Chameleon

TWO

Gordon Thomas Thelwell was a product of his upbringing. Whatever capacity for human care and concern he had started out life with had been distilled out of him by a public school obsessed with self discipline and a lifetime's unquestioning adherence to upper-middle class notions of respectability and correct behaviour. His thin lips rarely smiled and, on the odd occasions when they did, bestowed on him the uneasy look of a man performing an unnatural act. When he spoke, his voice followed a level monotone as sombre as the suits he favoured. The starched rigidity of his shirt collars seemed to have been specifically designed to afford him the maximum of discomfort, always an essential element in the dress favoured by lay preachers.

Although eloquent enough when passing on the views of others, be they medical when instructing junior doctors or religious when reading the Sunday lesson, unscripted communication with his fellows had always been a bit of a problem for Thelwell. Small talk was uncharted territory. Humour lay in the province of the vulgar. Anger was displayed by a slight clipping of the vowels when he spoke and he had a penchant for biting sarcasm that showed scant regard for the sensibilities of others. Satisfaction on the other hand would be indicated by a cursory nod and a momentary puckering of the lips. In short, G.T. Thelwell was not going to win any popularity contest among the staff at Kerr Memorial Hospital but he was respected as a competent if unapproachable consultant surgeon and a pillar of the local community.

The fact that Thelwell was the father of two girls was the subject of some disrespectful comment among the more junior nurses at the hospital who could not, or preferred not to, imagine the cold, wooden Thelwell ever relaxing enough to make love to anyone. Those who knew his wife, Marion, recognised that she was the exact female counterpart of Thelwell himself but whereas Thelwell seldom smiled Marion wore a permanent dutiful smile of the kind adopted by royalty when opening biscuit factories and having to greet the entire production staff.

Marion, when not dealing with the day to day problems of 'Les girls' as she habitually referred to her daughters, immersed herself in charity work. Her particular interests being dumb animals and under-privileged children although lately she had taken to organising fund raising ventures associated with the buying of new equipment for the hospital. As chairperson of the Friends of Kerr Memorial, she had recently handed over two new incubator units to the hospital in a small ceremony reported in the local paper. A print of the photograph accompanying the article had been framed and now stood on her dressing table.

Like her husband, Marion Thelwell saw humour and passion as the enemy of duty. In another age she and her husband might well have found their true niche in India or some other far flung corner of empire where Thelwell would have been an authoritarian district commissioner and Marion would have played her full and supporting role in whipping the natives into order.

The alarm went off in the Thelwell’s bedroom at seven and Marion rose first as she always did to wrap her gown loosely about her before going to the kitchen to switch on the kettle. On the way back she checked that the girls were awake before returning to the bedroom to open the curtains. 'Oh dear,' she tutted. 'More rain.'

'Really,' replied her husband automatically.

'Do you have much on today dear?'

'Two exploratories and a hysterectomy and that damned man is coming up from the ministry.'

'Man, dear?'

'Some interfering busybody from the Department of Health is coming up from London to 'take a look at our problem' as they put it.

'I'm sure they're only trying to help, dear. Do you think you will be back by four?'

'Seems unlikely. I am informed by our illustrious medical superintendent that I must humour this nosey parker, give him every office, to use his words. Thelwell's voice was heavy with vitriol. 'Why do you ask?'

'I have a committee meeting at four. I wondered whether I should ask Mrs Rivers to look after the girls.'

'It would be as well. I'll call you later when I've dealt with Mr Nosey Parker.'

'Aren't you being a bit hard on this man?' asked Marion Thelwell. 'Surely the sooner this infection business is cleared up the better for everyone?'

Thelwell gave his wife a look that suggested she was questioning Holy writ and said, 'It's not a man from London we need at Kerr Memorial, Marion, it's a competent Microbiology department. If we had a laboratory that could do its job properly and find the source of this damned bug we wouldn't need outside interference. I thought you understood that?'

'Yes dear.'

'Good Morning Daddy.' A girl of eleven came into the room, her face pink from washing.

'Good morning Nicola.'

'Good morning Daddy.' A second girl, slightly taller than her sister but with the same scrubbed complexion came into the room and stood beside Nicola.

'Good morning Patricia.'

The ritual over, both girls were ushered out by their mother leaving G.T. Thelwell to rise and face the day.

'There was a murder in the city last night,' said Marion as she served Thelwell's breakfast of two boiled eggs. (Three minutes, fifteen seconds.) 'A prostitute.'

Thelwell gave a quiet grunt of disapproval as he looked around for the salt cellar. His exaggerated movement alerted Marion to the problem and she handed it to him. 'Considering the lives they lead, I'm surprised there aren't many more,' he said. He sliced the top of his first egg with a decisive sweep of his knife.

John Richardson, consultant bacteriologist at Kerr Memorial yawned and scratched at the stubble on his chin. He grimaced as he saw the rain outside and murmured, 'Ye gods, another day nearer the grave.'

'I think that's why I married you,' said a woman's voice from under the covers. 'Your infectious sense of optimism.'

'I think you have just talked yourself out of a cup of tea,' said Richardson.

'I take it back,' said the voice lazily.

Richardson smiled. 'You should have been a politician with such limpet-like adherence to principle,' he said. 'Tea or coffee?'

'Tea. You're up early.'

'I've got a lot on and that chap from London is coming today, you know, the one I told you about,' said Richardson still looking out at the rain.

'The government investigator,' said Claire Richardson with mock solemnity.

'That's the one.'

'What is he exactly? A bureaucrat?'

'No, I understand he's medically qualified. He's from some body called the Sci-Med Monitor.'

'Do you think he's going to make any difference?'

Richardson shrugged and rubbed his chin again. 'Normally, I would have said no, but who knows? Right now I'm willing to agree to anything before someone else dies needlessly. We've tried everything we can think of to find the source of the infection but we keep coming up with blanks.'

'Frustrating.'

'And embarrassing,' added Richardson. 'It's making me look a complete fool, as Thelwell never fails to point out.'

'They can't blame you,' said Claire. 'You've covered every test in the book and you're one of the most experienced bacteriologists in the region.'

'Counts for nothing when women start dying and I can't tell them why.'

'You've still no notion at all where the infection might be coming from?'

'None.'

'Isn't that a bit odd?'

Richardson gave a bitter laugh and said, 'You're beginning to sound like Thelwell.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. It just seems strange that you haven't managed to find the source when you said yourself that it was an everyday sort of bug and there's such a lot known about it.'

Richardson looked at his wife's worried face and smiled. He said gently, 'I know you didn't and you're right, it is strange. That's what makes me feel that we haven't missed anything in the tests. The bug isn't hiding somewhere in the hospital, it's being carried by a member of staff.'

'But surely you've tested all the staff?'

'Of course,' agreed Richardson. 'And they were all negative.'

'Back to square one.'

Richardson nodded and turned away as a loud click from the kitchen told him that the kettle had boiled.

'How is your new assistant settling in?' Claire called through to him.

'Evans? He's first class,'

Claire Richardson smiled affectionately at her husband as he returned carrying a tray with her tea and biscuits on it. She said, 'You say that about all your staff. You're a big softie, John Richardson.'

'Nonsense,' said Richardson gruffly. 'He's an excellent microbiologist and he has certainly taken a weight off my shoulders.'

Claire Richardson smiled at the unease her husband always displayed at any suggestion of a compliment. There was a definite mannerism associated with it. He would reach up his left hand to rub his neck as if he had an itch there. She had never mentioned this to him. 'If I were thirty years younger I could fall in love with you all over again.' she said.

'What some women will say to get tea in bed,' muttered Richardson shuffling out of the room.'

Jamieson swung the car in through the gates of Kerr Memorial and was waved to a halt by a uniformed man. He had to sit still while the man made a detailed inspection of his windscreen and then indicated that he should wind down his window.

'No permit,' said the man as if it were a death sentence.

Jamieson reached into his inside pocket and produced the ID card that he had been provided with by Whitehall. The man looked at the photograph and then at Jamieson. He repeated this operation three times before committing himself to reading what was on the card. This he did with a thoroughness that Jamieson felt sure would have been a credit to an accountant at the Bank of England. The man handed him the card back and stretched himself to his full height. 'Not in my instructions,' he said, putting his hands behind his back and standing tall like a human wall.

'I beg your pardon,' said Jamieson when he felt that no more was forthcoming.'

'My instructions are clear,' said the man. 'No one comes through these gates without a permit authorised and signed by the Hospital Secretary. You'll have to leave.'

Jamieson looked at the man and the man diverted his eyes to stare into the middle distance which officialdom always finds so compelling. Jamieson bit his tongue and reversed the car out through the gates. The rain on the rear screen made it more difficult than it might otherwise have been and did nothing to improve his temper. 'What a start', he muttered. The "full authorisation of Her Majesty's Government" and I can't get through the bloody gates… '

He found a parking place after a five minute hunt through the streets and switched off the engine with a sigh. He gave himself a couple of minutes to see if the rain might ease off before starting on the half mile walk back to the hospital but the slight lightening in the sky he thought he detected had disappeared. The rain got heavier and Richardson's mood grew blacker as his hair got wetter. He flirted with the paranoid thought that the man on the gate had been primed to make things awkward for him, part of the lack of co-operation he was prepared for but then he dismissed the thought. That would be just too childish. Wouldn't it? He avoided looking at the man on the gate as he passed through on foot, feeling like a captured soldier being forced to parade through the streets of his conqueror. He started to follow the signs for 'Administration'.

'Do you have an appointment?' asked the woman in response to Jamieson's request to see the hospital secretary. She spoke with a nasal whine that made her even less attractive than the fact that she was decidedly round shouldered and had a parchment dry skin. Her hair was tied up in a tight, grey bun and her spectacles hung from a gold chain.

'Not exactly but I think you will find he is expecting me.'

The woman gave a humourless smirk as if she had caught Jamieson out and said. 'Mr Crichton does not see anyone without an appointment.'

Jamieson, his hair still wet from the walk and his temper barely in check took out his ID card and put it down with slow deliberation on the desk in front of the woman. Struggling to keep rein on his tongue, he said. 'Just tell him I'm here… please.'

The complacent smugness of a minor minion began to waver and was replaced by uncertainty. 'I'll have to check,' she stammered and then turned on her heel to disappear through another door still clutching Jamieson's card. She returned a few moments later with a short man trailing behind her. He was holding Jamieson's card in his left hand while pressing a large white handkerchief to his nose with the other. Jamieson had to wait until the man had finished wiping his nose before he spoke. 'Perhaps I can help?' said the man.

'Are you the hospital secretary?'

The man gave a self-deprecating little smile and said, 'Actually no, I'm Mr Cartwright. I'm afraid Mr Crichton does not see anyone without an appointment.'

Jamieson's frustration got the better of him as a small pool of rain-water built up around his feet. He leaned on the desk counter and said solicitously, 'Mr Cartwright, will you please inform Mr Crichton that I am here and do it now!'

Cartwright's manner changed to one of barely suppressed outrage. His authority had been challenged and he bristled with indignation.

Jamieson saw the woman stiffen in preparation to support her colleague in a fresh campaign of obstruction and decided to attack first. 'The Home Office, in conjunction with the Department of Health and Social Security, have sent me all the way up here to see your hospital secretary and you two have apparently decided to stop me. In the interests of what I might say about this in my report, I suggest that you… re-consider?'

For a moment it looked as if Cartwright was prepared to argue the point but then he capitulated and left the room. The woman avoided Jamieson's eyes and returned to her typing.

A painfully thin man, well over six feet tall with a large, almost totally bald head, and wearing glasses that seemed too small for him entered the room and handed Jamieson back his card. He smiled and held out his hand. 'Dr Jamieson? I'm Hugh Crichton. I've been expecting you. You look soaked.'

Crichton took Jamieson into his office and offered him whisky, an offer that Jamieson felt inclined to accept but decided not to at four in the afternoon. He noticed that Crichton's complexion had a distinctly yellow tinge to it and wondered if alcohol had played a part in that.

'Something else perhaps?'

'A parking permit would be nice.'

Crichton threw back his head and laughed. 'Oh I see. You've had a brush with our Mr Norris. I'm sorry, I should have foreseen that. We'll fix that right away. Crichton pressed a button on his intercom and asked the woman at the end of it to make out a permit for Jamieson. He kept his finger down on the button and asked Jamieson, 'Tea? Coffee?'

'Tea, please.'

While they waited for the tea to arrive Crichton asked Jamieson what he would require in the way of facilities at the hospital.

'A room, a telephone, access to medical records, possibly lab space.'

Crichton nodded and said, 'Well I think I anticipated most of these. I've arranged for you to have an office in the administration block and Dr Carew, our medical superintendent has requested that individual consultants co-operate with you in providing suitable space for you in their domains should you require it. I've also taken the liberty of having the housekeeper prepare a room for you in the doctors' residency. I didn't know if you would want to stay in the hospital or not?'

'I would,' agreed Jamieson. 'I'm grateful.'

'Not at all. Perhaps you would like to go there now and dry off a bit before getting started?'

Jamieson finished his tea and said that he would.

'And then what?' asked Crichton. 'Where would you like to start?'

'I'd like to have a word with Dr Carew first if that's convenient.' replied Jamieson.

'I anticipated that too,' smiled Crichton. 'Dr Carew has pencilled you in for five.'

It was Jamieson's turn to smile. He said, 'Perhaps you should just tell me what else you anticipated and we can work from there.'

'I thought you might want to have a word with Doctors Thelwell and Richardson so I've organised a little get-together here in my office at six. You can get to meet people informally over a sherry and make your own arrangements for tomorrow.'

'Fine,' said Jamieson.

Crichton pressed the button on his intercom and leaned towards it to say, 'Dr Jamieson will be staying in the residency. Will you inform the housekeeper and ask Miss Dotrice if she would be so kind as to show Dr Jamieson the way.'

Jamieson thanked the assistant who had accompanied him to the residency. He closed the door behind him and breathed out a long sigh. The room was depressingly spartan and functional but it had all he needed. A bed, a table, a chair, a telephone, a reading lamp — Jamieson switched it on to counteract the gloominess — and a small bathroom that had obviously been added fairly recently. It had been made by simply partitioning off a corner of the room. Jamieson ran himself a bath and took off his clothes. He felt the old, iron radiator and found it cold, the towel rail was equally arctic. There was a solitary wall heater on the wall above the bath and he pulled the cord to switch it on. He was mildly surprised when the slight groaning noise it made indicated that it was in working order.

Jamieson put his foot into the water and savoured the warmth for a moment before stepping into the tub and immersing himself so that only his face and the tops of his knees were above the water. He let out a sigh of satisfaction and, unwilling to move lest he destroy the moment, lay still and watched the steam drift upwards to the high, cracked ceiling. The strain of the motorway journey and the hassle of petty obstruction started to drift away.

The hypnotic silence was broken by the shrill ring of the telephone and Jamieson closed his eyes in disbelief. He considered ignoring it for a moment but ignoring a ringing telephone can be impossibly hard on the nerves and there was always the possibility that it was Sue calling to see if he had arrived safely. He stretched out his right hand and grabbed the chrome handle at the back of the bath to pull himself to his feet.

He had almost reached the vertical when the handle suddenly came out of the wall and he fell heavily backwards to splash down into the water. He jarred the base of his spine and hit his left elbow hard against the side of the tub. The curse that sprang to his lips was suddenly frozen as he saw what was happening above him. A wave of fear swept over him. Five feet up on the wall, the heater had come away from its mounting and was hanging delicately by what Jamieson reckoned could not be more than a millimetre of screwnail on either side. The bar that had come away in his hand had opened up the entire wiring channel in the wall and destroyed the plaster behind the heater.

Even as Jamieson stared up at the glowing element, almost afraid to breathe in case it fell into the water and electrocuted him, he saw it move a fraction. In the background the telephone still rang. A feeling of panic urged him to pull himself up and over the side of the bath but through this fear he realised that this would be entirely the wrong thing to do. It would almost certainly be fatal. The heater was balanced so finely that the slightest vibration would cause it to fall.

The water! He must get rid of the water in the bath! If he could do that before the heater fell on him then perhaps he could escape the short circuit that would kill him.

Cautiously he felt with his big toe under the water for the bath plug while his eyes remained glued to the red bar above him. He found the retaining chain and manipulated it between his toes to apply pressure. He felt the links bite into the soft skin between his toes as the plug refused to budge at first but pain had become a secondary consideration. He continued increasing the pressure until he felt the plug give and heard the water start to gurgle away down the drain.

Again, he had to fight his instinct. If he jerked the plug out suddenly an air lock in the drain might cause enough vibration to bring the heater down. He steeled himself to maintain a slight opening of the plug, while water drained away in a steady trickle.

Half the bath had emptied when Jamieson heard a key being inserted in the lock next door. Terror was re-born inside his head. For God's sake don't slam the door he prayed as he heard the door open. A few seconds of limbo passed with the slowness of eternity before the door slammed and the heater left its mounting.

In a series of events that appeared to Jamieson to occur in agonising slow motion he ripped out the bath plug completely with his foot, flung away the chrome bar that he was still holding and raised his hands to meet the heater. It seared his palms and the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils as he turned violently to wrench hard.

Mains voltage shot through him, locking his jaw and throwing his entire body into spasm but Jamieson’s desperate gamble had paid off. The momentum of his body in the turn had been sufficient to tear the heater from its wiring and interrupt the current.

The fear of permanent damage or disfigurement to his hands made Jamieson ignore the pain and the fact that the heater, although now disconnected was setting the bathroom carpet alight. He tore at the handle of the cold tap and held his hands under the flow, his body juddering violently from the combined effects of shock and pain.

There was a knocking at the door but Jamieson continued to sit in the bath holding his hands under the torrent of cold water.

'Are you all right in there?' a muffled voice inquired.

Jamieson could not reply for his teeth were chattering as his whole body continued to tremor.

The knocking grew louder as did the voice. 'I say! There's a smell of burning. Are you all right in there?'

Jamieson tried to force his lips into the right shape to speak. He managed a croak but then improved on it with agonising difficulty and managed a weak cry for help.

The door flew open as a shoulder crashed into it and a thin man with red hair looked in on the scene in the bathroom. 'Good God!' he exclaimed as his eyes took in the wiring hanging out of the wall and the smouldering carpet. The man used a towel to protect his hands and lifted the heater up to dump it safely in the hand basin. He quickly trampled out the smouldering carpet and came to Jamieson's aid. 'How bad is it?' he asked, trying to get a better look at Jamieson's hands.

Jamieson shook his head as if to indicate that he did not know.

'Let me see' said the man.

Jamieson withdrew his hands slowly from the flow and the man turned off the taps. Jamieson prepared himself mentally for the surge of pain he felt sure would return to his burns in the air but was mildly surprised when it was not too bad. It was painful but certainly not the agony of second degree burns or worse.

'I think you've got away with it,' said the red haired man examining Jamieson's hands gently. Jamieson, still in partial shock, found himself concentrating on the man's profile. A hawk like nose, hollow cheeks and the very fair skin that invariably went with red hair. In this case the residual scars of bad teenage acne compounded the problem.

'Mainly superficial, you must have got your hands under the cold water in time,' said the man.

Jamieson nodded. He had flashback to childhood when he remembered playing on a rope swing by the river. At one point he had slightly lost grip and slid down the entire length of the rope, using his hands as a brake. The rope burns on his hands might have been serious had it not been for the fact that his fall had ended in the river and the sudden immersion in cold water had saved him from lasting damage. It was a lesson about burns treatment that he had never forgotten.

Jamieson closed his eyes in relief as a sudden wave of tiredness hit him. The red haired man saw the signs and said, 'I think we better get you over to the hospital old son. You've had a bit of a shock… if you'll excuse the pun.' He picked up the towel that was lying on the floor beside him and put it around Jamieson's shoulders before helping him up.

At this point both men had overlooked the fact that, although the heater had been disconnected from the wall, the wires that serviced it were still live and protruding from the conduit channel at the back of the bath. As the red haired man helped Jamieson to his feet Jamieson's thigh brushed against them and once more, mains voltage shot through his body to throw him violently over the side of the bath. He landed in a heap on the still smoking carpet. The red haired man, protected by the dry towel he had been holding between himself and Jamieson, fell to his knees beside Jamieson and cursed his own stupidity between profuse apologies.

The relief that knowing his hands were going to be all right had removed a great deal of the worry from Jamieson's mind, in fact, so much so that, as he lay on the floor looking up at the look of anguish on the red haired man's face, he managed a wry smile.

'Are you all right?' asked the man, fearing that Jamieson's smile might have been an indication of some kind of mental aberration.

Jamieson looked up at him and said hoarsely, 'Frankly… I've had better days.'.'

'The man with the red hair smiled and said, 'I'm Clive Evans.'

'Scott Jamieson. You will excuse me if I don't shake hands.'

Jamieson's bed was surrounded by visitors. The thin, stick-insect like figure of the hospital secretary had been joined by a smaller, more dapper man with silver hair and a clipped, white moustache who introduced himself as Norman Carew, the medical superintendent of Kerr Memorial. A third man, grizzled and thickset was introduced as John Richardson, consultant bacteriologist.

'My dear Doctor, what can we say, this is absolutely awful,' began Crichton, the hospital secretary. 'What a thing to have happened. I just don't know what to say.'

'It was just one of these things,' replied Jamieson, wishing that Crichton would stop being so effusive in his apologies. For some reason it was making his injuries seem worse than they were and this was irking him. Carew started making the same kind of noises and Jamieson had to insist again that it was a totally unforeseen accident that could have happened anywhere and that, apart from a few superficial, albeit painful burns, no real damage had been done.

'And I was looking forward to my sherry too,' said Richardson and immediately lightened the atmosphere. Jamieson smiled and so did the others.

Crichton glanced sideways at Carew and then said, slightly uncomfortably, Jamieson thought, 'Mr Thelwell regrets that he could not manage to get here this evening. He asked me to convey his sympathy and say that he looks forward to meeting you when you are up and about again.'

Jamieson said one thing and thought another. Thelwell was the one who had been described as being 'difficult' he remembered. He was happy to have their meeting delayed. He had had enough 'difficulty' for one day. The sooner today was ended and consigned to the past the better.

'Is there anything we can get you?' asked Crichton as the three prepared to leave.

'I'd like to call my wife,' said Jamieson.

'Of course. Nurse will bring in the phone trolley. We'll say good night.'

Jamieson watched their backs disappear out the door. A few moments later a nurse wheeled in the phone and Jamieson called Sue.

'Scott! Where are you calling from?' asked Sue's delighted voice.

'Actually I'm in bed.'

'At this time?

'I've had a bit of an accident.'

Jamieson gave Sue a suitably understated account of what had happened but she was still very alarmed. 'But you could have been killed!' she protested.

'But I wasn't and everything is all right,' soothed Jamieson.

'But your hands, you said…'

'Superficial burns, that's all,' interrupted Jamieson.

'I'll come up to Leeds right away,' said Sue.

'No you won't,' said Jamieson. 'I am perfectly all right and I want to get on with the job as soon as possible. I don't want this silly little affair to build up into anything more than it actually was so stay there and I'll see you when I come home at the weekend or whenever. OK?'

There was a long pause before Sue agreed. 'I miss you already,' she said.

'I feel the same,' said Jamieson.

Jamieson had just put down the phone when there was a knock on the door and it was opened by Clive Evans.

'I thought I’d pop in and see how you were,' said Evans.

'That was good of you,' smiled Jamieson, now more able to take a good look at his visitor. He was of average height, somewhere in his early thirties and Jamieson thought he detected a faint Welsh accent in his voice.

'I didn't explain,' said Evans. 'I have the room next to yours in the residency. That's how I smelt the burning.'

'I see, so you're on the staff?'

'I'm the assistant bacteriologist in the microbiology department.'

'Dr Richardson's department?'

'That's right.'

'Been here long?'

'All of three months.'

Jamieson smiled. He was pleased to have found someone outside of the hospital hierarchy to talk to. 'You must be very much involved in the investigation of the infection problem then?' he asked.

Evans nodded. 'We're doing everything we can but we're not having any success and we're getting the blame for not finding out the cause.'

'Any ideas of your own?' asked Jamieson.

'It's a complete mystery,' said Evans. 'All the swabs we've taken from the surgical wards and theatres — and we've done hundreds — have been negative but Mr Thelwell won't accept this. He thinks we are incompetent and doesn't try to hide it.'

'And what do you think?'

'Dr Richardson is one of the best.'

'And Mr Thelwell?'

'It's not for me to pass comment on a surgeon, not my field I'm afraid.'

Jamieson nodded, pleased at the loyalty and common sense of his visitor.

'When do you think you will be up and about then?' asked Evans.

'Tomorrow,' said Jamieson firmly. 'I'll get the dressings changed in the morning and then I'll get started.'

'Then I'll probably be seeing you tomorrow,' said Evans. He held out his hand to shake Jamieson's and suddenly realised that it still might not be a very good idea. Both men laughed and Jamieson noticed that Evans had what looked like a red burn mark on the back of his right wrist. 'You must have got that from the heater in the bathroom,' he said with concern.'

'It's nothing,' Evans assured him, pulling down his sleeve and getting up from the chair.

'But you should have it seen to,' insisted Jamieson. 'Burns get infected so easily. You must ask one of the nurses to dress it properly.

'Really, it's nothing to worry about,' Evans assured him. It hardly broke the skin.'

Jamieson looked at him doubtfully and said, 'I'm very grateful to you for your help.'

'Don't mention it,' said Evans. 'I'd best be going. I'm on call tonight.'

As the door closed behind Evans, Jamieson lay back on the pillow and looked at his bandaged hands. He reflected on the day. 'What a start,' he murmured. 'What a bloody awful start.'