The Best of Times (16 page)

Time had become irrelevant. Emma supposed she felt tired, supposed she felt upset, even; but she was not actually aware of it. She worked like an automaton, conscious only of the superb organisation that was directing everyone’s efforts. If Alex had told her to clean all the toilets she would have done it without question.

Ambulances arrived; people were brought in, were assessed and directed to the relevant station, and then on to theatre and, where necessary, intensive care. For much of the time she moved from station to station, seeing patients, trying to reassure them, administering painkillers, putting in cannulas and then intravenous drips and blood, taking blood tests, listening to chests, organising X-rays. The X-rays were portable, brought up to the beds, the machines moving round the patients, Dalek like; many people had fractures, and the simpler ones she set herself, having checked with the orthopaedic registrar—wonderful, calm, even funny Mark Collins—and she sewed up lacerations too, and butterfly-clipped minor head wounds.

Many of the cases were fairly mundane: broken ribs, fractured wrists; some more serious, mostly head injuries. There was a girl in premature labour—Emma held her hand, timing her contractions as
they waited for a midwife to collect her, checking that there was someone still free to set up an epidural, soothing the wild-eyed husband. Emma was spared almost entirely her greatest dread: badly injured children; for the most part they had survived in the astonishing security of their seat belts. One small boy had a concussion, another a broken leg; a very young baby was badly dehydrated, but for the most part, they grinned at her cheerfully as she checked bumps and bruises, enjoying the excitement and drama, intrigued by her stethoscope, asking her endless questions.

A middle-aged man in considerable pain was frantic that his wife should not be contacted: “She has a heart condition; I don’t want her panicking.”

He proved to have several fractured ribs, one of which had punctured his lung. “Nothing we can’t fix pretty quickly. You can go home tomorrow; tell your wife you’ve got in a fight,” said Emma cheerfully, setting up a chest drain.

“Oh, bless you,” he said, patting her hand, and then, “You don’t look like a doctor, you know.”

“I do know,” she said.

One case was particularly poignant: a young man was stretchered in, covered in blood, his equally blood-soaked friend walking beside him.

“They were on their way to the injured guy’s wedding,” Mark told her when she met him outside the theatre. “How cruel is that?”

“Bad as he looks?”

“Not sure. Head injury fairly superficial, but horrible mess, that leg—we’re not sure yet if we can fix it. Going to try to pin it, but it’s extremely complex …”

• • •

Russell looked at his watch; he kept looking at it, willing it to stay still, stop making it later, stop Mary failing him. But it was moving relentlessly on, ignoring his bewilderment and his unhappiness: Seven forty-five, it said now. A whole sixty minutes late. An hour. Surely,
surely she’d have got a message to him if she’d been held up somewhere. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult …

He’d come through to arrivals at a half run, he’d been so excited, his heart thudding as he pulled his flight bag behind him. The rest of his luggage had been FedExed to the hotel.

Although he’d instructed her to wait at the Hertz desk, he’d still wondered if she mightn’t walk over to where everyone else was waiting, leaning on the barrier. He scanned the row of people: scruffy, for the most part, generally young, lots of children sitting on their father’s shoulders, pulling on their mothers’ hands, people holding banners saying things like,
Welcome Home, Mum
and the rows of dark-suited drivers, with their signs neatly filled with people’s names. He had been met all over the world by such people; automatically he scanned the boards now … But there was no neat, smiling white-haired lady, waving as she had been in the wildest of his wildest dreams, calling out, “Russell! Over here!”

Mary had written in her last letter that there’d be no risk of bad holdups, because she’d be travelling against the traffic.

“And I shall allow lots of time, Russell; you can be sure of that. Was I ever late for you?”

And she wasn’t; somehow she had always been on time, working her way briskly across London, hopping from bus to bus, often walking if the traffic was bad. Well, she had been, once, terribly late—two and a half hours—but she had turned up safely just the same, had run into the bar where he’d agreed to meet her, flushed and flustered. “The siren went off, Russell; I had to go down to the tube and wait for the all-clear. I’m so sorry.”

It had been his last night before being moved to a new base; he wouldn’t be able to stay long, he warned her, but she’d said she’d get away from work early specially.

“I might not see you again for … for a long time. I mean, you never know. I don’t want to waste our last evening together, Russell, not seeing you.

“I’m so, so glad you were still here,” she said, smiling as he kissed
her, and he said of course he was still there; he’d have waited for her for all night if need be, risked getting into every kind of trouble. As he would now. And this had been only an hour …

• • •

The lorry driver had been brought in by helicopter, Alex told Emma, the last casualty to arrive, and taken straight to the theatre. His chances were not rated very high. She had expected him to be old, but apparently he was in his early thirties, with a young family.

“He fielded most of the steering column,” said Alex, “poor chap. You name it, he’s got it: fractured ribs and sternum, tension pneumothorax, contusions of his heart, and then a few more minor things”—he grinned at her—“ruptured spleen, some liver injury. They’ve worked wonders on him, though. He’s very much alive. At the moment. Amazing the punishment the human body can take.”

“And … spinal injuries?”

“Not established yet. Poor bugger. Wife’s on the way, apparently.”

“I hope someone’s with her,” said Emma. “She’ll be terrified.” And then suddenly she found she had to sit down.

“God,” she said, “it’s ten o’clock. How did that happen?”

“Tired?”

“A bit. Any idea at all yet what caused this?”

“Not yet. But the lorry was at the front of it all, went through the barrier. Could have been him, fell asleep, skidded, whatever.”

“Well, if it was, he’s been well punished for it,” said Emma soberly.

• • •

Abi and Shaun were still waiting in A&E. They’d arrived almost two hours ago, and Abi was beginning to feel as if they might be there forever.

The relief of reaching St. Marks had been intense. It was a vast, pristine building, gleaming in the evening sun, only four storeys high, but Abi felt suddenly nervous. What on earth might be going on in
there? Maybe they could wait outside. She felt she had seen enough blood and guts for one day—literally.

It was very noisy, ambulance sirens cutting endlessly through the air, and a lot of shouting. Ambulances were pulling up constantly, porters running out with wheeled stretchers, nurses following them.

“Right, my love, follow me; let’s get you registered.”

Abi took a deep breath and braced herself for a scene like something out of
ER
.

But inside it more closely resembled Waterloo station in rush hour than
ER:
a huge room with a large raised desk by the entrance with three women sitting at it, and an electronic sign that said,
Welcome to St. Marks. Approximate waiting time from arrival is now five hours, fifteen minutes
. This changed even as she watched it to five hours, thirty minutes. People were crammed onto chairs, standing three deep at the desk, pestering for information any nurse reckless enough to appear. Children were crying, running about, being shouted at; mobiles were ringing constantly, despite stern written instructions not use them, and the three women at the desk were astonishingly calm as they fielded questions, issued directions (mostly to sit down and wait), put out calls for people to go for assessment, and handed out admission forms to newcomers.

A small corner with a low green fence round it—marked,
Children’s Play Area
—was empty of both children and toys; there were several battered model animals and Thomas the Tank Engines being fought over in various parts of the room.

Bureaucracy took over; Abi was handed a form to fill in and had to leave most of it blank, having no idea who Shaun’s next of kin was, apart from its being clearly his mother, nor his address, nor even his religion. She elicited such information from Shaun as she could, but it was patchy. She sat down obediently with Shaun—having taken him, wildly protesting, into the ladies’ when he wanted to pee—and played Hangman and Join the Dots with him until he slumped into an exhausted stupor.

A white-faced young woman next to her, with a small girl on her
lap, sat staring at the door; she looked as if she was about to cry. Abi smiled at her.

“You OK?”

“Not really. I’m worried out of my wits. My other little girl’s out there somewhere with her dad; she’s been hurt and they’re waiting for an ambulance.”

“I’m sorry,” said Abi. “Is she badly injured?”

“Not according to him, but he wouldn’t know bad if it hit him in the eye. He says it’s just a banged head, but that could be anything, couldn’t it? He’d been to collect her from her nan’s; they were late leaving. I said to him, if he’d been on time for once in his life, she’d be home tucked up safely in bed by now, but no, he had to go and check on a job he was doing first.”

“That’s the thing about accidents, though, isn’t it?” said Abi. “It’s all bits of chance and fate, muddled up together. I’m sure she won’t be long; there are so many ambulances out there, and they’ve cleared a way right through the traffic, apparently.”

A man with his arm in a makeshift sling was sitting staring into space, grey faced, opposite Abi; he started chatting to her, clearly glad of the distraction.

“Car hit one of the fridges. Front’s pretty well stove in. The wife’s coming to get me, but we live in Manchester, so bit of a way.” He shifted, winced. “Glad to get this set—”

A nurse appeared, called out, “Brian Timpson.”

He stood up. “Well, nice talking to you. See you later.”

Almost immediately his place was taken by a hard-faced young man carrying a notebook; he’d been talking to several people, she’d noticed, some had been more receptive than others. “Hi,” he said, “Bob Mason,
Daily Sketch
. Wonder if you’d mind if I chatted to you for a bit. You were out there in the crash, I take it?”

Rage shot through Abi.

“I was,” she said coldly, “and I’d mind very much if you chatted to me, actually. Just piss off, will you?”

“OK, OK,” he said, “sorry to have troubled you.”

Every so often she wondered vaguely what Jonathan was doing, what complex lies he might be telling Laura; that was as far as her curiosity—or indeed her emotions—extended towards him. He seemed to belong in an entirely different point in her life; the accident had, in some strange way, restructured everything.

She was just considering moving into a corner seat, where she might be able to doze, at least, only it would mean waking Shaun, when a young man, looking deeply distressed, walked dazedly in, slumped down in the chair next to her, and put his head in his hands. He was naked from the waist up and his trousers were held up with red braces. Poor bloke had obviously had a very tough time. She could scarcely believe it when the reporter sat down on his other side and said, “Hi. Bob Mason,
Daily Sketch
. Mind if I talk to you? I’m just—”

The man lifted his head out of his hands, stared at him for moment; then he said, “Yes, I bloody well do.”

“Parasites,” she said, as Mason walked away. “They shouldn’t be allowed in.”

He said nothing, stood up still looking dazed, and walked over to the watercooler, filled a cup of water for himself.

As he stood drinking it, a nurse appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Fraser? Yes, the doctor will talk to you now.”

Mr. Fraser half ran out of the room.

“Such a sad story,” said a middle-aged woman sitting opposite her. “He was here much earlier; he was on his way to be best man at a wedding. The bridegroom’s been very badly hurt.”

“God,” said Abi, “that’s so terrible.”

She felt freshly shocked; fate was certainly having a field day.

• • •

Linda was beginning to feel extremely worried. Something quite serious must have happened to Georgia. She’d been so upbeat, so grateful to Linda for rescheduling her audition. And suddenly … she appeared to have vanished. Linda had tried ringing her twice, but her phone was on voice mail. That was unlike her, too—Georgia never
missed an opportunity to chatter. And it was well into the evening. But Georgia didn’t have to be anywhere until the morning; there was plenty of time.
Get a life, Linda, for God’s sake
.

She tried Georgia’s phone just once more and then started clearing her desk preparatory to leaving it. Linda could no more have left an uncleared desk than she would have left home in a crumpled skirt or shoes in need of heeling.

But Georgia was still not picking up.

• • •

Abi was half-asleep, her head lolling onto Shaun’s, when she was jerked awake by a voice saying, “Shaun! Shaun, where are you?” And he sat up, rubbing his eyes, and then shot off towards the direction of a pallid, overweight young woman, yelling, “Mum, mum,” and pushed himself into her slightly reluctant arms.

She was accompanied by two other small children and an equally overweight older woman whom Abi assumed was her mother; they all came over to Abi, who started to tell Shaun’s mother how brave he’d been and how proud of him she should be.

She stared at her rather blankly and then said, “You’re all right, are you?” to Shaun, interrupting the little speech.

“I think he’s OK,” Abi said rather tentatively. “He had an asthma attack, as I expect you know, but he’s been checked over by the doctor here and given some Ventolin, and all he needs now is you, I should think.”