Chapter Seventeen #2
“Once you give me the green light, I’ll get Hammond-Clyde to send you the property file.
No, I’m at St Thomas hospital. Coleman insisted on visiting a patient, an old college friend of his, before we meet his tiresome friends for dinner.
As if I haven’t had enough of these places to last a lifetime.
What do I mean? Who, only a month ago, was dragged to the morgue to identify her dead brother?
Not Edward. He palmed that particular pleasure off onto me.
Seeing Albert laid out like that was too awful for words.
I’m not sure I will ever recover. Death is so undignified.
Will I see you on Sunday? Well, do your best, darling. Love you, too.”
An upside of my previous impromptu visit to the sixth floor is that Anna knows who I am, and when I turn up just after midnight, she beckons me in.
I guess she must be lonely because, once again, she rambles on without waiting for me to respond.
There’s not much to clean in the room, and Sylvie is still asleep, so I finish quickly and offer an olive branch.
“I’m done here, Anna. Can I get something for you? A coffee from the vending machine?”
Anna looks up hopefully, pulling a packet of cigarettes from her pocket and flashing the cover at me, ensuring her back is to the room CCTV.
“I don’t drink coffee, my love, but I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs, if you know what I mean? The duty nurse sometimes covers for me while I get some fresh air. Would you mind keeping an eye on the patient?”
“I’m not supposed to—”
“It’s okay, my love. I promise I won’t be no more than ten minutes.
If you need help, push the call button, and the duty nurse will come.
But I’ll be back before you know. If anyone comes, which is highly unlikely, tell ’em I had to dash to the nurses’ powder room.
They know I don’t like using the patient’s one in the room. ”
Left alone, I consider checking through the bedside drawers, but am conscious of being caught on camera.
Instead, I clean surfaces below the CCTV where I can check things without being filmed.
I make sure I don’t spend too long there and return to the bed, where I take Anna’s seat.
A breaking news story flashes up on the television screen and I reach for the remote to increase the volume.
“News just coming in. A reporter at the Daily Herald alleges to have received documentary proof that calls into question the legitimacy of the medical trials and the effectiveness of what is being heralded as a new super drug. We understand that a press conference has been hastily arranged for early this morning with the project team, including the team leader, Professor Puchinsky.”
As I stretch over to replace the control on the bedside cabinet, Sylvie’s eyes open wide, and she stares at me in horror before grabbing my arm. At that exact moment, I hear the door to the room click open.
“Gah. Gah. Ga-ga-ga.” Sylvie sounds as though she is choking. I jump from the seat, but Sylvie’s grip tightens on my arm.
“No, no, dear,” says Anna, gently but firmly pulling Sylvie’s hand away. “It’s all right, Miss Sylvie. He’s here to collect rubbish. He don’t mean you no harm.”
With her free arm, Anna pushes me behind her.
Beeps from one of the machines grow fast and erratic.
When I check my hands, I realise my sweater sleeves have risen, and my tattoo is exposed—I always stuff Nishan’s watch into my pocket during my shift.
I pull the sleeves back down and look over at Sylvie, who is still trying to stare in my direction.
I am unsure what to do, so I raise my forefinger and press it to my lips.
Sylvie appears to get the message because she closes her eyes and melts back into the pillow.
Moments later, the machine noises begin to slow.
“I should go,” I tell Anna, and she nods.
The following day, on the way to work, as I buy a coffee from a local convenience store, I notice one or two of the daily newspapers running stories about the controversial new wonder drug, with one of the tabloids having the single title, Professor Bullshitsky, splashed across the front page.
From what I can tell, the only paper with the full exclusive story is the Herald.
Naturally, the news is the talk of the hospital staff, but as always, I just listen.
From what I can tell, the press conference did not go well and left many questions unanswered.
When I reach the sixth floor at ten that night, I open the door to room six-forty and find Anna, but no Sylvie. Before I can say anything, Anna explains.
“She’s in the operating theatre. Got wheeled away just after eight. One of her legs isn’t healing properly, so they’re pinning the bones again. How are you tonight?”
While I start work, we share a few words, mainly about her day. I am finished in no time and see no reason to hang around, but she stops me at the door.
“Before I forget. Miss Sylvie managed to say a few words today. She wanted to apologise to the poor man she terrified last night and to give him this small box of cookies. It’s just a re-gift, my love. Someone bought them for her, and she’s not a fan. Thought they might as well go to a good home.”
“Please thank her for me and tell her I’m sorry for frightening her.”
“She’s woken in a state a couple of times.
Bad dreams, bless her. Not your fault. She’s just not used to opening her eyes to anyone but staff nurses.
Funny though. Echoes, she said, just after you left.
Shouted the word three times at the door.
‘Echoes, echoes, echoes’. Seemed pretty riled up before her drugs kicked in. No idea what she meant.”
Echoes? What could that mean? Sylvie definitely recognised me the night before. I wonder if she will be more coherent tomorrow night.
“Tomorrow is my last shift working nights, Anna. And probably my last in the hospital. The other worker’s returning from sick leave and I’m not sure if the boss will keep me on.”
“He’d be a fool not to.”
“Thank you. I’ll come by and say goodbye anyway, if that’s okay?”
“Of course it is. Been nice chatting.”
Something is not right as I leave the hospital grounds and enter the darkened back streets on the way to my apartment.
I never ignore these moments of heightened intuition.
They served me well on the streets. Someone is trailing me.
When I turn a corner and step into a shop doorway, I wait for ten minutes, but nobody passes.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that I am being followed.
As a precaution, I take the long route back to my lodgings, stopping at an all-night fast-food chain.
When my take-out order is ready, I emerge onto the street and peer around, but this time I no longer sense a presence.
Back in the flat, I empty the contents of my rucksack onto the table before eating.
After showering, I slip into sweats, ready to grab a few hours’ sleep, until I notice the box of cookies on the table.
When I fold back the cardboard lid, a sweet sugary smell rises from the top layer.
The cookies are contained in a plastic moulded housing that I lift out because I’m sure there’s more to this gift.
Unsurprisingly, I find two interesting items at the bottom.
The first is a business-type contact card for Dr Maurice Leblanc—someone related to Sylvie, perhaps?
There is also an unsent letter addressed to Albert.
I carefully unfold the page and read the beautiful handwriting.
A few lines are about her frustrations with the interim results of the clinical trial she is involved in.
The letter is dated about a month before the minibus crash, and I wonder why she never posted it.
Maybe she had already spoken to Albert by then.
Towards the end, a paragraph jumps out at me, one that refers directly to me.
I know your reasons for doing what you must, and I also understand if Gabriel feels the need to uncover the secrets of his childhood, but you know my feelings in this matter.
Sometimes we’re better off not knowing. Nobody can change what has passed.
But if he does, as I know you believe he will, he needs to be assured that he had no free will in the matter, no choice or control over what he was made to do.
That is my main concern. My understanding is that the eight fabricants simply carried out orders.
Those who gave the commands are the ones who should be held to account, whoever they may be.
Moreover, you must not let any future he has be overshadowed by anger, regret and self-hatred because of past manipulations.