Not Dead Enough

64

The woman behind the wooden counter and glass window handed him a buff-coloured rectangular form. ‘Please put your name and address and other details on this,’ she asked him in a weary voice. She looked as if she had been sitting there for too long, reminding him of an exhibit in a museum showcase that someone had neglected to dust. Her face had an indoors pallor and her shapeless brown hair hung around her face and shoulders like curtains that had become detached from some of their rings.

Above the reception desk of the Accident and Emergency Unit of the Royal Sussex County Hospital was a large LCD display of yellow letters on a black background, currently reading WAITING TIME 3 HOURS.

He considered the form carefully. A name, address, date of birth and next of kin were required. There was also a space for allergies.

‘Everything all right?’ the woman asked.

He raised his swollen right hand. ‘Difficult to write,’ he said.

‘Would you like me to fill it in for you?’

‘I can manage.’

Then, leaning on the counter, he stared at the form for some moments, his brain, muzzed by the pain, really not functioning that well at all. He was trying to think quickly, but the thoughts that he wanted didn’t come in the right sequence. He felt a little dizzy suddenly.

‘You can sit down and fill it in,’ she said.

Snapping back at her, he shouted, ‘I SAID I CAN MANAGE!’

People all around looked up from their hard grey plastic seats, startled. Not smart, he thought. Not smart to draw attention. Hastily he filled out the form and then, as if to make amends, beside Allergies he wrote, wittily, he thought, ‘Pain.’

But she didn’t appear to notice as she took the form back. ‘Please take a seat and a nurse will come and see you shortly.’

‘Three hours?’ he said.

‘I’ll tell them it’s urgent,’ she said flatly, then watched warily as the strange man with long, straggly brown hair, a heavy moustache and beard, and large, tinted glasses, wearing a baggy white shirt over a string vest, grey slacks and sandals, walked over to an empty seat, between a man with a bleeding arm and an elderly woman with a bandaged head, and sat down. Then she picked up her phone.

The Time Billionaire unclipped the BlackBerry from its holster, which was attached to his belt, but before he had time to do anything, a shadow fell in front of him. A pleasant-looking, dark-haired woman in her late forties, in nursing uniform, was standing over him. The badge on her lapel read Barbara Leach – A&E Nurse.

‘Hello!’ she said breezily. ‘Would you come with me?’

She led him into a small booth and asked him to sit down.

‘What seems to be the problem?’

He raised his hand. ‘I hurt it working on a car.’

‘How long ago?’

Thinking for a moment, he said, ‘Thursday afternoon.’

She examined it carefully, turning it over, then comparing it to his left hand. ‘It looks infected,’ she said. ‘Have you had a tetanus injection recently?’

‘I don’t remember.’

She studied it again for a while thoughtfully. ‘Working on a car?’ she said.

‘An old car. I’m restoring it.’

‘I’ll get the doctor to see you as soon as possible.’

He went back to his chair in the waiting room and turned his attention back to his BlackBerry. He logged on to the web and then clicked on his bookmark for Google.

When that came up, he entered a search command for MG TF.

That was the car Cleo Morey drove.

Despite his pain, despite his muzzy thoughts, a plan was forming. Really quite a good plan.

‘Fucking brilliant!’ he said out loud, unable to control his excitement. Then immediately he shrank back into his shell.

He was shaking.

Always a sign that the Lord approved.