The Universe Versus Alex Woods (39 page)

‘I managed a couple of hours this morning. What about you?’

I’m not driving. My lack of sleep’s irrelevant. What about the ferry times?

‘I’ve got a full print-out in the car. I think the three twenty’s the one for us, but there’s also one an hour later in case we miss it.’

Great. Just don’t rush. Let’s get there in one piece. You’re not to let me die until we get to Switzerland
.

‘Ha ha,’ I said.

Seriously. If you need to stop, we stop.

I nodded. But privately, I thought I’d like to put as much distance as possible between me and my mother by eight forty-five the next morning.

A few silent moments dragged by, then Mr Peterson slipped me another note.
I think it’s time.

I looked at my watch again. My heart had started pounding. ‘I’ll be back in two minutes,’ I said.

I got to reception just as the ward round was beginning. As expected, neither of the fold-down wheelchairs had been left out; both were stowed in the small alcove on the near side of the reception desk. I’d already decided that I’d have to ask before taking one. The nurse left on reception hadn’t yet looked up from her stack of paperwork, but there was no sense trying to sneak one of the chairs away when I had a perfectly legitimate reason for borrowing one.

I walked to the desk, clocked her name badge and said: ‘Excuse me, Nurse Fletcher.’

Her eyes snapped up and straight to my left cheek. I estimated her to be around forty-five years of age. She had severe cheekbones and a brisk, school marmish air about her, and the small bags under her eyes suggested that she’d already had quite enough of her shift. I decided to proceed with caution and extreme politeness.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ I said. ‘I was wondering if it might be possible to borrow a wheelchair? My friend, Mr Peterson in room two, needs to use the toilet and, as I’m sure you’re aware, he has rather restricted mobility at the moment.’

It sounded a little stilted, but if I came across as awkward and meek, I reasoned this was all to the good.

Nurse Fletcher tapped her pen against her angular jaw for a few seconds. ‘Can it wait until after the ward rounds, Mr . . .?’

‘Woods,’ I said. ‘And unfortunately, I don’t think it
can
wait.’

Nurse Fletcher wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Woods, your friend is not supposed to leave his bed without proper medical supervision. Doctor’s orders. The last thing we want is to risk him having another fall.’

‘I’ve been caring for him for some time. I can assure you that he won’t be falling on my watch.’

Her eyes flicked back to my cheek for a few seconds. ‘Forgive me for asking, Mr Woods, but have you been in a fight?’

‘No. I’m a pacifist.’

‘Did someone hit you?’

‘Yes, a friend.’

Nurse Fletcher let this slide. She got up and produced from somewhere under the desk a vase-shaped receptacle made of thick cardboard. ‘Perhaps this might be adequate for Mr Peterson’s needs?’

I coughed delicately. ‘No. I’m afraid it’s the other sort of toilet he requires.’

Nurse Fletcher’s expression remained neutral. She tapped her pen a few more times, then said: ‘Oh, very well. Take a chair. But if you have any problems getting him in or out, wait for one of the nurses to assist you. We don’t want any mishaps.’

I didn’t hang around for her to change her mind. I grabbed the nearest chair from the alcove and hurried back to Mr Peterson’s bed.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It took a little longer than I expected.’

Who’s on reception?
Mr Peterson wrote.

‘Nurse Fletcher.’

Great. The humorless Nurse Fletcher. Let’s not engage her in conversation if we don’t have to.

‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘Have the others been round yet?’

Mr Peterson shook his head. He’d already moved his bed into the upright position and was now gesturing hurriedly at the wheelchair. Despite Nurse Fletcher’s warnings, transferring him wasn’t too difficult. He had to lean on my shoulder with his left arm and on the bedside table with his right, but once he was on his feet, he only had to manage a couple of steps and a half-turn to lower himself safely into the seat.

When one of the nurses arrived at the bed, a few minutes later, she immediately wanted to know why Mr Peterson was out of bed and why we’d not waited for assistance. She addressed these questions to me, but we made her wait so that Mr Peterson could explain in writing and at length. We’d already agreed that part of our strategy should be to hold up our nurse until her colleague had finished with the patient in the bed adjacent and was ready to move along to the next room. We also thought that a long, tedious exchange was the best guarantor against her offering any further assistance.

‘Nurse Fletcher said it was okay?’ our nurse asked when Mr Peterson had handed her his elaborate missive.

Yes, she said that it was fine. Alex is going to assist me. He’s quite capable. As soon as I’ve had my codeine we’ll be on our way. Can I have it, please?

The nurse wordlessly handed him the small plastic beaker containing his medication.

Thank you
, Mr Peterson wrote.

The nurse turned to me. ‘Visiting hours are over in fifteen minutes. You shouldn’t be here after that.’ Then she and the other nurse wheeled the medication trolley back out into the corridor.

Let’s go
, Mr Peterson wrote.
Remember – walk past confidently, but don’t rush. If she says anything, stick to the story.

‘Okay,’ I said.

In the corridor, we veered right and proceeded at what I thought to be an appropriate, confident pace. I kept my back straight, my head up, and my eyes focussed on the double doors that marked the ward’s terminus. I didn’t cast a glance at reception as we approached, but I was dimly aware of Nurse Fletcher in my peripheral vision. She was still sitting at her post, hunched over her paperwork, but I had no idea if we had registered on her radar. The next five seconds would give me my answer. I held my breath and pressed forward. I was gripping the handles of the wheelchair so tightly that my knuckles had gone white. Two paces, three paces. My legs were no longer my own. They felt as rigid as stilts. But they only had to manage another ten metres to the doors. Reception slid past. My footfalls were barely perceptible in the enfolding silence. A dozen more steps and we’d be free.

‘I’m not sure where you think you’re going, Mr Woods,’ Nurse Fletcher said.

I stopped and turned to face her. I had no choice.

‘The last time I checked, the toilet was back that way.’

‘Occupied,’ I said cheerfully. ‘We thought we’d just use the one on 6A.’

Nurse Fletcher tapped her pen against the desk. ‘The toilet on 6A is for the patients on 6A. I’m sure that Mr Peterson can wait five minutes if he has to.’

I glanced down for help. Mr Peterson was already scribbling. He passed me his hastily torn-out note, which I handed on to Nurse Fletcher.

Mr Peterson can’t wait.

I tried to make my tone conciliatory. ‘As you can see, the situation’s a little urgent.’

Nurse Fletcher curled her lip. ‘I’m afraid it’s out of the question. Mr Peterson is not meant to be out of bed without proper medical supervision. I certainly can’t have the two of you gallivanting all over the hospital looking for an unoccupied lavatory, not when the facilities on the ward are more than adequate. If you go back now, you’ll probably find that the toilet has already been vacated.’

Mr Peterson had started scribbling furiously.

This is ridiculous! We’re going. I will not be treated like a child or an invalid!

I passed the note on. Nurse Fletcher read it, quite calmly, and then, without a moment’s hesitation, raised the drawbridge to her desk and stepped out to join us in the corridor, positioning herself pointedly between ourselves and the exit. She looked quite prepared to wheel Mr Peterson back to his bed herself if needs be.

I stood like a statue. I could see the plan crashing and burning before my eyes.

Nurse Fletcher folded her arms. ‘Mr Peterson,’ she began, ‘I can appreciate that you’re distressed, but I’m afraid this is
not
open to discussion. The doctors have assessed your situation and advised us accordingly. They’ve been extremely clear in their instructions. You can’t leave the ward unsupervised. I’m sorry, but we’re acting with your best interests in mind.’

Alex, give
this
to Nurse Fletcher
, Mr Peterson scrawled.
Since time is limited and she clearly has no interest in listening to me, I’m giving you permission to speak on my behalf. Please explain to her that we’re leaving. Right now.

I handed the note across. Nurse Fletcher looked at it and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t understand this. It’s not legible.’

‘It says that I’m to speak on Mr Peterson’s behalf,’ I said. ‘He’s had enough of trying to talk to someone who has no interest in what he has to say.’

Nurse Fletcher raised her eyebrows in a way that told me I’d just crossed a line. But I pressed recklessly on.

‘We’re leaving,’ I said. ‘Mr Peterson doesn’t care to stay here any longer. We’re discharging him.’

Nurse Fletcher’s voice was very calm and cold. ‘No. That’s simply not possible. He’s in no state to be going
anywhere
.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not your decision to make,’ I said. ‘It’s no one’s decision but his. Please go and fetch the necessary paperwork.’

‘Young man, I don’t know what game you think you’re playing here, but this is an extremely serious situation. Mr Peterson is going nowhere. You cannot discharge him without proper authorization.’

I held her gaze for a few icy moments. Mr Peterson passed me another note.

Tell her to call a doctor.

‘What?’ This was going way off script.

Mr Peterson was writing like a man possessed.

Insist! We need her behind that desk. As soon as she’s on the phone, get me out of here.

I folded the note in my pocket.

‘He’d like you to call a doctor, please.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘He wants you to call a doctor. Immediately.’

‘Mr Woods, I’ve had quite enough of this now. This is not an emergency, and I’m not going to call—’

‘It
is
an emergency. You’ve made Mr Peterson extremely distressed. You’ve said that he can’t leave without a doctor’s permission, so now we’re asking you to call a doctor.’

Nurse Fletcher closed her eyes and exhaled through her tightly pursed lips. ‘If you’d kindly take Mr Peterson back to his bed, then I assure you I’ll get a doctor over to see him at the next reasonable opportunity.’

I looked at Nurse Fletcher for about five seconds, then I backed up a couple of paces and parallel-parked Mr Peterson’s wheelchair against the reception desk. I made a big show of applying the footbrake.

‘We’re not going anywhere,’ I said. ‘Make the phone call and find out how long it’s going to take to get a doctor across. If the answer’s acceptable,
then
Mr Peterson will consider returning to his bed.’

For a few awful moments it seemed that Nurse Fletcher was going to remain immovable. It had never been discussed at any stage of the planning, but I was fast coming to the conclusion that I might have to ram her.

And then, quite suddenly, she unfolded her arms and spun on her heels. ‘Very well.’ The drawbridge was up. She was back behind her desk, reaching for the telephone. ‘I can tell you exactly what the doctor’s going to say. But if this is what it’s going to take, then so be it.’ She punched in the four-digit extension code. Out of her eye-line, I slipped the footbrake off. ‘Yes, hello. This is Nurse Fletcher on 6B. I need to get hold of doct—’

I ran.

The double doors held us up for less than three frantic heartbeats. I accelerated through a reckless ninety-degree turn, braced my legs and launched us towards the lifts. The momentum we’d accrued five seconds later was almost enough to pull my arms from their sockets. I overshot the near lift by a good two metres. Mr Peterson lurched dangerously in his chair. I fell forward and felt a handle burying itself in my ribcage, but there was no time to catch my breath. I backed up and jabbed the call button six or seven times. The torture of waiting for the lift to ascend five floors was instantly assuaged when the doors opened to reveal an empty interior. By the time we were in and I’d hit the G button, I could hear rapid footfalls echoing amidst the blood surging in my ears. I spun to witness Nurse Fletcher and a gangly porter hurtling into the narrowing frame of the closing doors. I couldn’t begin to imagine where the minion had materialized from, but his arrival was too late to make a difference. The floors counted down to zero, then I exploded from the lift like a rocket. It was completely unnecessary by this point. The foyer was still deserted, and had it not been, my actions would most likely have proven counterproductive. But I couldn’t help myself. There was so much adrenaline in my bloodstream, so much oxygen being pumped to my brain and arms and legs, that
not
running was unthinkable. No paramedic could ever have wheeled a patient into that hospital as fast as I wheeled Mr Peterson out. I took the hairpin bend of the exit ramp like a rally driver, shot past a bemused smoker and screeched to a halt twenty metres later, barely a foot from the passenger door of our waiting car.

There was no discussion, no hesitation. Mr Peterson felt virtually weightless as I helped him in. Unthinkingly, I folded the wheelchair and crammed it into the back. Three minutes later, I’d circled the hospital roundabout and pulled off the dual carriageway into the Tesco garage, where we were safely shielded from view by a row of tall trees.

I flicked on the interior light and waited for my hands to stop shaking.

Mr Peterson passed me a note:
You did great. I’m proud of you.

I wiped my eyes and took about ten huge breaths.

‘I don’t know what came over me with the wheelchair,’ I confessed. ‘I meant to leave it in the car park. I guess I’ll just have to return it when this is all over. I don’t feel good about stealing from the NHS.’