Chameleon (14 page)

'Would you like me to prepare anything special for you?'

'Just the black nightie,' replied Jamieson.

'Incorrigible, quite incorrigible.'

Jamieson got into the Microbiology lab in the morning to find people whispering in corners. He looked in on Clive Evans' lab to find Moira Lippman alone. 'What's going on?' he asked.

'I think you'd better hear it from Dr Richardson or Dr Evans,' she replied.

Jamieson shrugged his shoulders and asked, 'Where do I find them?'

'They're both in Dr Richardson's office.'

Jamieson retraced his steps through the lab and knocked on Richardson's door.

'Come in,' said Richardson, 'You've come at just the right moment.'

Jamieson entered and closed the door behind him.

'In what way?'

Evans handed Jamieson a small, round, plastic dish and said, 'This is the culture from Thelwell's nasal swab.

Jamieson looked at the spreading bacterial growth on the plate and removed the lid of the culture dish to smell it. It smelt of cut grass. 'Good God,' he said quietly. 'The Pseudomonas.

'A pseudomonas,' insisted Richardson. 'The question now is, is it the one that has been causing all the trouble?'

'When will you know?'

'Moira is putting up the antibiotic tests now,' said Evans.

Jamieson was full of conflicting emotions. If Thelwell proved to be a carrier of the killer strain it would mean that, in all probability, he had been responsible for the recent surgery deaths at Kerr Memorial. How could the man live with himself after that? On the positive side it would mean that at least the cause of the outbreak would have been identified and the problem would now be over. His job would be complete and he could report an end to the affair to Sci Med.

Jamieson wondered how the staff would react to such news. Sympathy and understanding would not readily be forthcoming for such an objectionable character as Thelwell. At the moment, Evans appeared to be neutral but Richardson was showing distinct signs of gloating. Jamieson could not honestly say that he blamed him after what he had suffered at the tongue of Thelwell.

Jamieson had an unpleasant thought. He asked, 'How is the patient he operated on yesterday?'

It was obvious from their faces that neither Richardson nor Evans had thought to inquire. 'I'll ring now,' said Richardson.

Evans and Jamieson sat patiently while Richardson listened to what was being said on the other end of the telephone. They had to wait again when Richardson put the phone down slowly and took a moment to gather his thoughts. 'She has a temperature this morning,' he said finally. 'And she's in some pain.'

Jamieson noted that any suggestion of gloating had disappeared from Richardson entirely. He had just been reminded of the awful human cost involved in the affair.

'Will you speak to Mr Thelwell?' Evans asked Richardson.

Richardson hesitated and Jamieson said, 'I think under the circumstances I had best do that,' said Jamieson.

'I would be grateful,' said Richardson. 'It would not come well from me.'

Jamieson returned to his tiny room to call Thelwell's secretary. There was an envelope lying on his desk; he opened it before dialling. It was the report from the Sci-Med lab on the Pseudomonas. Their analysis had failed to uncover the presence of any extraneous plasmid DNA. Jamieson frowned. He had been wrong. The bug had not been invaded by outside elements to make it resistant to antibiotics; it was a killer in its own right.

This was a surprise. At least it was a surprise to him. Something told him that it would not come as such a surprise to John Richardson. The last time they had spoken Richardson had seemed to hint at this being a possibility. He had asked to be informed about carbon source tests. Why? What did Richardson suspect?

'Mr Thelwell's secretary,' said the voice in the ear-piece.'

'This is Dr Jamieson. I wonder if I might have a word with Mr Thelwell?'

'Is it important?'

'Very.'

Richardson was no longer in his office when Jamieson called in on his way out of the lab so he left the report he had just received from Sci-Med on the consultant's desk along with a little note saying, 'You were right. How did you know?'

Jamieson knew that it was going to be difficult to tell Thelwell what he had to. It seemed to grow more difficult with each step he took up the stairs until he found himself even hesitating to knock on the door outside the surgeon's office.

'Mr Thelwell can give you five minutes,' said the secretary when Jamieson finally entered. 'He has a busy schedule.'

'Had', thought Jamieson. His life is not ever going to be quite the same again.

Thelwell frowned when he saw Jamieson. 'Yes?' he said with an exasperated sigh. 'What now?'

'I've come about your nasal swab test,' said Jamieson.

'What about it? I didn't use cream this time.'

'I know. The lab grew Pseudomonas from it.'

Thelwell looked as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt. His face clouded then his eyes flashed. 'No!' he rasped. 'I will not have it. This is something dreamed up by Richardson! I do not believe it! I just do not believe it!'

'I've seen the culture Mr Thelwell. It's Pseudomonas all right.'

'It may be pseudomonas but it did not come from me. It's not mine! Can't you see? That incompetent clown of a microbiologist has interfered with the cultures!'

'Mr Thelwell you are being entirely unreasonable,' said Jamieson calmly.

'Unreasonable!' exploded Thelwell. 'Unreasonable you call it! That man tries to wreck my career and blame all these deaths on me and you call me unreasonable! I knew it! What did I say the last time? I told you Richardson would dream up something to embarrass me. It's a wonder he didn't find bubonic plague in my swab!'

Jamieson found himself becoming angry. Thelwell appeared unable to see beyond some petty feud. His patients seemed to be the last thing on his mind. 'I understand Mrs Edelman is running a temperature and is in some pain this morning,' he said flatly.

'Mrs Edelman?' asked Thelwell absently.

'The patient you operated on yesterday,' said Jamieson harshly.

'What are you suggesting?' hissed Thelwell.

'I am suggesting that she may be infected with the Pseudomonas.' said Jamieson. 'I am further suggesting that the evidence currently points to you being the carrier of the infection in this hospital. I must ask you to refrain from operating until this has been thoroughly investigated.'

'Refrain from ...' repeated Thelwell as though stunned. 'This is ludicrous!'

'It's common sense,' said Jamieson. 'The lab doesn't have the antibiogram results yet and it may be that you are carrying a quite ordinary strain but until we know for sure I am going to ask the authorities to suspend you if you will not do it voluntarily.'

'Get out!' spat Thelwell. 'Just get out!'

SEVEN

Jamieson kept his eyes glued to his door mirror as he accelerated out of the feeder lane to join the main carriageway south. It felt good to be travelling home to Sue but ever since the accident he felt uneasy about driving on motorways. He slipped into the nearside lane and settled there for a bit until he got a feel for how much traffic there was. In days past he would have put his foot to the floor and moved over into the fast lane as quickly as possible. These days were gone.

After three or four miles he moved out into a gap and accelerated up to sixty-five. He did this partly because he had a long way to go but mainly because it was part of a self-imposed therapy. The accident had actually left him physically afraid of travelling in the outside lane. When he did so he was constantly beset by the image of a vehicle coming towards him and swerving into his path.

As an intelligent and rational person he knew that the likelihood of this happening to him again must be extremely remote. This helped him cope with the fear but it did not get rid of it. It was still there. It made his mouth dry and forced up his pulse rate whenever he moved into the outside lane but it was not so great that he could not live with it, however unpleasant. The more he forced himself to do this, he reckoned, the sooner he would be free of it.

The traffic ahead slowed as it was channelled into a contra-flow system and his speed dropped to a crawl as they all moved forward at the speed of the slowest vehicle ahead. In this instance it was a mobile crane. The break in concentration gave Jamieson a chance to think about other things. He thought back to how Thelwell had behaved when he told him about the swab result. It alarmed him that a man of such quick temper and volatility could be a surgeon.

After considering it further, Jamieson found himself changing his mind. When he thought about it, a great many of the surgeons he knew or had known, were volatile characters. Most could be described as extrovert and a few had monstrous egos. Perhaps the only different thing about Thelwell was the fact that he was also extremely unpleasant. He wondered how he would behave if and when the lab found that he was carrying the killer strain.

There was of course, a chance that the pseudomonas strain found on Thelwell's swab might turn out to be different from the problem bug but Jamieson's feeling was that this might be stretching coincidence too far. He would have to prepare himself for the worst.

As the traffic entered its second mile of walking-pace progress, Jamieson started to consider Thelwell's angry allegations that his swab had been tampered with. Until that moment he had not given the slightest credence to the notion that Richardson could have 'fixed' the swab test. That was surely beyond the bounds of possibility ... wasn't it? But maybe nothing was beyond the bounds of possibility at Kerr Memorial. He had come to dislike the place intensely.

It was nothing unusual for clashes of personality to occur in medical circles but they were usually confined to academic jousting, comprising occasional caustic remarks and continual sly innuendo. This rarely developed into open feuding and outright hostility. Things at Kerr Memorial were getting out of hand or was that an understatement? Had they already got completely out of hand? And if that were true, what should he do about it?

There seemed to be no straightforward solution to the problem as far as Jamieson could see. Strictly speaking, Thelwell's bad behaviour did not constitute an offence requiring disciplinary action, certainly nothing that would warrant suspension from duty. He tried to formulate such a charge in his own mind. Creating an atmosphere unconducive to the welfare of the patients? It sounded pompous enough but it didn't sound right. He sought help from sport. 'Bringing the game into disrepute'? 'Ungentlemanly conduct'? At length, he decided that 'behaving like a right twerp' sounded about right for Thelwell but this probably wouldn't stand up in legal circles if for no other reason than it was perfectly clear and easily understood.

If Thelwell was shown to be the carrier of the lethal strain then suspension from duty would be automatic and with luck, he might return to medicine as a humbler person after a suitable course of treatment to clear up his carrier state. Jamieson suddenly thought that this was always assuming that it could be cleared up. If not, then the bug was so dangerous to surgical patients that Thelwell's days as a surgeon might be over, just like his own?

Jamieson sought diversion from that unpleasant thought from the car radio and switched to Classic FM. Vivaldi filled the car and accompanied his acceleration now that the bottleneck had cleared.

As the traffic sorted itself out an articulated lorry suddenly pulled out from the slow lane in front of him and caused him to brake sharply. He immediately checked his rear view mirror to make sure the car behind him had reacted as well. It had. He could see its driver shaking his head.

As he passed the lorry, Jamieson glanced up at the cab to see the driver lighting a cigarette; he seemed quite oblivious to the near disaster he had caused. Jamieson sighed. If only there was some way he could convey to people who had never experienced it just what happens when human flesh gets in the way of colliding metal?

As he thought about it, his subconscious fed the vision of the spread-eagled body of the vanboy into his conscious mind. He began to sweat on his forehead despite the fact that he actually felt a bit cold. He then started to feel light headed. He pulled over into the slow lane at the first opportune moment and brought his speed down to forty as he kept pace with the caravan being towed in front. He concentrated hard on the back of it, examining details in an attempt to block out any more subconscious feed-back. An outside observer might have dismissed the incident with the lorry as something that happened a hundred times every day on the country's motorways but Jamieson was not yet back to being an outside observer.

As always, Jamieson left the motorway on the near side of Canterbury so that he could enjoy the view of the city as he approached from the west. It was bathed in evening sunshine and the cathedral spire caught the full yellow glow as if it were its heavenly right. He kept glancing up at it as he followed the ring road round to the east to pick up the Dover Road and shortly after that, the spur leading off to Patrixbourne. As he entered the village he could hear the birds sing. He was back in the peaceful timelessness that he and Sue had come to love so much. Whatever else happened in the world Patrixbourne would stay the same; it would go on unchanged as it had done since the time of the Romans.

He brought the car off the road and drove up the narrow, gravel drive to the parking space at the rear of the cottage and switched off the engine. At first there was silence in the fading twilight but as he listened hard he did begin to pick out sounds. Somewhere in the distance a church bell was being rung and somewhere much nearer the intermittent clack of contact between ball and bat said the local cricket team were practising. It wouldn't be long before the fading light stopped them and they would be off to the pub.

Sue put her arms round Jamieson's neck in the doorway and they kissed. ‘I’d almost forgotten how soft and warm your mouth was,' said Jamieson kissing her again.