Sisters of Mercy (29 page)

“We’ll
look at your figures in a minute,” said Marcus. “You say patients are being killed – any patients, or a particular type or category?”

“Aye.
Those whose lives some might say were not worth living.”

“That’s
subjective, to say the least.”

“I
don’t mean vegetative cases being allowed to die naturally – that happens, of course – I mean mentally alert people with two or three or more months left to live being deliberately killed.”

“So
you’re talking about involuntary euthanasia.”

“I
am.”

“How’s
it being done?”

“I
don’t know. I only know that it
is
being done, and that it’s being made to look natural. The one’s I’ve noticed seem to be dying of pneumonia.”

“Any
idea who’s doing it?” Tom again.

“No,
I don’t know that, either.”

Marcus
regarded him for a moment ...

Fraser
had
changed; even with his beard, he could see that his face was thinner, darker, the dark brown eyes deeper in their sockets, giving him a mien even more intense than before. “Perhaps you’d better tell us from the beginning,” he said. “How did you come to be working there? It’s not really your line, is it?”

“No,”
Fraser agreed. He began haltingly: “After Frances died, I didna know what I wanted to do …”

*

Although he’d been expecting it, even almost willing it at times, her death had shaken him more than he could have imagined.

He’d
been formally cleared of any wrongdoing and was thus officially available for work again. Unofficially however, his erstwhile colleagues still blamed him for their misfortunes and let him know that his return would be deemed “inappropriate”. They’d offered him three months pay while he looked for another job and, dazed by grief, he’d accepted ...

“You
should never have agreed to that,” said Marcus.

“You
were shafted,” said Tom.

“Aye,
I know that –
now
,” Fraser said ...

He
tried to lose himself walking over Dartmoor and Exmoor. He dreamed strange dreams in which Frances spoke to him, then woke up crying because he couldn’t remember what she’d said. Guilt rode him like a vulture: he was alive, she was dead, it was his fault and he had to atone in some way. Which is why he’d volunteered to go and work in Africa for a year for a charity.

It
hadn’t worked.

It
wasn’t the heat, or the flies or the disease, and he liked the people, whom he thought the happiest he’d ever met, despite their poverty. What he couldn’t stand was the corruption of some of the indigenous petty officials and one day, he’d told one of them exactly what he thought of him.

It
hadn’t been well received and his head was the price of peace.

“I
told you so,” Mary, his mother in law, said when he got back. She had, too. “So what are you going to do now?”

“I
don’t know,” he confessed.

Fortunately,
his house had only been let on a short lease and was empty, but he needed money to pay the mortgage.

She
said, “Wait there a minute.“ She left the room, came back a few minutes later with a sheaf of newspaper cuttings. “I’ve been meaning to show you these for a long time, but then what with Frances and everything else … “ She tailed off … ”Anyway, look at them now while I make some tea.”

It
was a series of articles, mostly from the Telegraph, on the state of care for older people in NHS hospitals. There were case studies of elderly, but relatively healthy people going into hospital for trivial complains, then dying from the treatment they received there. Being found by relatives in urine-soaked bedclothes that hadn’t been changed for days. Food put out of reach so that they couldn’t eat, bedsores you could put your fist into, instructions such as
Not
For
Resuscitation
and
Nil
By
Mouth
surreptitiously attached to their notes.

“If
you want to help suffering humanity,” Mary said, “why don’t you go and work in one of those places?”

He
looked at her. “I do remember hearing about this, but I thought they’d sorted it out now ... ”

“I
thought so too, but then last week, I saw this – “ She handed him another cutting.

The
headline was
Why
did
Mabel
have
to
die
like
this
? Mabel Fisher, a healthy woman in her seventies, had gone into hospital for a minor operation and died there from malnutrition. This was followed by a report from the charity Age Alert claiming that six out of ten older patients in hospital were at risk of malnutrition and dehydration because the nursing staff were simply too busy to feed them properly. This meant that not only were they taking longer to get better and thus exacerbating the bed shortage, but some, like Mabel, were actually dying.

“Six
out of ten,“ he repeated to himself … “I knew there was a nursing shortage, but I never thought it was that bad.“

“Well,
why don’t you go and find out for yourself?”

So,
a couple of days later, when he saw the advert for a locum staff grade to cover maternity leave at Wansborough Community Hospital in Wilts, he rang the consultant in change, Dr Armitage, and arranged to go and see him the following afternoon.

Philip
Armitage was a smallish man of about fifty with sandy hair, a goatee and mild grey eyes behind glasses.

“I’ll
show you round, then we’ll have a talk,” he said. He was gently spoken with a faint Midlands accent.

The
hospital, which was in the grounds of the Royal Infirmary, was in the form of a misshapen T, with beds in the long stroke and admin in the short. It looked as though it had been built that way to fit into a left over piece of land (which he found later was the case). It appeared very cramped from the outside, and yet inside seemed airy and spacious – a bit like an NHS Tardis, Fraser thought with a smile.

“How
many patients?” he asked.

“Forty-five
altogether, thirty women and fifteen men.”

It
was freshly painted in blue and yellow, clean, well equipped and, so far was he could see, well run. There was also very little smell.

Many
of the old hospital wards he remembered, especially those for older patients, had held what he’d thought of as the miasma of the infirm. It’s a smell that hits you straight between the nostrils and when you stop noticing it, then it’s time to worry, because it’s impregnated your clothes.

Fraser
commented on it.

“Having
a new purpose-built unit helps of course,” Armitage told him. “Although good nursing and cleaning staff may have something to do with it.”

They
walked back to his office. “Not quite what you were expecting?” he enquired of Fraser with a twinkle.

Fraser
had to admit that it wasn’t.

“Perhaps
you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers.” His steady gaze and faint smile seemed to be mocking him.

“Perhaps
not,” Fraser agreed, reluctantly smiling.

“Oh,
I know there were some places that were frankly vile,” Armitage continued, serious now, “This hospital replaced one of them in fact. There are still some which – er - leave something to be desired, shall we say? But this isn’t one of them.”

“Obviously
not,” Fraser said.

There
was a knock on the door and a secretary brought in some tea. While Armitage poured, he glanced round the room. It was austere almost to the point of starkness – no photos, no pictures or plants. The only thing of interest was a bookcase that seemed to contain old medical books and Fraser wondered if he was a collector –

“Sugar?”

“Oh – no thanks.”

He
handed Fraser his tea and then questioned him about his medical experience. He asked him why he wanted the job.

“The
truth is,” Fraser said, “I’m not sure what I want to do with my career at the moment.” He told him briefly and unemotionally about Frances.

“My
dear man, I’m so sorry.”

Fraser
couldn’t remember the last time he’d been called that, yet there was no doubting Armitage’s sincerity.

“Thank
you.” He paused. “I need time, but I also need some money.”

“I
can understand that.” He regarded Fraser for a moment. “I think you’re the right person for this post.”

Fraser
looked at him in surprise. “You’re offering it to me?”

Armitage
nodded. “Yes.”

“D’you
not have other people to interview?”

“Only
one other person has showed any interest and I didn’t think they were suitable. We were about to re advertise.”

“I
see …”

“Perhaps
I should have told you earlier, there’s a flat in the doctor’s quarters that goes with it.”

Accommodation
had been one of the two things worrying Fraser. He now gave voice to the other.

“You
mentioned earlier I’d be working under one of your Associate Specialists, could I meet him - or her?”

“I
was about to suggest that,” Armitage said, standing up, “And it
is
a her – Edwina Tate.”

He
took him a little way along the corridor to an open door. The woman working at the VDU swivelled round in her chair and stood up. She was tall and slim, a bit younger than Armitage, with a thin face and long dark hair shot with grey.

“Hello.”
She held out a soft hand, then at Armitage’s prompting, outlined what she wanted. She had a somehow otherworldly manner and Fraser neither liked nor disliked her. He felt he could work with her.

As
they left, Armitage said, “While you’re here, you’d better meet Ranjid, our other Associate Specialist and also my deputy.”

He
tapped on another door, marked Dr R Singh, and pushed it open.

“Oh
- I’m sorry Ranjid, you’re busy.”

He
quickly pulled the door shut and they moved on.

“So
you’ll think about it and let me know?” he said to Fraser as they returned to his office.

“I’ll
do that,” said Fraser.

“Tomorrow?
I’m sorry to push you, but if you don’t want it, we’re going to have to look for someone else.”

“Of
course,” Fraser said. “Tomorrow.”

He
had thought about it as the MG roared throatily back along the motorway to Bristol. Wansborough itself was possibly the most unappealing town he’d seen in his life, viciously ugly office blocks and windswept car parks and shopping malls, but he’d rather liked Armitage and felt he could rub along with Edwina.

He
also thought about the scene he’d witnessed in the second before Armitage had pulled the door shut – two faces, the one behind the desk clearly Asian with good looking, regular features now twisted in anger, the other swivelled round towards them, startlingly beautiful, the beauty accentuated by the flush over the high cheek bones and the twin tear trails …

As
Armitage had observed, they’d been busy – a new variant of
doctors
and
nurses
, perhaps?

Was
it any concern of his? No. The Asian was obviously Dr R Singh, but he wouldn’t be working with him …

Besides,
he’d thought, it was only for four months.

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