The Levitating Village
Chapter Four - The Iatronauts
The voice was low and deep, but conversational. It was a voice I recognised. My eyes were still shut, perhaps to hide from the reality that would arise when I opened them, and the world flooded back in. My side hurt. The smell of strong disinfectant filled my olfactory senses like a punch to the chest. So, Heaven does exist and it smells of hospitals. And God is a postman. This wasn’t going to be a fun eternity.
Bob Quinn sat looking distractedly through an ancient magazine with a warming smile on his face. I was laying over several chairs, a blanket over me and some dead person’s bone poking out of my side. There was however, no Reverend and no Lana. Not surprising really. I reached tenderly to my upper lip and the absurd bushy fake lip warmer. I tried to pull it off, but it was too painful and scatty a job. I gave up. I would have to remain Stalinesque a little longer. A buzzer went off somewhere. I thought for a minute it was in my head. But the buzz was followed by a virtually indistinguishably garbled word. Bob Quinn stood, smiled and went through a bright white door.
“Trying times, these. Even for the best of us. Still, we each have our cross to bear. You can open your eyes, by the way. I turned the light off when I came in. You know, you could have died if that grave hadn’t subsided? You went straight down. That’s why you’ve got a dead person’s femur poking into your side. Still, could’ve been worse. I read the note pinned to you. Said to look after you and no questions asked. Nice moustache, by the way. Ah, there’s my cue to exit. Good luck, my friend. And keep your eyes open. You never know what you might see when you’re not looking.”
I lost consciousness again.
#
I came to in a Treatment Room. My eyes opened slowly, enough for me to make out the Doctor. The Doctor resembled his half Brother, the Reverend, in many details. He was neither tall nor thin also. Where the Reverend had a thick head of hair, the Doctor seemed to have acquired male pattern baldness. There was also a permanent look of something verging on fear crossing his features.
“Try not to move, Mr Layton.” he soothed, “The bone has luckily not hit a major organ or major artery. You’ve lost some blood, but no more than you can cope with. I’m going to pull it out now. This may sting a bit.”
I had no idea whether it would or not, because I lost consciousness.
#
When I came to again, I was still in the Treatment Room.
“Careful! You’ll tear the stitches.” pleaded the Doctor.
I decided to see if my voice still worked. It did, but tried not to at first. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the soundtrack hit a dissonant note. I stared at the ceiling, hoping for some answer there among the cracked anaglypta.
“Where am I?” I managed through sandpaper throat.
“You’re in my Treatment Room at my surgery, Mr Layton. You were lucky my Brother had been near. That was a nasty injury. How did you come by it, may I ask?”
“I think I fell from the church roof into an old grave and became impaled on a dead person.” I said, as though recalling a dream.
The Doctor nodded without irony, “Well, that would do it.”
“Don’t you know who I am?” I asked carefully.
“No. Should I?”
My eyes darted back and forth in quick careful thought, trying to find a safe way out of this, “Not particularly, no. Do you read the papers? Go out during your off hours?”
A flash of recognition crossed the Doctor’s face. My eyes opened wide in fear, “Wait, aren’t you that soap actor? You know, that one in the thing? The one who did that whatsit?”
Something below relaxed, “No, I’m not him. Never mind.”
“I don’t get much time to go out.” shrugged the Doctor, “Spend most of my time in here. It’s safe in here.”
“You don’t make house calls?”
“Goodness no.” laughed the Doctor, “This is the only place I need to be. People come and see me.”
“You haven’t heard what’s gone on out there?”
“No. Why? What’s happened?”
“Oh, never mind. So, how long have you been in your surgery?”
The Doctor’s brow furrowed, “You mean sequentially?”
“Well, no, but go on. How long?”
“Three years. Ever since the, you know, happened next door.” He gestured with a backwards swish of the head.
“Ah, I see. So, odd question I know, but have you treated many of those Inventors? The ones over there in the Library?”
“Of course. I have to give them all regular medicals. They want them just to make sure they aren’t dead yet. Apart from a little oddness and possibly Age Onset Dementia, they’re fit and healthy. Quite astounding really. I mean, for their age.”
“So you’ve treated all eight?” I asked.
“No, all nine.” he said, “Well, just recently eight, I have to admit.”
“Do you have their notes?” I asked expectantly.
“Of course I do. I keep very careful records of everybody and the illnesses that cross my threshold.”
“May I -” I used my eyes to gesture to the filing cabinet.
“Well, first you can’t move. Second, all patient notes are confidential.”
“Right, well, obviously -” I agreed.
The Doctor rose from his swivel stool, “Okay, well, I can't sit in here all day. Stay where you are, and I’ll send my nurse in to look over you. Try to sleep, Mr Layton.” I watched him go. Then I must have fallen unconscious again.
#
“I know who you are.” said a soft deep female voice. I kept my eyes shut. There you go. The five words I didn’t want to hear. I decided silence was the best option. Shame my body didn’t listen. It began to shake nervously.
“Eh?” No truer word had been spoken.
It was a nurse. I knew that because I opened my eyes, “You’re the wanted man. I should just dob you in. Get the Police around here.”
“Please don’t.” I begged, with all the energy I could muster.
“Give me one reason why not?” she bargained.
“Because I’m innocent?” Well, I was.
“That’s what they all say.”
“Really, I am innocent. If I was guilty I would turn myself in. I’m trying to clear my name, by finding out who actually did it.”
“Well, he was poisoned. You look like a poisoner. Did you poison him?”
“No, of course not! I didn’t even know the poor man’s name until last night!”
“So, how did you get your injury then?” she said, running a finger over the stitches. I cried inwardly, “Tussling with the victim and he stabbed you?”
“No, I fell off the church roof into a grave.” I spat painfully.
“A likely story. So, you didn’t do it then?”
“No.”
She shrugged, “What shall we do now? Should I turn you in, and collect the reward? Or should I just kill you, like you killed him. Maybe I should get some poison from the cabinet over there and pour it down your throat. How would that be, eh? A little bit of revenge? Poetic justice? Or maybe I should just put this pillow over your face.”
The Nurse slipped off her shoes. She jumped on the table, straddling my waist. I would have found it arousing if she hadn’t been pressing down hard on my injury. I could feel the itch of fresh blood oozing from the wound. She lifted the pillow dramatically over my face, holding position for what seemed like minutes. I was helpless. I could do nothing to stop her.
Then the door to the room opened suddenly, with the Doctor and a new nurse in tow, “Mrs Cruickshank. Enough of that. Please go back to Room Three. I will be there presently. And take off that Nurse's uniform.” The Doctor turned to me with apologetic eyes, “Sorry about that, Mr Layton. This is Nurse Fischer. She’ll redress the wound and, oh, could you get Mr Layton a change of lower wear?”
#
Nurse Fischer silently redressed both me and my wound. She didn’t speak; she never mentioned any suspicion she may have had as to who I was. Maybe parts of the medical profession were much like confessionals in Roman Catholicism; it didn’t matter who you were, what you may or may not have done, you were worth saving. Either that or she was too interested in the fashion magazine she was reading to give two hoots about anyone. I feigned sleep, just in case she might want to talk, or I drew too much attention. She was something like a vision from old black and white Ealing comedies, with the strong white uniform, the paper hat, the well polished face and the hair dark, silky and in ringlets.
It was getting late, and I had to get out of here. There were things I needed to do and places I needed to go. I also needed to get a shufty at those records, to find the notes on the ninth inventor. I manufactured an excuse about being thirsty. Nurse Fischer tutted, but capitulated and left the room to get a glass of water. I took my opportunity. Painfully I slipped my sock feet over the bed and carefully placed them down onto the linoleum floor. A sharp pain doubled me over, but I managed to shuffle to the filing cabinet. It was locked. Of course it was. I shuffled over to the desk and tried the drawers. There was a pad of prescription sheets in one, a couple of rubber bands, for what purpose I didn’t even want to think about, in another. The third drawer produced the key. I dragged myself over to the filing cabinet again, unlocking it. I was acutely aware of the imminent return of the Nurse. I had to try and find out. I wouldn’t get another opportunity like this. I extended my skills for filing, sifting at unnatural speed through the dog eared card and paper in the drawers until I found what I was after. I heard the handle on the door begin to twist. If I wasn’t already doubled over in pain, I might have done so involuntarily. The door opened. It opened a little more. I braced myself. I thought at this point it didn’t matter if I got caught. I was already wanted for murder. Being caught for petty pilfering wouldn’t really make any difference.
As the door was about to reveal the Nurse, I heard another voice outside, “Nurse Fischer?” I didn’t recognise this one, but it caused her to turn round. The door was now open, but she had her back to the room. I took the folder out of the drawer, closed the cabinet, locked it up and ditched the key behind. Stuffing the folder down my trousers, I quickly shuffled back to the bed, trying to look as natural and not out of breath as I must have been. Nurse Fischer came in fully and closed the door mere seconds later, returning to me. She handed the glass of water to me, which I sipped slowly, and she returned to her magazine. She briefly looked up and frowned at me.
I waited until Nurse Fischer began to drop off before I retrieved the folder from my trousers. I looked through the confusing notes, written in Doctor’s handwriting and full of medical terms I didn’t understand. But I found it. I found what I was looking for. Professor Leith Bradburn. He was the ninth inventor all right. And he seemed quite healthy. I looked out the window. It was getting dark again and it began to rain. I looked over at Nurse Fischer. Her head was bobbing in the beginnings of sleep. I took my chance and slipped off the bed again, this time making for the door. I opened it and slipped out into the dimly lit surgery corridor.
I edged my way to the waiting room, taking a quick look inside. There were a couple of people on one side and someone I really didn’t expect to see on the other. Gary, the Policeman. He was picking at an imaginary spot on his arm distractedly. I heard a buzzer. Someone was being called into the Doctor’s room. I ducked into the disabled toilets and locked the door. There was a window in here, but it was frosted glass and far too small to get through. If Nurse Fischer woke up and went searching for me, or alerted someone to my disappearance, or the Doctor had popped his head round the door of the Treatment Room and saw me missing, this, the littlest room in the building, wouldn’t hide me for long. Especially if they got Gary involved. I unlocked the door and peered outside into the corridor. I was nose to nose with Doctor Murdoch. He caught my furtive glances to the self amused Policeman in the waiting room.
“What are you doing down here, Mr Layton? I thought I told you to stay in the room. Where’s Nurse Fischer?” he asked pointedly.
“She’s sleeping. Look, I thank you for all your help, Doctor, but I have to get out of here.”
“Nonsense. You’re in no condition to -”
“I have no choice. I’m sorry, but I have to leave.” I spluttered.
“You in trouble with the law?” asked the Doctor out of nowhere.
I waved my hand indecisively, “Kind of. It’s a case of mistaken identity I assure you, Doctor. I have to leave.”
The Doctor sighed, “Well, I can’t have you holding me responsible for any further injury from your wound. It could get infected, you know.”
I grasped him gently by the arms, “I’ll tell you Doctor that right now, that’s the least of my problems.”
Doctor Murdoch looked around, first into the waiting room and Gary, then to the corridor behind him. He seemed to reach a conclusion. He sighed again.
The Doctor waved me to follow him, “Alright. Follow me. I’ll take you out the emergency exit. You better not be in serious trouble.”
“No, I promise. Thank you. Thank you.”
No comments:
Post a Comment