Character Sketches from May Assignment

Hospital Saga

(Characters are in no particular order)

This is our new joint project based at the Royal Berks Hospital, Reading.

Together we have written this joint novel using these initial character sketches. There is a complete draft of the Hospital Saga Novel available if anyone is interested in reading it, being our agent or even publishing it.

For further details you can e-mail us at the address on our Contact Page.

You can read a particular members work by clicking on the author's name:

by Geoff Rush

  by Di Lawton   by Pat Pycraft   

Bill’s Sporty Saab saloon crawled along he congested streets, surrounded no doubt Bill thought, by the same non-descript vehicles and faceless commuters as every other workday. As usual the traffic lights on the bridge over the sludge grey River Thames were backing up the traffic all the way down Caversham High St. But today wasn’t like any other day for Bill. Today he remained calm, his usual impatience was absent this morning. He hardly noticed as a silver BMW eased in front of him having gained the front of the queue by sneaking up the ‘right-turn only’ lane. And he rolled gently to a stop when the pedestrian crossing lights turned amber. On a normal morning he would have blitzed through on amber or even maybe red, especially if it meant he could keep the queue jumping BMW in his sights. But today his heart just wasn’t in it. Today he wasn’t so keen to arrive at his destination.

Bill had a plan, well several plans in fact, he liked plans, he trusted them. After all he hadn't become the youngest partner in Reading's largest Estate Agency without having a plan. This morning Bill planned to follow his normal routine as closely as possible. He’d drive his normal route, at the normal time then when he was within a block of his office he’d head south, right across town, to the hospital.

Covering over 30 acres with a hotchpotch assortment of pre-war decay, ultra-modern high-tech and every style in between, the Royal Berkshire was Reading’s only remaining hospital. Cancer, Pregnancy, Schizophrenia or the Black Death, if you went to hospital in Reading you went to the Royal Berks.

Bill was determined however not to get caught out, if there was an accident or any incident or even a girl with big tits at a bus stop, then he’d know. He’d be able to prove he’d driven to work as normal, as on any morning. The lights changed and the sporty Saab growled its way across the bridge, high above the river. The leaden waters of the Thames flowed sluggishly below, much as the traffic crossed haltingly above; occasional reluctant surges followed by deep stagnant pauses. Bill looked around him, searching for anything different, anything he could remember in case he was asked later. Eventually, on the Reading side of the bridge, waiting in line at the roundabout, Bill spotted a new ‘For Sale’ sign protruding from the front of the café on the corner. He smiled, it hadn’t been there the last time he passed he was sure; he kept a pretty good eye on the commercial sale or let boards around town. Bill relaxed a little, congratulated himself, his plan was going well. He made a mental note to call the Café owner; try and steal the sale and the commission.

Bill passed the end of his street at a crawl and had a good look, he checked the time; 08:55; nothing remarkable was occurring, he drove on. Once more he imagined having to explain, if he’d gone to work as normal how come he’d missed the Thames tidal wave which had swept away Caversham Bridge, or the earthquake in Great Nolly Street which had swallowed 17 busses?

The traffic on the south side of town was lighter and the Saab began, almost automatically, to pick up speed. Bill managed a little tyre squeal at the mini-roundabout and was accelerating hard towards an amber light before suddenly remembering his plan. A traffic ticket could pose serious risks to the secrecy of his mission. He consciously slowed and managed to ignore the gesture of the dispatch biker which tore past the Saab and cut in front with only inches to spare. Bill reassured himself, he’d thought of everything and everything would be fine providing he stuck to his plan.

As he drove along the A4 Bill glanced at the ‘To-Let’ sign on the office block across from the ‘Turks’ pub. It was now augmented with a ‘Lease agreed’ sign. he smiled, ‘they must have signed on Wednesday after all he reasoned, mentally adding another £600 to his running tally of this month’s commission.

As he pulled into the tree lined avenue by the hospital Bill briefly considered parking on the street in the no-waiting zone. After all the ‘Doctor on Call’ sign in his glove box usually did the trick on site visits. But again caution got the better of him and he turned right and followed a slow moving van with blacked out windows, into the multi-storey car park.

The hospital was clearly very busy and Bill was surprised to see a smokey old builders van reversing from a parking slot, on the ground floor. Bill hated tight parking bays and was pleased to see this one was wide enough to save his precious Saab from being dented by the doors of its careless neighbours. Better still the cars adjacent to this slot were; a nearly new Mercedes estate and a sexy silver BMW coupe. Bill preferred to park next to expensive cars, he didn’t trust the drivers of cheap or old cars to respect his pearlescant scarlet paintwork.

Trying not to look self conscious, Bill walked self consciously to the ticket machine. An incongruous sight in the pale grey January daylight inside the garage. He was well aware that not many people wearing £800 cashmere suits and £300 leather brogues would choose Nike baseball caps and sunglasses as accessories. Still, his plan had reasoned that while you can’t avoid all the CCTV cameras in a place like the RBH, you didn’t have to leave a clear full face portrait on every one you passed.

Bill squeezed gingerly through the clear plastic strips which dangled in a curtain between the car park and the reception area. He was acutely aware of the layer of dirt attached to each translucent frond. Two strides inside the hospital and Bill was searching an alphabetical list of locations and functions beside the reception desk, when his pale grey eyes were instantaneously blinded by a flash of brilliant, silent, white light.

The next thing he knew he was flying backwards through the air. He was aware of a strange slapping sensation as he exited through the dirty plastic strip curtain, much faster than he had entered. He was aware of his shoeless feet rising above his head as he tumbled in flight before smashing into the side of a white panel van.

Bill found himself sitting upright, legs splayed out in front of him, his back resting against the side of the van that had so violently interrupted his first solo flight. Whilst he felt confused and dazed he did not feel any specific pain. However all sound had been replaced by a deafening silence. And as the gently billowing smoke and dust began to settle like snow on a silent night, Bill leant back and tried to concentrate, ‘what on earth’, he wondered, ‘had happened to his shoes?’.

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If the old crone of a fortune-teller that Oleg Smertin frequented had told him that he would be tramping the corridors of a hospital, clutching an overpriced bunch of carnations and nursing a giant-sized hangover on New Year’s Day, he would have laughed in her face. The fact that she hadn’t was causing him to think seriously about demanding his money back.

To make matters worse, the grandly named Mountbatten Ward was proving as elusive as a clear picture of the events of the previous evening.

He vaguely recalled ushering his good friend and neighbour, Manny Gorfunkel, into the flat. But that was before the assault on the pepper vodka. Afterwards? Well, that remained a mystery. However, somewhere in the fug of confusion, Manny had contrived to nose dive over a cat and split his head open on the corner of a strategically placed bookcase.

Strange, Smertin considered as he exited the lift to comb the first floor for the third time, because neither of them owned a cat.

“You know where is Mountbatten Ward?” He hailed a hospital porter pushing a limp figure in a wheelchair.

The porter ignored him, quickened his pace. Smertin muttered a curse at the retreating pair before turning his attention to a stoutly built Filipino nurse, who obligingly stopped, offering a dazzling gleam of perfect white teeth.
“Second floor. Follow the Red route.” She pointed to the fruit salad of thick coloured lines painted on the wall.

Smertin stared. The lines blurred, separated momentarily, then blurred again. He felt pinpricks of sweat break out on his brow as the queasiness that had bedevilled him all morning overtook him again. He used to be able to hold his drink better than this. Mid-fifties and laid low by … The image of two empty vodka bottles rolling round his kitchen floor like upended skittles appeared through the murk. Mind you, Manny could lower his fair share for an old guy.

As he headed back to the lift, the welcome sign of a toilet met his gaze.

Trousers round his ankles, head in hands, Smertin let out a low groan. As his bowels let fly, he couldn’t help but reflect on the stark contrast to a year ago. He might have been similarly indisposed then, but the surroundings couldn’t have been more different. There was something satisfyingly decadent about firing the contents of one’s stomach into a solid marble pan, seated on lavishly expensive American redwood.

“Welcome to 2003, you poor old sod.” His friend and associate Nicolai just ten days before both he and his Mercedes had been blown halfway across St Petersburg.

The final straw for Smertin. A week spent springing what assets he could and he was in England, safe he hoped from the retribution being meted out by the new breed, the young guns with scores to settle ferociously clearing out the old guard.

A thunderous explosion rocked him on the seat. By God, that vodka was vicious stuff! When the door burst off its hinges and ceiling tiles started to rain down, Smertin’s fuddled brain leapt into gear.

The bastards had come for him! Visions of Nicolai’s mangled Mercedes flashed in front of his eyes. Clutching his trousers round his waist, he was out of the cubicle like a clay pigeon shot from its trap.

Cascading water from fractured pipes was jetting in all directions, a scrap heap of shattered porcelain littering the tiled floor. A square of soggy paper attached itself to Smertin’s face. Snatching it away, he stumbled over the flattened exit door into a corridor heaving with dust and confusion.

The Filipino nurse was still grinning, her lifeless body slumped against the wall, face and torso cut to shreds by flying glass. Off to his left, the seat of the explosion he guessed judging by the mound of debris, a woman was screaming hysterically. In front of him, a mother was kneeling, protective arms flung round two sobbing children.

A young doctor, white coat streaked with blood, was literally throwing anyone capable of walking down the corridor, bullying them towards the stairs. He grabbed Smertin by the shoulders.

“You OK?”

Firmly gripping his trousers, Smertin nodded dumbly.

“Make for the stairwell.”

Smertin didn’t need telling twice. Self-consciously zipping his fly, he joined the procession of dazed and slightly injured, trying to rationalise as he went. Whatever had caused the explosion, he hadn’t been the target. Far too hit and miss for the jokers that were after him. A warm feeling of relief swept over him as he took an elderly woman tottering on unsteady legs by the elbow, guided her towards the stairs.

Leaning over a rubbish bin, Smertin hawked up the last of the dust. Manny was a tough old bird. He’d be alright. Wouldn’t he?
The wind was bitter, heavy drizzle slanting down out of a leaden sky. Straightening, he hauled on his coat collar, wheeled abruptly as he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir.” A stony-faced traffic cop breathed garlic in his face.

“I need to ask you a few questions. Won’t take a minute.” He held a notebook in his left hand, pencil poised.

Looking around him, Smertin noticed more officers apparently stopping people at random. Policemen made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. “What questions?”

“Had you been in the hospital long before …?”

“Explosion? Bout half hour. Looking for bloody Mountbatten Ward.”

“Can I take your name and address? Purely routine.”

Smertin shrugged, watched the cop scribble the details in his book.

“Thank you, sir. We may need to take a statement. Nothing to worry about. Someone’ll be in touch.”

Smertin shrugged again. What could he tell them?

“If you don’t mind me asking …” The cops eyes were drawn to the soggy piece of paper from the gutted toilet, still wrapped round Smertin’s hand like a bandage.

“May I?” The cop removed it, smoothed it out.

“Mm. Bit late now. ‘spose I ought to do you for removing hospital property.” There was a wicked grin on his face as he held it up for Smertin to read.

‘DON’T FORGET TO WASH YOUR HANDS!’

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It was dark. Not ‘I can’t see dark, but here comes another rain cloud, dull and dirty’ dark.

It was cold. Not just shivery cold. A deep, biting, needles in the eyes type of cold.

It was wet. It was windy. Wet I can just about cope with. Windy can be exhilarating.  But put the two together! Add it to the cold. Stir in the darkness. I wish I were still tucked up. Snug. Best place to be this early on the 2^nd day of the year, any year.

The hospital’s ‘round the next corner and over the road. I still don’t know why I should be called in at such a strange time? My coat’s so thin against this type of weather, but I’m old. Tired.

Having gained entrance to the hospital, now enveloped in a clammy warmth and surrounded by the disinfected stink of a hospital trying to stay clean, the old woman shuffled along the corridor, not entirely sure where she was going, or why.

The blast was instant, and deafening. The surge of the hit Granny Mildred Morgan full in the face and sent her stumbling backwards. She would have landed hard on the floor, had it not been for her stooped and rounded shoulders thudding into the chest of a young man whose face, scorched black from the explosion, like her own, imprinted itself indelibly into the deep sub consciousness of her world-weary mind.

The face. The terror. The shock. She had seen it all, but had seen nothing!

The pain began to bite into the sagging flesh of her face as the reality of the moment sunk in, and the old woman inverted. Now standing among the rubble of the hospital corridor, pandemonium all around, Granny Mildred Morgan said nothing, saw nothing. She shut the terrifying incident away in the deep recesses of her addled brain.

She meandered. She stumbled. She stumbled on the lumps of plaster and skirting, ceiling tiles and shards of glass. And bodies! She managed to step over a leg, only to tread on a gnarled and crisp hand! Still she made no outward show of either motion or fear. Like a zombie, she clumsily picked her way along endless tunnels of crap.

Randomly turning, Granny Mildred Morgan reached out, turned a knob, and entered a room to the left of the stricken corridor. There, rising from the littered floor, covered in blood and with short, sharp splinters of glass protruding from his tortured face, was Dr Spinks!

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Si Cotic was left outside the hospital as a small baby seventeen years before the bomb. He has a fixation that his mother, who abandoned him, will return to find her little boy. As a result, he is deemed not fit to live normally and has been living in the mental ward of the hospital ever since.

He heard the key move in the lock and turned to face the door. He eyed the man in the doorway with a suspicion based on long experience. He noticed the easy disarming smile, the blue piercing eyes and the blue stain on the pocket of the otherwise spotless white laboratory coat.

‘Have you come to see me?’ He asked to the room in general.

‘That’s right.’ The man replied. ‘You must be Simon Cotic. I’m Martin Corcannon. I’ve started my doctorate in the causes of mental disequilibrium, and I thought it would be nice to talk to you.’

You’re out to get me, aren’t you?.’ Simon shouted back. ‘You can fool the others, but not me. Anyway, everybody calls me Si.‘

‘Not at all’ Martin’s voice purred. ‘Honestly Si, I’ve just come to have a chat, and perhaps take you down the corridor for a few tests. They won’t take long.’ 

‘What sort of tests?’ Last time I agreed to have some tests done, I ended up in here.’ Si’s voice had a low, worried quality. ‘Took me out of the care unit and put me into here.  They think I’m mad!

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ Martin said softly.  ‘I just want to do a brain scan; To see which part of the brain is active in people of – lets say - more than average  paranoia.’

You’re all out to get me! When will you get it into your thick heads. I am not paranoid.’

‘Of course not,’ Martin mumbled, ‘I wanted you to act as a control.  Someone who is completely normal so that I can tell learn to tell the brains of people like you from all those mad paranoid lunies.’

‘I haven’t got time. My Mum’s coming to take me out of here tomorrow to take me home.’

Look, you really must forget about this idea that your mother will come back to save you. She abandoned you as a baby under a flower pot in front of this hospital seventeen years ago, and we at the hospital have cared for you ever since. She’s not coming back. You must accept that.’

‘It must have slipped her mind. She probably got lost. She’ll be here tomorrow and then you’ll all have to eat your words’

‘If you go home tomorrow, it’s even more important that we test you now. Otherwise how will we know who the lunies are?’ Martins logic was inescapable. 

‘You a doctor?’ Si asked.

‘Training to be.’

‘All-right then,’ Si murmured.’ I’ll have the scan on one condition. That you sign this piece of paper to say that I’m not mad.’

Martin took the dog-eared note from Si’s outstretched hand and read.

I am not mad. Not even a teeny weeny bit.

Signed………………………….

‘Yep, that seems fair enough,’ he replied, taking a pen from the top pocket of his coat and writing his name with a flourish before returning the sheet to its’ owner. ‘Come along with me then.’

‘So, you’ve been here 17 years? ’  Martin asked as they walked along the corridor.

‘Yes’

‘And does anybody have an idea who left you?’

‘My Mum, obviously.’

Martin paused before enquiring. ‘How do you know it was your mum?’

‘There was a note. It said, 

'Please look after this boy. I’ll be back for him when things are better.

His Mum.

PS. I ‘ve called him  Simon.’

‘Bit like Paddington  without the jar of marmalade’ Martin mused.

‘Not like him at all. Paddington was left at a railway station. And my mum promised to come back for me. What would have happened to Paddington if the Brown’s hadn’t found him? Nasty place Paddington Station, could have been kidnapped, or mugged for his duffle coat.’

Anyway, he was left at Paddington railway station, therefore he was called Paddington. I was left at a hospital. Outside Cotic ward in fact. Hence I’m Si Cotic.’ ‘Of course, That explains a lot.’ Martin agreed.

They were passing through the reception hall when the bomb exploded and knocked them both to the floor.

Si was the first to recover sufficiently to take in the devastation around him. He turned to Martin, who was busy staring at what was left of the ceiling.

‘Martin. Martin!’ Si shook the other sharply. ‘Wake up Martin!’

Martin could only manage a groan.

‘Martin! I told you my mum would come to get me out. I’ve got to go to her Martin. You must understand that.  Sorry about the brain scan.’ With that, he got up and patted the dust off his clothes. Then he began to pick his way through the rubble and out through the hole where the revolving door had been.

‘Mum! I’m here Mum!’ he shouted at a woman retreating into the distance, and began to run. He reached the corner, wheezing, and rested his hands on his knees while he recovered. Between deep, rasping breaths, he looked both ways along the street.

‘Nothing’ he thought to himself. ‘She’s gone. ‘Perhaps this is a test? Perhaps she wants to see if I can make it on my own. Out of the hospital. Don’t worry mum, I won’t let you down!’

He stood up, becoming aware of the aroma of pastry wafting from the shop on the corner, and all at once, an idea came to him.

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The mother and the small boy got off the bus outside the hospital. Gusts of spiteful wind blew grit into their eyes and rearranged their hair, furrowing unnatural partings and creating momentary quiffs. Hers revealed a band of dark roots where the bleach had grown out, his a thickness of fine blonde under-hair. It was the first time they’d been to the hospital.

They went through the plate glass exterior doors and once inside the airless interior, were glad of the relief from the buffeting wind. Here they were confronted by miles of corridor and a baffling choice of route to their destination, (lift or staircase), all signalled by confusing graphic colour-coded signs.

Tight-lipped, the mother almost dragged the small silent boy along behind her by the hand as she traversed the building, looking upwards and sideways at the signs, interpreting the directions they indicated. The boy’s other hand was pressed tight to the bridge of his nose. Tears streamed down his face. A maintenance man in a blue boiler suit carrying a yellow plastic toolbox cast a glance in their direction as he crossed them on the staircase.

At the correct reception desk for “Ear, Nose and Throat”, the mother presented the note given to her earlier that morning by her GP and was required to fill out several forms. “GP referral: Dr Paul Somersby, Hungerford. Name: Sonia Willis. Son (patient): Gary Willis. Age: 6 years. Reason for Referral: Woodlouse up nose”. The small boy snuffled and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

The pair took up places on geometric-patterned orange moquette upholstered beech wood chairs in the back row behind the twenty or so other people waiting to be called when it was their turn. The mother took out her mobile and texted her partner: “With G @ Royal Barks. Not serius. Back 4 T.” The boy pulled at his mother’s arm and wailed “Don’t tell Barry. I just wanted to feed the terrapin. He likes woodlice. I didn’t mean to put it up my nose. I tried to get it out with my finger but it just crawled further up.” He snorted loudly and wiped his eyes again.

WHOOSH. Then a deafening silence. In seeming slow motion, people, chairs, magazines, mobile phones, handbags, pieces of debris flew upwards and backwards as the glass wall in front of them caved in.

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