Operation H.A.T.E. by Richard Franklin

Author:Richard Franklin [Franklin, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B00AHYQ8V4
Goodreads: 21131501
Publisher: Fantom Publishing
Published: 2012-12-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7 :

Royal Infirmary, Scotland

The Infirmary confirmed the presence of one enormous gallstone and recommended immediate surgery. There was no time to think about it, and before M knew where he was he was being prepared for the operation to remove it.

‘Lucky for you it didn’t blow up in the middle of the desert,’ said a kindly Sister from the Highlands. ‘It could have killed you.’ She nearly added ‘It still might’ but thought better of it as the expression on M’s face clearly indicated he didn’t need reminding: he know the score. ‘Drink this: they’ll be coming to take you down to the theatre in a moment,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry – you’ll be back here before you can say “haggis” and it’ll all be over.’ Then she left.

‘All be over… it might well be…’ but M was helpless and could do nothing but let fate take its course.

Moments later a theatre porter arrived and helped him onto a trolley. It turned out he was a recent drama student waiting for his big break; little did he know he’d landed himself in the front line of Moriarty’s next attack.

‘I’m Simon,’ he said.

He could have been the Sultan of Morocco as far as M was concerned as he was already feeling woozy from the pre-op draught the Sister had given him. M was now being wheeled briskly to the operating theatre, and Simon was burbling on about some audition he was up for when he was suddenly interrupted by another voice and a sharp exchange ensued behind his head; but the new voice seemed vaguely familiar. The second voice said in a cool and authoritative tone:

‘Let me take him into the theatre – then I can pick up any little stones that fall out onto the floor, you know, when they open him up.’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ said the astute Simon, who sensed something was wrong. ‘I’m not allowed to hand over my patient to anyone because…’ But he never finished his sentence.

‘Look at me,’ whined the second porter. ‘In – to – my – eyes. Now hand over this patient.’

‘If you say so, sir,’ said Simon in a dreamy way, and walked off like a zombie. The new porter moved round the trolley and smiled at Martin. It was the smile of the snake charmer.

‘I want you to suffer,’ he said.

M was horrified and helpless and unable to prevent the inevitable, and before he could utter a sound the anaesthetist had sent him swiftly into oblivion with a little prick in his thumb.

Back in the ward, tubed in all directions, M was at last out of intensive care. They’d had a tricky time with him as he’d started shouting for a meringue which caused considerable frivolity in the resuscitation ward until his shouts gave way to such yells of agony that they’d had to up his morphine injection to a dangerous level. The formidable but highly efficient and deeply caring Sister was finally organising him. She held up a pound jam-jar.

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