Being (2 page)

Authors: Kevin Brooks

Ting
– a tiny pain, sharp and bright.

I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them again. The doctor was holding the syringe in his hand now. Studying it, checking it. It looked so small. A tiny plastic tube of almost clear liquid…

I wondered how it worked. A tiny plastic tube of almost clear liquid… how did it work? How did it do what it was meant to do? What was in it? Was it pre-filled? I didn’t see the doctor fill it. Or did I? I didn’t know.

Absently, as if he’d done it a thousand times before, the doctor did something to the syringe – shook it, knocked
it, jiggled it – and as I watched him, I wondered why the syringe was in two parts. I knew it didn’t matter, but I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it.
Why is the syringe in two parts? Why is the needle separate from the body of the syringe? Why is the syringeless needle inserted into my vein and
then
attached to the body of the syringe?

The question grew to hide my anxiety as the plunger was depressed and the anaesthetic was injected into my blood.

I felt it – that sharp, alien, liquid pressure…

Why is the syringe in two parts?

Some reason,
I was thinking.

Some medical reason
…

And then I wasn’t thinking at all.

nunuuuuuuunuuuuunnununnunsaasaaa tah thhahh ah hta ta and th tht its ah impimpimperative thath ahahuntil we know no one professorcasing must know do you understananand? of course, cooper, sir. tell hayes to get the names, sir. whoelse apart from usnandrews? anynursenstaff? no therewas nothing to be seen. no. nothinglmean not anything physical. On a screen. On tape. It was on the screen. Right. So who else? Carlingle, the assistant. Kamal here, the anaesthetist. Kamal

Voices.

You know we cant keephimunder much longer you know just wait. Wait. Professor? What do you think? Cooper. Sir. Wheres Ryan? Anyminute, sir. see those pictures again. Christ. What is that? What the hell is that?

Shit

Rubber and gas. Tubes.

Voices.

Shit.

What the hell is that?

Clean rubber. White gas. The taste of plastic tubing, deep in my throat. Scratchy and hard. The taste of chemicals. What is this? This shouldn’t be happening. This shouldn’t be. I’m lying on my back with my eyes closed. A white sheet covers my body. Beneath the sheet I’m naked.

Pins…

Needles in the back of my hand.

Tubes, tubes… thin wires taped to my chest. I’m breathing through a tube… rubber and gas. Hiss of breath. Breathe. Some kind of mask.

My eyes won’t open.

Wait a minute, wait a minute…

Move.

Fingers, toes, arms, legs, hands, head – nothing. I can’t move. I’m unable to move.

Paralysed.

This is wrong. This is very wrong. This is a bad situation. Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute…

What is this?

Where am I?

Voices.

Where’s Ryan? Anyminute, sirhe’s coming now

Who are these people?

What
is
this?

A door opens. Someone enters the room.

I hear voices again.

Morris.

Sir. This is the consultant – Professor Casing.

Ryan. Is that him?

Yes.

The voices move closer. I can sense people standing beside me now. I can’t see them. My eyes are closed. I’m nothing – a petrified container. All I can do is lie still and listen.

What have we got?

Robert Smith. Sixteen years old. Suspected ulcer. Referred by his GP for an endoscopy. That’s a –

I know what an endoscopy is, Morris. What happened?

Professor?

A man coughs, clearing his throat.

At nine forty-five this morning, the patient was anaesthetized and taken into the examination area where Dr Andrews began the procedure.

Was he conscious?

The anaesthetic we use is very light, not much more than a sedative, but it’s often enough to render the patient unconscious.

So he wouldn’t have known what was happening?

We think not.

You’ve kept him unconscious since?

We thought it best.

Good. Go on.

As you know, endoscopy is a fairly straightforward procedure. A flexible fibre-optic tube is inserted into the patient’s mouth and eased down into the gastrointestinal tract. The endoscope sends images to a video screen, allowing us to visually examine the oesophagus, the stomach, parts of the small intestine and so on.

A short pause.

In this case, the images from the endoscope… the images displayed on the video screen were… not normal.

Silence.

Not normal?

Can you show me?

Kamal?

A button clicks, something hums.

This video shows the results of a normal endoscopy.

Hmm…

That’s the oesophagus… just there, look. You can see it quite clearly as the endoscope travels down. Now… into the stomach. There. See how it looks? That’s how it should look.

OK.

Now.

Click.

This is what Dr Andrews saw.

Silence.

Hmm…

What the hell is that?

That, Mr Ryan, is the inside of this boy.

Christ… it looks like some kind of plastic.

This tubular area here is very short, no more than ten centimetres. Look.

Shit. What was that? Rewind it.

Click. Whirrr. Click.

What is that? Look at that.

Silence.

See there? And there? That blackened area? And here.

Click.

These silvery filaments…

Click.

Watch there.

They’re moving.

Watch.

Christ.

Silence.

That’s it.

Click.

The humming stops.

Another long silence.

It couldn’t be an instrument malfunction?

Everything’s been checked, double-checked. There’s nothing wrong with the instruments.

Is this the only copy of the tape?

Andrews made a duplicate. Hayes has got it.

Silence again.

After a while I become aware of someone leaning over me. Studying me. A man. I can feel his breath on my face. The dark smell of a man. He breathes in deeply, holds it for a moment, then breathes out again. When he speaks, I can feel the heat of his whispered words on my skin.

What the hell are you?

Nothing, I want to tell him. I’m nothing. I’m just a kid with a bad belly. I’m Robert Smith. Whatever you think
this is, whoever you are – you’re wrong. Listen, there’s been a mistake. Listen to me, look at me. I’m awake. I’m conscious…

I want to scream.

But I can’t open my mouth.

I can’t move.

I used to dream. When I was a little kid, I used to dream of a whirling wind that spun me around inside myself and sucked me down into terrible places. I never knew what the terrible places were, but I knew they were going to kill me. And I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to go to those terrible places. I just wanted to wake up. I knew that if I could wake myself up, I’d be all right. I
knew
that. And I knew what I had to do to wake myself up. I had to move. Move anything. A finger, a hand, a leg. Anything. Just move it. Move. Move. Move.

It was impossible then, but I always managed to kill the dream.

But this was no dream. This was nowhere near a dream. This was the worst thing imaginable. Worse than that: it was real. I was lying on a hospital bed, paralysed and mute, and unknown people were saying unknown things about me.

Silvery filaments?

Some kind of plastic?

It couldn’t be real.

But it was.

I can still hear the voices.

…
and I want the immediate area quietly secured and Andrews and Ingle, get them debriefed and confined until further notice. I want his medical records, clothes, fingerprints, history… everything. I want to know everything about him. Was anyone with him when he arrived?

No.

What about his parents? Where are they?

He’s a looked-after boy –

A what?

He’s an orphan. Abandoned at birth. He’s lived in Homes or with foster parents all his life. For the last year or so he’s been with a couple called Young. Peter and Bridget Young. We haven’t been able to contact Mrs Young, but we’ve been in touch with the husband. He’s been told there were minor complications and the boy needs to stay in overnight.

What did he say? Did he want to see him?

He’s on his way now.

Sort it out. Go.

Sir.

The door opens quietly, then closes again.

Someone locks it.

The man called Ryan carries on talking.

Why didn’t this show up on the X-rays? Was he X-rayed?

Four weeks ago. Here.

Flip flap – the plastic flap of an X-ray film.

Are these normal?

Perfectly.

This is him?

Yes.

You’re sure?

Yes.

Flip flap. Silence.

Right… we need to do it now.

I don’t understand.

Open him up.

I can’t –

You have to.

No, listen –

No, you listen, Professor. You’re doing it now, and you’re doing it alone.

But –

Now! Do you understand? You cut that thing open now.

The shock of the words takes a moment to sink in –
cut that thing open…
that’s what he said…
you cut that thing open now
– and then it hits me. Panic. Terror. Physical horror. Shit, they’re going to cut me open. Right now. Cut me open. They’re going to CUT
ME OPEN…

I have to
do
something.

I have to move.

Anything. A finger, a hand, a leg. Anything. Just move it… move move
MOVE!!

I can’t move.

I breathe in, trying to steady my heart, breathing the taste of gas. Rubber. Gas. Tube.

Breathe slowly.

Don’t panic.

Think about it.

Think.

Listen.

Concentrate, listen.

Silence. A background hum. Something ticking. A faint solitary beep. No voices. For a moment, I think they’ve gone… but then, from across the room –
snap –
a rubbery snap, and the murmur of voices again.

This is ridiculous, Ryan. I can’t operate without consent. What if he dies? What if –

I’ll clear it. It’s cleared. I can take care of it. Listen, you’re not doing anything – OK? It’s just a minor emergency operation. You had to do it. These things happen, don’t they?

Yes, but –

We have to know. We have to find out. There’s no choice. We have to find out right now.

I don’t understand –

Click.

Do you understand this?

A threatening silence.

All right. But only –

Only an exploration. That’s all we need.

A heavy sigh. Then another sharp snap, the snap of a surgical glove.

Put this surgical mask on, Mr Ryan. I’m going to need some help.

The fear is killing me now, overpowering my mind. I can’t think. I
have
to think. I have to move. Move move move. I’m
trying
to move myself – trying, forcing, straining, struggling – I’m doing everything possible to think myself into moving my body. But it’s useless. There’s no connection between mind and flesh. Nothing. My body just lies there, inanimate. It’s just a thing. A container. I’m still conscious of it, conscious of its unconsciousness, but I can’t do anything with it.

Kamal, how is he?

Tick tick.

The same. Steady.

I need you there, Ryan.

All right.

Don’t touch anything, just do what I say. Kamal?

OK.

A chill tingles my skin as the sheet is lifted from my stomach. I can feel the cold white air. I’m naked. Out in the open. Exposed. I can hear a distant whistling sound inside my head, a scary white noise. The sound of fear. I want to
clench something, but I don’t have anything to clench
with.

Membraned hands touch my skin. Soft. Then a little harder. Kneading, probing.

Words.

It feels all right… a little unusual. Here, I think. Something… maybe.

The whistle of fear intensifies, then suddenly stops. All at once my head is soundless. Empty and dead. And in the inner silence, I can hear the inaudible sound of a scalpel being plucked from a silver tray.

I’m going to cut here.

No…

Fingertips… then the flat of a hand on my skin.

Oh no.

No…

The slice of the scalpel is quick and tight. At first I feel nothing, just the silent peeling of skin and fat, opening up like a blood-red smile… then suddenly the pain cuts in.

It hurts.

Oh, it
hurts…

IT HURTS.

So sharp it’s dull, like cold, like ice… burning hot…

It hurts it hurts it
HURTS…

And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Somewhere in the screamless distance, the voices continue.

Hold that, Ryan, just there. Let me clear that.

What is it?

I can’t make it out. Just a second.

Pain and pressure… pressure and pain…

I don’t understand it.