I’m afraid you will have to excuse me, Miss Lane.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Always something cropping up.’

    

    

    Renshaw heard the terrible screams as he pushed through the soundproof doors leading into the isolation ward. The agonized sound seemed to fill the empty corridors. The cry of a soul in torment, he thought, pushing open the door to the room where they had put Les Mason.

    The first thing he saw was the writhing, pain-racked figure strapped down on the bed. The Ward Sister and a couple of nurses were clustered round the bed looking on helplessly. Renshaw knew how they felt. He was beginning to experience the same frustrations.

    As Renshaw entered the room the Sister glanced up. She moved away from the screaming man and went to Renshaw.

    ‘What happened, Sister?’

    ‘He seemed to have quietened down. For a few minutes he became lethargic, then he started to foam at the mouth and he went into a series of spasms. The screaming started soon after.’

    ‘Obviously the sedative isn’t working,’ Renshaw said, moving to the side of the bed.

    He stared down at the contorted figure of Les Mason, and wondered just what they
could
do to help the man. The preliminary investigations had revealed nothing of value - and Renshaw, realizing he was out of his depth, had called on the research department for assistance. He’d done it reluctantly. Renshaw did not get on very well with Andrew Camperly, the man in charge of the department. Camperly was a glory-seeker, opinionated, and too much of a gambler for Renshaw’s conservative outlook. But Camperly had the facilities of his department at his beck and call, so Renshaw - in the interests of his patient - swallowed his pride and asked for help.

    ‘Do you want me to give him another injection?’ the Sister asked.

    As if on cue Les Mason stopped screaming. His violent writhings ceased and he became unnaturally inert. He lay staring up at the ceiling, eyes bulging, white and round against the blackened flesh of his face. His thickened lips, peeled back from his teeth, were speckled with frothy saliva.

    ‘We may not need it,’ Renshaw said. He checked Mason’s pulse; it was extremely agitated.

    ‘His temperature is still high,’ the Sister said. She handed Renshaw the chart from the end of the bed. ‘Doctor, I’ve never seen symptoms like these before.’

    Renshaw gave her back the chart. ‘Don’t worry, Sister,’ he said. ‘Neither have I.’

    The door opened and two white-coated figures stepped into the room.

    ‘Doctor Camperly,’ Renshaw acknowledged.

    Andrew Camperly, tall, fair-haired, a handsome man in his early forties, nodded brusquely. He crossed the room with long strides and joined Renshaw beside the bed. He looked at Les Mason’s inert form, then glanced at Renshaw.

    ‘The patient is twenty-seven years old,’ Renshaw said. ‘He was admitted a few hours ago. All we know is that he is the victim of some kind of sting. The only wound is a puncture on the left hand, at the base of the thumb. Since his admittance he’s had two extreme bouts of what I can only describe as violent spasms. The attacks affect the whole body, and judging by his screams there must be a great deal of pain.’

    ‘Have you had the saliva analyzed?’ Camperly asked.

    Renshaw shook his head. ‘There hasn’t been time. Saliva only began to show a short time ago.’

    ‘Well, we’d better have a specimen.’ Camperly flicked his hand at the Sister. ‘See to that, Sister.’

    The Sister nodded stiffly.

    ‘While we’re about it we’ll get blood tests under way.’ Camperly glanced at the younger man who had come into the room with him. ‘Brady, take the required samples, then get back to the lab and run the usual tests. I want a complete breakdown as soon as possible.’

    Allan Brady, the youngest member of Camperly’s research unit, moved to the side of the bed. He placed the steel tray he was carrying on the trolley beside the bed. Taking a syringe he picked up a sealed pack containing a sterile needle. Breaking the pack he fixed the needle to the syringe. One of the nurses swabbed the darkened flesh of Les Mason’s right arm, just below the elbow joint. Allan probed gently with his finger until he located the large vein. With practiced ease he inserted the long needle and eased back the plunger to draw out the required amount of blood. He withdrew the needle, turned to the trolley, and drained the blood from the syringe into two glass phials. The phials were then stoppered and the labels filled in with the appropriate details.

    While Allan had been taking his blood samples, the Sister had collected a specimen of saliva. It was deposited in a sterile container, then placed in the steel tray alongside the blood phials. Allan picked up the tray and made for the door.

    ‘As soon as the report is ready, Allan, I want it on my desk!’ Camperly said sharply.

    ‘I’ll get right on with it,’ Allan said, and left the room. He closed the door firmly and took a few seconds to allow his anger to subside.

    Damn Camperly, he thought. He’d allowed Camperly to get on his nerves yet again. Why in hell did he let the man do it? He knew why of course - putting up with Camperly and his prima-donna personality meant that Allan could make the most of his appointment at the Greenbank Research Unit. It was one of the best-equipped and forward-looking departments in the country. Allan intended staying at Greenbank as long as he could - even if it did mean suffering Andrew Camperly.

    Shaking off his moment of self-pity Allan walked on down the corridor. At the far end he passed through the soundproof doors and emerged into the research unit’s reception area. Compared to the main hospital reception area it appeared deserted. In fact the whole atmosphere of the research unit differed from the general hospital. Here there were seldom any emergencies, the pace of life was measured, geared to the precision and deliberation required by the world of research and investigation.

    Crossing the reception area Allan nodded to the auburn-haired girl behind the desk. He decided against using the lift and walked down the stairs to the ground floor laboratory complex. Pushing through a glass door Allan entered the hushed lab area he shared with the other member of his section.

    ‘Here he is,’ came a familiar taunt. ‘Camperly’s wee blue-eyed boy!’

    Allan placed the steel tray on his lab bench, unable to hold back a grin. ‘Come on out you hairy highlander.’

    Fergus McFee, a broad, muscular Scot with red hair and a complexion to match, rose into view from behind the opposite bench.

    ‘I don’t know how you get all these plum jobs,’ he grumbled good-naturedly. He lumbered round to Allan’s bench and leaned his bulk on a stool. He watched as Allan set up his equipment. ‘And what has our great doctor and chief lumbered you with this time?’

    Allan glanced up from the test-report sheet he was dating. He tapped one of the phials with his pen.

    ‘Interesting, actually. Renshaw had a man brought in suffering from some kind of sting. Nobody’s sure just what did it.’

    ‘After the bloody summer we’ve had, it wouldn’t surprise me if it turned out to be a tarantula,’ McFee said.

    ‘The thing is,’ Allan persisted, ‘that this poor beggar has had the reaction to end all reactions. Violent spasms, frothing at the mouth. So much pain he’s been screaming the place down. Renshaw’s got him in isolation.’

    McFee began to show an interest. ‘Aye, go on laddie.’

    ‘Nothing Renshaw’s given him seems to have done any good. The sting was at the base of the left thumb. Now the whole of the left arm and his face have swelled up and turned black.’

    ‘Sounds a bit extreme for a wee insect bite,’ McFee said. ‘Perhaps it was something else. Snake maybe?’

    ‘There was only one puncture,’ Allan pointed out.

    McFee thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think you can rule out a snake-bite just on that. It could have been a snake with a defective fang. Or maybe it only managed to make contact with one fang.’

    ‘A short-sighted adder?’ Allan grinned.

    McFee grunted in disgust. ‘If all you can do is scoff, you ignorant Englishman, I’ll away back to my own wee corner.’

    ‘A snake that can’t aim straight,’ Allan chuckled. He glanced at McFee and saw that the Scot was grinning too.

    ‘Can’t you just hear it singing to itself ‘Fangs ain’t what they used to be’.’

    ‘Cut it out, Fergus,’ Allan said. He knew to his cost how infectious the Scot’s humor was, but he was going to have Camperly yelling over his shoulder for his report before long. ‘Haven’t you got anything to do?’ he asked. ‘A dead haggis to dissect?’

    Stifling his snorts of laughter McFee presented a sober expression. ‘If there’s one thing I canna abide next to an Englishman, it’s a dedicated, ambitious, boot-licking Englishman!’

    He slid off the stool and returned to his work - a complex analysis of a new cholera strain. That was McFee’s way. When he played he always went over the top, when he worked he was single-minded and fanatically thorough.

    Allan settled down at his own bench, preparing for the intricate tests he was about to carry out. Here was the nucleus of his work, the nub from which everything else radiated. And it was here where Allan derived his greatest satisfaction, never once failing to become excited as his precise evaluations began to reveal definite results…

    Three hours later he had gleaned every scrap of information possible from the blood and saliva samples taken from Les Mason.