The Ward (9 page)

She just shakes her head.

‘Besides,’ I say. ‘You have to have your operation. You should see a doctor straight away. I’ll just call someone to come and get us.’ Who? If Katya’s on a
job, she wouldn’t be able to. What about Eduardo? I’ll just call a taxi, go home, sort it out from there. ‘It’s our only option.’

‘What if there’s someone here? Instead of going back to the hospital?’

‘Where?’

‘Here. In this house.’

‘Right. Like some householder’s going to let a woman and a blind man wearing a patient’s gown in to “use the phone”. Across the road from New Hope Hospital, which,
if you weren’t aware, is where they patch up the crims and hijackers. Not bloody likely.’

Lisa’s up and pacing as a helicopter clatters over our heads. I can even see the outlines of her arms as she riffles her hair in agitation. I blink, blink again. It’s not a trick.
I’m seeing better.

‘Farrell. There’s a—’

‘Freeze!’ I duck. CRACK!

‘Farrell!’

Holy fuck, someone’s shooting at us.

‘I said
freeze
!’

I stand still, raise my hands halfway up. The voice is coming from behind me, but I don’t know which direction I’m facing now.

‘Lisa!’ I whisper. ‘Lisa!’

The man shouts again, his voice tinged with excitement. ‘Shut up. Get down on the ground!’

‘Lisa!’

CRACK!

‘One more move and the next one’s in your back. It’s not a good day to test us.’

I crumble to my knees, wondering where Lisa is, why she’s not answering. She can’t be far. I sink to my belly. All I can hope is that this is a security guard. If it’s a
burglar, we’re fucked. There’s no reason for him to keep us alive.

A walkie-talkie sputters. ‘Dispatch, come in. Goosen, Patrol 907. Two intruders apprehended at 67 Hospital Road. Request backup.’ Thank Jesus. I breathe again. This guy is probably
private security, probably less likely than a criminal to kill us. I hear Lisa whimpering a few metres away from me, also from the level of the lawn. She’s okay. That’s good.

Then I hear the sssh-sssh-sssh of lawn-footsteps coming towards us.

‘Hey! Stop there! Identify please.’

‘I’m RN Nomsa Makgatho. I work at the… at the hospital. These patients got lost in the chaos there. I’m here to bring them back. Can I show you my ID card?’

The guard’s boots thump by us. Nomsa. Thank God. She’ll be able to explain what’s been happening.

‘Okay, Nurse. But you better keep a closer eye on your patients, okay? You’re blarry lucky I didn’t shoot them.’

‘Yes, Officer. I’m really sorry.’

Will Nomsa be able to explain the pictures in my room?

If there
are
any pictures.

The chilling thought hits me: Lisa’s the crazy one. Of course she is. It sounds like she’s addicted to cosmetic surgery, like Michael Jackson or something. She’s just paranoid
and for some reason she’s making up some lie. What if she’s the one who drew the lines on me?

Nomsa will sort things out.

The guard radios back to dispatch. ‘Patrol 907 to dispatch. All clear. Situation at 67 Hospital Road resolved.’ His boots thud away.

Nomsa bends to help me up.

‘No,’ Lisa says. ‘I’m not going back!’

‘Come on, Clien— Ms Cassavetes,’ Nomsa says, moving away from me. ‘We need to prep you for the surgery, and you really shouldn’t be running around out here.
You’ll need all your str—’

‘
No!
’ Lisa screams. ‘Get your hands
off
me!’

‘Apologies, Ms Cassavetes, but you are in my care.’

Lisa half-screams, then she’s silent. I hear her flump to the ground.

Christ. ‘What did you do?’

‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Farrell, but it’s vital that we get Ms Cassa vetes back to the wards as a matter of urgency. She’s quite comfortable now, don’t you
concern yourself. The orderlies are right behind me to collect her now. Why were you out here with her?’

‘I’m sorry. I thought… I don’t know. I just got spooked…’

She laughs. ‘Spooked, Mr Farrell?’

‘With everything going on, the accident…’

‘That’s understandable,’ she says soothingly. ‘We’ve never seen anything like it. But it’s all under control now.’

‘Lisa – Ms Cassavetes – she said there was something going on in the ward. She says she saw someone, a man stalking her or something.’ I don’t mention to Nomsa that
I’ve seen him too; I don’t want Nomsa thinking that I’m as fucked up as Lisa.

‘Ms Cassavetes is overwrought, Mr Farrell, and I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but she has quite a complex medical and psychological history. Prone to hysteria.’

That makes sense. Fuck it, I even
knew
Lisa was just hysterical, but I still let her drag me out of there. Messed-up chick. I actually feel sorry for her.

‘Now, shall we get back?’ She takes my arm.

‘Wait. She said there were photographs, Polaroids of me in my room.’ I pull my gown up, wishing to Christ that I could gauge Nomsa’s expression. ‘And there’s
this.’

‘Goodness!’ Nomsa says. ‘How odd.’ She laughs a tinkly laugh. ‘Why have you been drawing on yourself, Mr Farrell?’

‘I didn’t do this!’

She tuts. ‘Probably one of the interns showing a little bit of disregard, then. Don’t you worry, I’ll make sure they’re disciplined. Now, let’s get you back, safe
and sound.’

I want to ask her again about Katya – if she tried calling her again – but Nomsa’s already leading me briskly through the trees.

‘It will all work out, Mr Farrell, you’ll see. Ms Cassavetes will have her surgery tonight. And you, Mr Farrell, have an appointment.’

Have I been sleeping?

I don’t remember passing out, but I feel that same grogginess that comes after waking suddenly from a deep sleep. And for some reason I’m lying flat on my back. I only ever sleep on
my side.

I open my eyes, and the light makes them water. I blink frantically and try to turn my head away, but my skull feels like it’s been filled with cement. My temples throb.

And it’s not just my head that feels strange. I try to lift my left hand, but it doesn’t want to move. I attempt to wiggle my fingers. Nothing, maybe a faint tingling, but
that’s it. It’s as if there’s a glitch in the wiring between my brain and body and the messages aren’t getting through.

Oh God.

The first wisps of panic start snaking through my body – my pulse rate picks up, blood pounds in my ears, and a cold hand starts squeezing my lungs.

I suck air in through my lips. I need to think about something else, divert my mind, stop the panic smothering me.

First things first. Figure out where I am.

I hear the clatter of something metallic. A bedpan? Then a groan, a hacking cough. And the ceiling looks familiar – grubby white paintwork and rows of strip-lighting. There’s the
rustle of fabric being swished back, and someone nudges my shoulder.

‘Where you been, doll?’

Oh thank God! Gertie. So I’m definitely back on my ward. But how the hell did I get here?
Think!

‘You were gone for ages,’ she says, ‘missed all the fun.’ Her voice sounds far away and muffled as if someone’s stuck cotton wool in my ears.

I can make my lips twitch, but my tongue feels swollen, stuck to the roof of my mouth, and when I try to speak nothing happens.

Could I have had the operation already? Is that it? That would explain why I’m paralysed. Still feeling the effects of the anaesthesia.

That’s it. That must be it. So I just have to wait for it to wear off.

‘Doll? You okay? They given you something? I thought you looked a bit spaced out when they wheeled you back in here. Listen, you’ll never guess what. You know Lulu next to me? She
fell out of bed. And what with all the nurses buggering off it was up to me to help her back in. And, ooooh, my back is killing me now…’

Concentrate. Take a deep breath and try to get the words out.

Help me!

‘Lisa? Why are you crying?’

Am I? Now that Gertie mentions it I can feel the wetness on my cheeks, and my sight is getting blurrier.

‘I’ll get Lumpy Legs for you, doll.’

Yes! Get help! Get someone!

‘What’s that, Lisa? You trying to speak?’

Another rustle of the curtain around the bed; the squeak of footsteps on linoleum.

‘Oh,’ Gertie says. ‘It’s
you
.’

‘Yeah. Forgotten your name, sorry.’

The panicky grip loosens. Farrell’s here. He’ll help me. He’ll get me out of here.

‘Come to see her before she goes under the knife?’ Gertie says. ‘Shame, she’s been crying. Hasn’t said a blarry word though. Out for the count.’

So I’m pre-op, not post. But why can’t I move?

‘It’s okay, Lisa,’ Farrell says. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. Nomsa explained everything.’

No! The pictures, remember the pictures
.

The mattress shifts as Farrell sits on the corner of the bed.

Gertie sniffs loudly. ‘Phoah. I’m not being funny, Frankie, but you need a shower.’

‘It’s
Farrell
.’

‘No need to get all uppity, it’s not me who smells like they’ve been rolling in streetkid shit.’

‘Christ. Ugh. I must’ve stood in something when we were in the garden. Some dog shit or something.’

‘What garden?’

‘Some house outside the hospital. Me and Lisa were trying to—’

‘Oh, I get it,’ Gertie interrupts. ‘Wanted some privacy, did you?’

‘No!’ Farrell says. ‘We were trying to get out of this fucking dump.’

‘Lisa never said she was leaving.’ Gertie sounds hurt.

‘Yeah, well, she was freaking out. Got spooked. Thinks there’s some crazy stuff going on here.’

‘I don’t blame her. I was telling her just now, it’s been blarry mad here—’

‘Back in your bed, Mrs February.’ It’s Lumpy Legs – I’d know that voice anywhere. She’ll get the doctor, get someone who can help.

‘What’s the matter with her?’ Gertie asks. ‘Why isn’t she talking? You given her something?’

‘Just a mild sedative. Standard procedure before an op.’

‘But she’s dead to the world!’

‘It’s quite normal.’

‘She’s not talking. How’s that normal?’

Good old Gertie
.

Lumpy Legs sighs. ‘It says on her chart that she’s a nervous patient. The nurse who administered it probably upped the dosage.’

That’s not true! No! Please, I can’t! I’ve changed my mind, I just want to go home.

There’s the squeak of wheels approaching the bed.

No!

‘And what are you doing here?’ Lumpy Legs’s voice again. She must be addressing Farrell. ‘This isn’t your room. And where’s your hospital gown?’

Farrell mumbles something.

‘Better do as she says, Frankie,’ Gertie says. ‘Or they’ll stop giving you those bed baths I know you like so much.’ She cackles.

The mattress shifts again as Farrell stands up.

Don’t leave me!

Gertie pats my hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘They’ll get those sinuses fixed up lekker, you’ll see. Although you might regret it when you get a whiff of
your boyfriend.’

I feel myself being lifted into the air, I want to struggle, to scream, but my body still isn’t listening. I’m shifted onto a harder surface, and cool air brushes my exposed
limbs.

Someone throws a blanket over my legs. It feels too heavy.

And then I’m moving.

‘See you when you’re older, doll!’ Gertie’s voice floats after me.

This time I manage a strangled ‘Mmmfffff’.

Whoever is pushing me doesn’t dawdle, and I’m whizzed along the corridor. The ceiling tiles flash by above me, most are stained yellow, a few are cracked. There’s a slight bump
as I’m wheeled into a lift. My heart throbs in my chest, and my lungs ache. I can’t seem to suck in enough air. The lift cranks into action. Are we going up or down? I can’t tell,
and a surge of nausea joins the panic. I can’t throw up, I’ll choke.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

The lift’s lights flicker, then hiss. There’s the sound of grinding gears as it judders to a stop. The lift doors ping open.

I’m wheeled down another corridor, the ceiling just as grimy as the last. The gurney slaps though a pair of black rubber doors, and jolts to a stop as it bangs against a wall. I
can’t see where I am. All I know is that the ceiling is slightly cleaner, the light brighter.

‘Incoming!’ a voice behind me yells. Where have I heard that before?

Oh God.

That’s what the porter said in the morgue.

The cold fist tightens again. What if he’s taken me to the wrong place? What if they think I’m dead? That I’ve got that zombie disease when you don’t show any vital signs
and they bury you or cremate you or—

A head surrounded by a halo of fuzzy white hair appears above me.

‘Hello, Ms Cassavetes. I’ll be your anaesthetist for today’s procedure.’ His accent is posh: old-school South African English. He looks to be about a hundred, his
hair-filled nose pitted with large pores. He smiles down at me with stained teeth and kind eyes. He pats my arm. ‘There, there. There’s nothing to worry about.’

Speak!

All I can manage is another strangled ‘Mmmfffff’.

‘My, my, that sedative really worked on you, didn’t it?’ he says, chuckling. ‘Count yourself lucky.’

There’s the sound of Velcro ripping and something grips my upper arm.

‘Just taking your blood pressure, my dear.’ He whistles a meandering tune through his teeth.

The cuff on my arm tightens. I try to speak again, I need to tell him to stop, that I’ve changed my mind, that I don’t want this to happen.

‘Hmmm,’ he says. ‘You’ll do.’

The pressure on my arm eases and then I’m moving again. Another corridor, shorter this time. Another slight bump. I have to shut my eyes against the glare in here.

‘Now. There’s nothing to worry about. As the bishop said to the actress, one little prick and it will all be over.’

I feel the ache of the needle sliding into my arm.

‘Before you know it, you’ll be back safe in your ward. Count down with me, dear. Ten, nine, eight…’