Coming Undone

Simon Fraser, Consultant Surgeon, tightened the last knot on the suture and breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a difficult operation. The patient was overweight and Simon had had to struggle to get down into the abdomen to cut out the man’s cancer. He had managed it with just a little bleeding. Now, he had joined the two ends of intestine together, which meant the patient wouldn’t have to endure life with a stoma. Job done, but the pressure was not off yet.

Simon glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was 12.17 pm, and he was running late. He still had another case to do, and this one had taken longer than he’d expected. He’d felt the tremors set in as he began joining the two sections of bowel together. Simon had had to fight to keep his hands steady, hoping the junior surgeon at his side and the scrub nurse opposite hadn’t noticed. It was the alcohol, he knew. Simon had been drinking too much too often, and it was beginning to affect him. He needed to stop, and he would. He’d promised himself he would. It was just that there hadn’t been time yet, what with Martha’s disappearance still unresolved and the effect it had had on Emily, Martha’s daughter.

Simon glanced at the anaesthetist, who was a swirl of activity, preparing to wake the patient up, just as soon as Simon had finished closing the wound. Around him, the nursing staff were already clearing up and preparing for the next operation.

Simon gulped. His tongue felt dry and his head ached. He’d woken up late and had had to rush to get in to Manchester General Infirmary on time to start his operating list. He’d barely made it. Of course, there had been no time for breakfast. He should have eaten. He should have known better.

“I’ll be done in fifteen minutes,” Simon called to the anaesthetist. “Tell Reception to get the next patient ready, would you?”

“Done it,” the anaesthetist replied, raising a hand. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not-” Simon snapped, then caught himself. The anaesthetist was staring at him with an eyebrow raised. “Sorry,” he muttered, eyes back on his patient. “This was a tough one.”

“No problem,” the anaesthetist replied, glancing at his watch. “We’ve got time. Why don’t you take a break while I put the next one off to sleep? Get a drink, have a bite of lunch. You’ll feel better for it.”

Simon grimaced. So they had noticed. He was about to frame a reply when another voice broke in.

“I’ve got this, Simon.”

Simon’s head swung around, meeting the knowing gaze of James Thompson, his longtime friend, and surgical colleague. James was already washing his hands in the sink. James’s warm brown eyes above his surgical mask conveyed understanding without judgement.

“Are you sure?” Simon’s measured voice betrayed the quiver in his gut. “There’s no need, Jim. I’m almost done. Just the abdominal wall to close and-”

James shook his head. He turned the water off and began drying his hands.

“No. I’ll finish up and get the next one started. Cholecystectomy, the next one, right?”

Simon nodded. “Yeah, but it’s going to be a complicated one. Might take all afternoon.”

James shrugged into the sterile surgical gown and swivelled around for the circulating nurse to tie it behind him. “As I said, no problem. I’ve done a few of those. Besides, Conway wants to see you. Which is why I’m here. Something urgent, he said. Asked me to take over.”

“Oh?” Simon felt a stab of fear in his gut. Richard Conway was the chief administrator for the Surgical Division, ostensibly Simon’s boss. Did Conway know? Had they found out? Simon had been careful. He’d been sure there had been no one around, no cameras watching when he’d pocketed the drugs. And yet, it was possible. Totally possible. “Did he say what it was about?”

James snapped his gloves on and walked up to the operating table before answering. “No idea. He just asked me to cover. So here I am. Go ahead. Have some lunch. You look done in. Sleeping okay?” James dropped his voice. “Any news? Of Martha?”

Simon shook his head. “Not a word. She’s gone, God knows where.” He shrugged. “Anyway, thanks. I’ll take a break. I won’t be long. Call if you-”

James moved Simon aside with his bulk and waved him away. “I cut my teeth on taking gallbladders out. Off you go.” He looked at the scrub nurse. “3-0 Prolene, please, Adele, on a cutting needle.”

Dismissed, Simon was free to go. He removed his soiled gown and gloves and threw them in the orange bin before washing his hands and walking out of the operating theatre into men’s changing room. He removed his scrub shoes and put on his trainers, then pushed through the door into the bustle of the main hospital corridor.

Outside the contained sterility of the operating theatre, the hospital was abuzz with activity, the air warm and muggy. Simon threaded his way between streams of visitors and staff, dodged oncoming trolleys and stepped aside for the endless queue of stretchers bearing patients from the Emergency Department. The hospital was on ‘Black Alert’, announced in a terse email sent round late the evening before. The queue of ambulances outside had made the evening news. The local MP had spoken about her ‘concerns’. The directive had come from above: patients needed to be relocated from the ED as quickly as possible. No one mentioned the destination, just the urgency to move them out. Simon had shaken his head before deleting the message.

Simon made his way down the principal thoroughfare that split the Outpatient Department. He passed visitors sitting by in plastic chairs lined up against the wall, their faces pinched with concern or boredom as they waited for updates or answers from their loved ones. An elderly couple clung to each other’s hands while walking past him. An anxious parent paced back and forth with a phone pressed against their ear. Fear was the prevailing currency of this place, something you could almost taste if you dared linger.

Simon did not tarry to taste it, though. He did not need another’s anxieties-his own coiled and pulsed within his gut. He pressed forward, his anxiety escalating with every step he took, his thoughts racing with the implications of being discovered. Simon had stolen the drugs. If they’d found out, suspension was guaranteed. There might be a police investigation. If they charged him with the theft of drugs, his career would be over. And then there was the prospect of prison. Simon shuddered, regretting having ever stooped so low as to become, for all practical purposes, an addict. A high-functioning one, yes, but an addict, nevertheless. And it had only taken the three months since Martha disappeared for Simon’s world to disintegrate.

He turned a corner, lost in thoughts of his impending doom, and almost walked into a figure hurrying in the opposite direction.

Carol Wilson stopped, smiled and swivelled to face him. Her green eyes sparkled with mischief. She wore blue surgical scrubs, her red hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Carol was petite, barely coming up to Simon’s chin, but her personality was larger than life. And she was the last thing Simon needed to see at this moment. Because, until three months ago, Simon and Carol had been fucking each other silly at every available opportunity. In Simon’s office. In the empty operating theatre late at night. Even behind the bins at the back of the hospital where the supplies were delivered. Then, she had left to continue her training at another hospital. And now she was back.