Chapter Seventeen
Hospital
After almost five weeks of working days—with no word from Romano—my new boss, Ravi, considers me capable and responsible enough to handle nights.
Until then, I’ve been restricted to basic tasks on the lower levels of the hospital, nowhere near Leblanc’s room on the sixth floor.
He tells me that nights tend to be quieter, but when emergencies occur, there are inevitably fewer porters available to handle them.
What could start as a peaceful shift can quickly spiral into a stampede, with everyone needing you at once.
The upside is that I am as good as invisible.
Besides black trousers, Ravi has offered me a choice of uniform—a light-blue or white polo shirt worn beneath a navy-blue short- or long-sleeved pullover.
I opted for the latter to cover my wrists.
He’s also loaned me a pair of steel-capped boots which, he tells me, have saved him from broken toes on more than one occasion.
I will often be called to wear personal protective equipment such as gloves, a facemask, and sometimes even Perspex goggles or a face shield when dealing with toxic items.
I also follow Mrs Bellacci’s advice and store a disguise in my bag, keeping an eye out for props that might come in handy.
I find a set of light-blue scrubs with a tiny ink stain from a leaky pen on the breast pocket dumped into a laundry bin.
Unfortunately, the doctor’s white coat I’d had my eye on had the physician’s name embroidered on the pocket.
‘You’re punctual,’ Ravi told me when I reported for duty on my first night shift, before getting straight down to business.
‘I like my guys to be punctual. As a newbie, you do not want to piss off your tired colleagues. As usual, when your assistance is called for, report to the scene in fifteen minutes, which means getting a shift on if you’re at the other end of the hospital.
And don’t give the nurses attitude. They’re only doing a job.
Security handles any nighttime incidents, but, as you know, we’re sometimes called upon to help.
And we’re told not to talk to the patients, but take that with a pinch of salt.
Many are bored and can’t sleep, and some don’t get visitors.
They welcome a chat. The nurses won’t mind as long as they know you’re not taking advantage. ’
I find comfort in the work, which is physical but not often mentally demanding.
During the day shift, I speak only when asked a question and become a listening ear when my coworkers want to vent.
Most of the time I listen to moans and groans about the job or their lives.
Everybody seems to be working towards something else, their real calling being just around the corner.
Stories tend to centre on lucrative financial schemes, joining family members abroad or breaking into the entertainment business.
Ravi rolls his eyes after he comes to fetch me and chances to overhear a colleague’s rant.
Accompanying me to another ward to move a patient, he tells me most of his team, those who talk up their prospects the loudest, are the ones who have been with the hospital the longest.
On the second day of working nights, I’m sent to clean up the secure areas of the sixth floor.
My pass gets me through the double security doors, and, as Ravi instructed, I head to the nurse’s station first to ask the nurse on duty if there’s anything I can do or any priorities that need my attention.
After that, I’m left alone to empty bins and tidy furniture along the corridor and in any vacant rooms.
He told me that occupied rooms are off-limits because we would be in deep shit if we woke or rattled any of those patients.
That night, I peer through the glass pane of room six-forty, where Sylvie Leblanc is recovering.
Lights are dim inside, but a spotlight above the bed illuminates her face.
She is propped up, eyes closed, looking peaceful, if a little gaunt.
Wires and nasal cannulas lead from her body into machines, and apart from the pale complexion, she appears otherwise unharmed—externally, at least.
I take a step back when a nurse’s face appears in the window frame, and she opens the door inward.
“Hello, my love. I’m Nurse Anna. Don’t suppose you could give the room a quick once-over, could you?”
I nod, unsmiling, and introduce myself before parking my mobile cleaning station and scanning the room.
Anna sits on the left side of the bed. She likes to talk and grumbles about the hospital’s deteriorating standards.
Even though it’s not my job, I clean all surfaces, including the shelves, beneath the array of get-well cards and vases of flowers, to get a good look at everything.
I notice a television fixed on the wall in one corner and a camera trained on the bed in the other.
Anna’s attention is transfixed when something comes on the screen, and she stops talking.
When she comments about the host’s deliciousness, I see she’s watching an episode of the docuseries called Marshall’s Law.
Sylvie remains asleep or unconscious. I fetch my broom and sweep the dusty floor.
I decide to leave after that and try another night, but I notice a commercial break and decide to ask a question.
“Why does the hospital leave a nurse here but not in the other rooms?”
Anna has been reaching over to adjust the tubing beneath Sylvie’s nose and chuckles when she hears my question.
“I don’t work for the hospital, love. I’m with a private nursing agency.
We’re hired to take shifts to care for Miss Sylvie around the clock.
Feed her, keep her clean and call the hospital staff for assistance if needed.
Lightens their load, but also means someone’s always on hand.
A friend of hers is footing the bill. Wish I had friends like that, I can tell you. ”
“Yes, that would be nice,” I answer, concentrating on sweeping dust beneath the bed. When I straighten up, I notice Nurse Anna smiling at me.
“Nice job, love. The bloke you’ve taken over from didn’t know one end of a broom from the other. Said sweeping weren’t part of his job anyway. I was gonna complain to them out there, but what’s the use? Are you permanent?”
“Temporary.”
“Shame. Hospital needs good staff.”
“What happened to the lady?” I ask, nodding to Sylvie before emptying the bins and providing new liners.
Anna tells her version of events, which sounds very similar to what the newspapers reported.
What’s new is that although Sylvie is conscious during the day, she is constantly tired and unable to string sentences together, speaking only in single words.
Even when she is released, a full recovery will be an uphill struggle.
While I’m there, which is not long, Sylvie doesn’t stir.
I decide to withdraw and concentrate on the rest of the floor.
I clock off at four that morning, handing over to another guy who will work until midday.
Ravi has agreed to let me work sixteen-hour shifts.
Now I have eight hours free to eat, sleep and recharge, which is more than enough.
The only sacrifice is my evening swimming exercise at the public pool, a Tube ride away.
If I wake early enough, I might head there before my midday shift begins.
I walk the darkened streets wondering what Lorenzo is doing.
Not far from my flat, there’s a café open twenty-four hours, where I buy coffee and food to take home.
I had always felt comfortable being a loner, but I miss the company of Mrs Bellacci and especially Lorenzo.
In the early evening of the next day, I am strolling through the hospital waiting area when a familiar voice rises above the general noise, singling me out.
“Excuse me. Excuse me. Yes, you,” calls a woman in a tone I recognise. Albert’s sister, Victoria, sits stiffly on one of the plastic seats, a magazine open on her knees and a mobile phone clamped to her ear. She appears as impatient as I remember her.
“Do these bins ever get emptied? They’re becoming a health hazard.”
She stares straight through me and clearly has no idea who I am. I nod my acknowledgement but say nothing as I pull on my utility gloves. Noticing my response, she turns away and continues her call.
“Hammond-Clyde only deals in family law, darling, not property. She would be eaten alive with something this complex. Which is why we need somebody big-league. Edward knows it will cost, but he wants it done.”
I slow what I’m doing. Is she talking to someone about Eagle House? Are they trying to reverse Albert’s gift to me? I go over, pull a thick nylon cable tie from my pocket and secure the trash bag in the bin. She continues talking when I lift it from the container and move past her to the cart.
“Prime commercial real estate in the heart of London? What hotel chain wouldn’t snap up something like that?”
Callico House. She’s talking about them selling Callico House. I pull out a clean sack from the cart, together with a disinfectant spray and cloth, and return to the bin area. When I spray the insides of the container, I notice Victoria irritably wave a hand in front of her nose.
“Those inheritance caveats were added over a hundred years ago. Surely there are modern loopholes that can be found? Other listed buildings seem to be granted changes of use all the time.”
Once I’ve finished, I pass her again and indicate the cleaned area. In true Victoria style, she purses her lips, nods dismissively then ignores me.
“You’ve been there. It’s a monstrosity. Edward says he doesn’t want to spend another penny on its upkeep. And on that point, I am in complete agreement.”
I push the cart out of her line of sight, around the corner from where she is sitting, and pretend to rearrange the contents in the top basket.