1.
Robert awoke groggily. It took him a while to remember where he was; a hospital ward. He shifted his body, raising his head higher on the plump pillows, and was relieved to feel no sudden pain. There was just a low ache somewhere in the depths of his torso, somewhere he could not quite place. The painkillers must be working well he thought, looking at the tube connected to a drip feeding into his arm. The clock on the wall at the far end – plain black numbers on a white circular face – told him that it was nearly 7.30. Through the half-drawn blinds, he could see the darkness outside. The night was clear and the waxing moon was almost full.
It was a small ward with four beds along each wall, all occupied, and Robert’s bed was at one end. The ward was now enveloped in a near somnolent slumber. The business of the day – doctors’ rounds, porters with trolleys, injections, meals and visitors – was done. Robert could just about a make out a murmur of nurses’ voices from the direction of the corridor. Somewhere a piece of technology was beeping at regular intervals. His powers of concentration waned and he closed his eyes again but the sound of a voice close by - like someone clearing their throat - made him involuntarily jolt,
“Sorry to startle you.”
Robert turned his head to the left and saw the man in the next bed sitting up and looking at him. The man was older than Robert, with neat greying hair and the complexion of someone who was used to being outdoors. The face was friendly and the eyes alert but he noticed how they darted away a couple of times, as if the man was waiting for someone, or something. He spoke again.
“I hope you don’t mind. But I’ve been in here a few days and . . . well. . . this confinement gets to you, you know.”
“No, no that’s quite alright.” Robert pulled himself up the bed, wincing in advance of a pain that never quite came. “So will you be in here much longer?”
The older man smiled. “No, thank God. They’re letting me out tomorrow, subject to final doctor’s orders. I’ve had a bit of a chest infection . . .used to be a smoker once so, you know, the lungs aren’t what they should be. But I’m feeling much better now. I’m Dennis by the way.”
“Robert. Pleased to meet you.”
“So Robert, what are you in for, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well I’ve just had this awful pain in my side for over a week now, it seems to move around but never goes away at all. I’ve hardly slept but these painkillers they’ve given me seem to be doing the trick. Anyway, I’ve got to have a few tests, they’re not sure what the problem is yet. I’m supposed to be having a CT scan, tomorrow I guess.”
Across on the other bed Dennis’s face seemed to lose some of its colour and his eyes darted around the ward. His voice was flatter as he spoke again.
“A CT scan? That’ll be down on Level 5 then.”
“Will it? I’ve never been in here before. Lucky I suppose. You’ve been there have you, Level 5?”
Dennis nodded. “Hopefully they’ll take you down early, during the day at least. While it’s still light.”
“Well yes I hope so. But as long as it gets done soon and I find out what’s wrong I suppose that’s all that matters isn’t it?”
Dennis was looking over towards the window. The blinds seemed to filter the outside world through the still air of the ward. After a few moments he turned to look at Robert again.
“If I tell you something . . . if I tell you a story, a true story . . . you won’t think I’m mad will you? Or just an old fool?” His eyes darted warily around each wall.
“No of course I won’t” responded Robert quickly. He was now very much intrigued. Robert disliked small talk but he did love a good story, especially if it would distract him from the fears that assailed him when he thought of the nagging ache.
Dennis hesitated, seemingly unsure as to whether he should entrust his new neighbour with his candour. Then he leaned in slightly towards Robert’s bed and began, his voice lowered.
2.
“It was late yesterday when the porter came to take me down to for my scan – it must have been about 9 o’clock or so by then. He was a cheery chap. He whistled tunelessly as he wheeled me briskly through the corridors and crashed us through each set of double doors. The lift took us down to Level 5 and then there was a series of twists and turns as we went from the modern block through a link structure into the narrower, shabbier corridors of the old Victorian wing. That’s where the X Ray department is. It was at that point I noticed a regular squeak from one of wheels as it completed each rotation; a curious sound because I had not noticed it before.
After a final set of double doors were pushed unceremoniously open we were in the reception area. But of course it was closed at that time of night; no reception staff or out-patients. Anyway, he parked me in the waiting area by the side of a row of empty plastic chairs that by day would no doubt have been fully occupied. You know what the NHS is like. Anyway he then left me, still whistling tunelessly, with a loud promise to be back after they’d finished with me. So far so good.
I was facing the doors and watched him go, leaving me in complete silence, with the exception of a barely audible hum that seem to come from the walls. The space was in semi-darkness; the only source of light seemed to emanate from somewhere behind me, where I assumed the X Ray rooms lay. The half-light cast my long blurry shadow across the floor in front of me. There was an old stained coffee table with a neatly stacked pile of equally old magazines, but it was too dark to read even if I’d been inclined to do so.
It was not a pleasant place to wait and I began to feel a little uneasy, wondering whether I might simply be forgotten about in this deserted outpost. So I was very relieved to feel someone behind me and to feel the wheelchair moving. We turned sharply round and headed, as I had suspected, towards the source of the light. Unlike the previous porter, whoever was pushing me said nothing and indeed made no sound at all. I simply felt the motion of the wheelchair and the sense of a presence directing it. The faulty wheel continued squeaking.
As we entered the large white room where the scanning machine resided, the sudden brightness made me shield my eyes for a few seconds. Once I had become accustomed to the light I saw the machine, like a giant thick ring, directly in front of me. I had been parked next to its couch and was expecting to be helped up onto it but when I glanced round whoever had been wheeling me in had left. As I wondered whether to move or not a disembodied voice, with a faint echo effect, asked me to lie down on the couch, feet first. I gingerly pulled myself up onto the long, grey plastic cushion and lay down as instructed. The female voice returned, distant in both senses of the word, and told me to relax and keep still, with my arms by my sides. I did as instructed and a whooshing sound signalled that the machine had stirred into life. The giant ring beyond my feet was encircled in light and I felt the couch move beneath me, conveying me slowly towards the mouth of that mechanical beast. I instinctively closed my eyes.
What happened next is much harder to describe than the simple facts of the story up until that point. I can only assume that I relaxed to the point of sleep and that what followed was simply a dream. I was seemingly floating in a bright, white room. Below me was figure on a hospital trolley, the body covered in a white sheet such that only the face and neck could be seen. As I descended towards it I recognised with bewilderment that the face was mine, though of course I’m not used to seeing myself with my eyes closed. My face was pale, even beside the whiteness of the cloth. As I watched - fearful yet curious - a man in a white gown appeared beside my prone self, paused briefly, and then pulled the sheet up over my face, so that only a sculpted outline of my features remained.
It was the female voice that woke me I assume. It was as calm as before, asking me to open my eyes and to return to my wheelchair when I was ready. The whirr of the machine was subsiding and the great ring of light was extinguishing. It took me some moments to compose myself enough to feel steady on my feet, for the dream had had quite an effect on me. As soon as I was back in the wheelchair I felt myself propelled out of the room, the wheel still squeaking with each turn and my helper still silent, though I had no desire for conversation now. I was parked back in the same spot in the waiting area and, after we had come to a stop I turned to say ‘thank you’ but he or she had already gone.
I felt even greater unease in the gloom than I had done before the scan and I had to wait quite some time before the double doors swung breezily open to admit the cheery porter. As he took control of the squeaking wheelchair once again and launched us out of the gloom and into the corridor the man was full of apologies and freely cursed all and sundry for wasting his time and mine. I was initially confused but soon tried to reassure him that he must have been misinformed because I had certainly had my CT scan. He laughed amicably and told me that I must have dreamt it. Not surprising I’d fallen asleep, he thought, left in the dark there at that time of night. Again I sought to convince him that my scan had indeed taken place, relating as best I could the sequence of events – but omitting any mention of my dream whilst being scanned. He was having none of it though, insisting that all the X Ray staff had in fact left at 9 o’clock and that the whole thing had been ‘a cock up of the highest order’, to use his rather colourful language. I gave up my protestations, he returned to his idle whistling and we were soon back at the ward again. I noticed only then that the wheel was no longer squeaking.
I barely slept last night once I was back here. I think I was afraid of dreaming again to be honest. I was so relieved when the doctor came round today and said that I can almost certainly leave tomorrow. But when he said that he doesn’t need me to have a CT scan after all . .well, I didn’t know what to say so I kept quiet. I don’t want the doctor to think I’m some old fool.”
3.
With his story having reached a rather inconclusive end, Dennis lay back on the pillow, seemingly exhausted now by the memories or by the recounting of them. Robert tactfully allowed him some time to recover.
“So what do you make of it?” Dennis asked after he’d regained his breath.
Robert searched carefully for an answer; in truth not sure what to make of it.
“Well it’s a curious account of events I must admit.” Robert responded as neutrally as possible.
“But do you believe me?” Dennis was almost pleading.
“Of course, yes.” Robert sensed that reassurance was necessary but his face may have betrayed him and Dennis seemed to sense his doubts, so Robert felt the need to offer a little more qualification to his response.
“I mean I certainly believe that it happened as you say, it’s just . . . I guess it’s just a question of where and when you began dreaming I suppose, isn’t it? The scan could have been part of the dream couldn’t it? It was rather late in the evening after all. And it wouldn’t be too surprising to have something like that playing on your subconscious mind, under the circumstances, would it? You’ve been on some medication I expect?”
Dennis looked like a defeated man now. He sighed heavily.
“It would be easier if I could bring myself to believe that, to be honest.”
Dennis turned onto his back and closed his eyes.
“Still, I’ll be out of here tomorrow.” His voice lacked the expected sense of enthusiasm..
4.
Robert slept heavily that first night and when he awoke in the morning the bustle of the ward was already well underway. Blood pressure was being tested and various instruments were being wheeled around on trolleys. Robert felt a slight pain return and his fears gnawed at him once again.
Remembering the conversation of the previous night, he looked over at the neighbouring bed. The blue nylon curtains were drawn around it and he sensed movement beyond. Robert assumed that Dennis, in his eagerness to leave, was already dressing. The chill of a March morning’s fresh air would be a shock after the warmth of the ward. At that moment the curtains were drawn back and Robert saw that the bed was now empty, its bedding removed and replaced by freshly laundered sheets. The night-shift nurse was erasing Dennis’s details from the whiteboard above the bed.
“Has Dennis left already? I would have liked to say goodbye.”
The nurse turned towards Robert. She was a slim woman in her late 30s with a rounded face, short auburn hair and dark but tired-looking eyes. She seemed unsure of how to respond and glanced at the entrance to the ward.
“I’m afraid that Mr Connor passed away during the night.” A soft Irish accent.
“But he was going to be discharged today, wasn’t he? He was fine last night!” Robert was quite taken aback.
The nurse looked past Robert as she spoke, seemingly unable to meet his gaze.
“Unfortunately there were . . . complications. I’m sorry, that’s all I can say. I have to prepare for the hand over to the day nurses now.”
Before Robert could say any more the nurse had disappeared from sight and he was left to reflect on the morning’s turn of events as the business of the ward went on around him.
After breakfast, which Robert was not allowed aside from a cup of tea, the doctor made his rounds and assured Robert that his CT scan was a priority.The symptoms had not worsened and the doctor sounded optimistic that it was nothing serious but she just wanted to check to be sure. She smiled unconvincingly, thought Robert
The day dragged by. Robert’s afternoon reverie was interrupted by a visit from his older brother; a visit very obviously made out of obligation rather than concern. The talk of family matters and work was drawn out beyond its natural conclusion and after a final glance at his watch Robert’s brother left with barely disguised relief. The afternoon stretched almost unnoticeably into dusk. The older of the two night nurses appeared at the foot of his bed. She was staring at the window.
“The night is coming” she announced quietly, seemingly to no-one in particular. At that she walked towards the window, drew down the blinds and returned to the nurses’ station without further word. Robert felt a brief, sharp pain in his side.
No-one came to take him for his scan and so Robert read a little of the book that he’d brought with him, before drifting into fitful sleep. He was awoken by hunger in the depths of his stomach, the first time he had felt it for over a week. That must be a good sign he thought and indeed he was allowed to have some thin soup when the evening meals arrived. He devoured it with relish, despite its bland taste. It did little for his returning hunger, but he felt more alive again and he raced through the remaining chapters of his book.
His spirits were lifted by this and the strange events of last night and this morning had already receded in his mind. After all, Robert had thought, he barely knew Dennis. The only concern now was to get the CT scan done and hopefully he could go home tomorrow. Robert looked towards the window, where the blinds had been drawn on the night beyond, and remembered Dennis’s remark. If he was to have the CT scan now it most certainly would not be whilst it was still light.
The older nurse brought him a cup of strong, hot tea and he had just taken a couple of welcome sips when he heard his name being called cheerily.
“Mr Jenkins?”
Robert looked up to see a porter in a green coat standing at the foot of his bed with a wheelchair and a blanket. He nodded to the porter in confirmation of his name.
“I’ve come to take you for your CT scan.”
Robert looked at the clock at the far end. It was almost 9 o’clock
“It’s a bit late isn’t it?” Robert replied, as he gingerly pulled back the white sheets and carefully swung his legs over the side of the high bed.
“You’re the last one of the day, sir. Lucky for some, eh?”
As the porter wheeled him out of the ward they passed the younger nurse, the same one Robert had spoken to that morning, now back for another night shift. Again she did not look him in the eye but those dark, tired-looking eyes of hers seem to convey a sense of professional concern. Or was it, he wondered, something more personal than that? Was it pity? Was it dread?
Robert was still lost in that unnerving chain of thought as the wheelchair passed along several identical, harshly lit corridors and crashed through a series of double doors before a short wait at the large stainless steel lift doors, scratched and marked by time and trolleys. The porter whistled tunelessly as they waited, as he had done ever since they left the ward. The clunking lift eventually arrived and they began a slow descent. As they finally exited, the porter interrupted his cheerful whistling to loudly announce that they were now at Level 5. Aside from his voice there was silence here.
Soon enough they entered the dimmer, narrower corridors of the old Victorian wing and approached a row of plastic seats fixed to the worn grey flooring, which appeared to be part of a waiting area, though no-one else was there amid the gloom at this late time. As they did so Robert became suddenly aware of a regular squeak from one of wheels as it completed each rotation; a curious sound because he had not noticed it before.
