Confessions of a Naughty Night Nurse (8 page)

Nothing except play along and be her snitch.

‘And you won’t say a word about this little conversation to anyone, not a soul, OK,’ she added.

I nodded and stood, my eyes stinging. A tightness was growing in my chest that I knew would soon turn into a sob. The relief of being let off my crime had been quickly replaced with the repulsion of being Iceberg’s bitch.

She gave a twisted smile and flicked her hand towards the door.

Hurriedly I left the office. It was like the weight of the whole hospital was on my shoulders. I hated Iceberg, had done for years, and now I had to feed her information about my co-workers. If they ever found out about this I’d not just be a laughing stock but also sneered at and avoided. People would clamp their mouths shut when they saw me coming. Life would be miserable, unbearable. I’d be better off being contaminated with a superbug.

Perhaps I should face the music and own up to Personnel about my serious wander from appropriate nursing practice. At least that way I’d go down for a crime I believed in.

No. That wasn’t a viable option, not financially, at least. I had to try to keep my job for the sake of my bank balance and loan repayments. My salary was not on par with a whizz-kid stockbroker, but it just about cleared the bills and fed me each month. Living without it, heading down to Tesco for a job on the tills wasn’t something I could consider. Would they employ me anyway after I’d given a handjob to a helpless man?

I wandered down the quiet fire escape staircase, feeling full of doom and gloom, and headed onto one of the back corridors that led past the operating theatres. Eventually this way would send me outside so I could get back to the hospice.

The corridor was empty and lit only with dim, amber night lights. The place was still and silent, my soft-soled shoes barely disturbing the peace that was so opposite to the frenetic activity of the daylight hours. I was lost in tangled thoughts about my situation. My guts twisting with anger at Iceberg. Out of everyone here, why did it have to be her to walk into that room? Why did anyone have to at all?

Suddenly I was grabbed from behind. A big hand slapped over my mouth and I was dragged backwards against a long, lean body. To my horror I was manoeuvred through a doorway into a store cupboard, my feet tripping over themselves, my torso held tight.

‘Mmmm …’ I huffed, my voice muffled against a warm, smooth palm. I went to twist, tried to scream. Panic raged in my ears and blasted into my veins.

‘Shh, Sharon, it’s only me, be quiet.’

Fuck, really?

‘Carl!’ I squeaked.

He removed his hand. ‘Shh, I want to show you something.’

I turned within his arms and slapped my fists against his chest. My right one hit the hard end of his stethoscope and I winced. ‘You really scared me, you dickhead. What the bloody hell do you –?’

‘Shh.’ He grinned down at me. Behind his glasses the whites of his eyes sparkled in the shadowy light and his hair flopped messily around his face. ‘It will be worth it, I promise.’

I frowned in bitter annoyance, but even as I did a surge of relief welled within me that it was only Carl who’d grabbed me. God only knew some weird things went on around here, and the kind of night I was having, well, it could have just gone from really fucking bad, to truly horrific had it been a drunk from casualty with a nurse fetish or an escapee from the acute psych ward who had a grudge against anyone in uniform. A shudder rattled up my spine at the thought.

‘Hey,’ he whispered, tilting my chin with his thumb. ‘Sorry, I really didn’t mean to scare you so badly.’

‘Well you did, you prick.’ The tears that had been so efficiently reabsorbed when I’d been in Iceberg’s office sprang forth. ‘I didn’t know it was you, did I? It could have been a right nutter –’ I gulped down a sob.

‘Bloody hell, Sharon, I’m so sorry. I thought you’d laugh.’

He pulled me close and I buried my face in the crook of his neck. I was more than happy to be held after the unpleasant encounter I’d just had with Iceberg.

Carl smelled of the slightly citrusy aftershave he always wore, though it was faded and tinged with the scent of male and an unfamiliar washing detergent. I squeezed my eyes shut and gave up to the inevitability of several tears and allowed them to roll fatly down my cheeks and onto his white coat. I tried to hold a sob in but my chest still heaved, the air broke free, and I did a weird juddering thing with my shoulders.

‘Shh,’ he soothed, stroking my hair. ‘Shh, don’t cry. God, I’m such an idiot.’

‘Yes, you are, but it’s not just that you scared me,’ I managed against his neck, my nose brushing the scratchy stubble that grew beside his Adam’s apple. ‘I’ve just had a really awful night, that’s all.’

‘Wanna talk about it?’ he asked, his mouth pressing into my temple, his breath warm in my hair.

Yes!

I shook my head. ‘No.’ I tightened my arms around his waist and was rewarded by an even firmer return hug. He breathed deep, like he was smelling my hair, then slid his hand into the small of my back and rubbed the little pain that was often there as if he knew it existed.

Luckily the tears were short-lived. I put it down to being held by Carl. I’d fancied him for ages and had done nothing about it. But now, feeling that, although slim, he actually had some damn fine muscles going on beneath his clothes – long and sinewy with a definite, concrete strength to them – I began to wonder why I’d lingered. Being in his arms was nice. More than nice, it felt lovely.

‘You OK?’ he whispered, shifting so he could look down at me.

‘Yes.’ I nodded and wiped my cheek.

‘I really am sorry. I promise I won’t ever grab you from behind again.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Well, maybe I won’t promise.’ His sudden grin made me think he’d been imagining us naked together, the way I had. ‘And,’ he said, ‘if you change your mind and want a friend to talk to, then just holler, OK?’

‘Thanks, I will.’

He narrowed his eyes and nibbled his bottom lip. ‘Come on. I know a way to make you feel better, but you have to keep real quiet, OK?’

‘Why, what is it?’

He gripped my hand and led me deeper into the cupboard. ‘Shh, you’ll see.’

It turned out we were in a walk-through storage area and when we emerged out of the other doorway we were standing in the main theatre thoroughfare. The air was heavy with the scent of anaesthetic gas and the lingering, sweet aroma of the cauteriser – which always made me feel a little icky.

‘What are we doing?’

Carl pressed his index finger to his lips and glanced around. He nodded to the right and tugged me with him.

It was dark and I had to be careful not to walk into any trolleys, shelves or oxygen cylinders. Carl stooped as we slunk past the doorway to the staff room. I peeked in and noticed, unsurprisingly, that it was completely empty, as was the rest of the shadowy department.

I wanted to ask him again where we were going and what the hell we were doing. It was all very covert, this sneaking around theatres in the middle of the night and, I had to admit, a little creepy.

A sudden thought struck me. Shit, he wasn’t into laughing gas, was he? Because I, for one, had no intention of going on another nitrous trip, ever. The only time I’d ever indulged I’d fallen over and had needed six stitches in my scalp. I’d been a student back then and goodness knows how I’d managed to get away with that misdemeanour and carry on with my training. Beginners luck, I suppose.

‘Carl,’ I whispered when he stopped outside anaesthetic room three. ‘I –’

He shook his head frantically, dark curls shifting messily over his ears and around his temples. He widened his eyes and pointed into the room. ‘Shh,’ he whispered, the hiss of sound barely audible.

A sudden, much worse thought hit me. Damn it. Was Carl the benzo thief? Was he nicking drugs from theatre as well as pharmacy? Perhaps he wasn’t fussy what he took to get his highs and there was certainly plenty to choose from in anaesthetics. More than plenty. It was like being a kid in a sweet shop for a druggie, or an alcoholic hanging out in a brewery

Fuck. I couldn’t believe it of sweet, funny, cute Carl. Surely not. I thought I knew him pretty well.

But what if it was? How the hell would I dob him in? A friend.

I’d have to, though. It would be that or my job, my home, my life. I would have to give him up to Iceberg and let her tear him apart piece by piece. But it would be for the best. He’d get help then; perhaps he wouldn’t have to throw his career away if the problem was nipped in the bud.

I knew just about everyone at the hospital, so whoever the thief was it was bound to be someone I knew, and more than likely, friends with. But not Carl. Please no. I would never have put my money on him. Not in a million years. He had a refreshing genuineness about him, a bit flirty yes, but certainly I’d never suspected he’d been off his head on anything.

Though it wasn’t exactly unknown for junior doctors to use uppers and downers to get through the first couple of sleep-deprived years after qualifying. If it was Carl he wouldn’t be the first, or the last, to give into chemicals to survive.

He opened the door to the dark anaesthetic room and crept in. He tugged me behind him.

I followed, wondering what the bloody hell I was going to do if he started shooting up? What if he wanted me to?

Double fuck.

Through the watery, weak light I could just about make out a wall of eye-level locked cupboards to my left, and beneath them a cabinet that held rows of plastic containers full of all the paraphernalia the anaesthetist and his assistant would need to knock someone out. Or, as the case might be, get someone as high as a damn kite in a hurricane.

A trolley with gas cylinders, monitors and masks was pushed neatly into the corner at my right.

Carl walked right past it, with not even a glance.

Good, not the nitrous then.

At the far end of the room were two swing doors which led to operating theatre three. Each door had a small round window near the top.

Carl looked at me and pointed at the doors. He took no notice of the cupboards full of medicines. Not even a sideways glimpse. And certainly he made no move to produce an illegally gained key.

So whatever he’d brought me to do here was beyond those doors. Were there drugs kept in the actual theatre? No, everything was in here. I was pretty sure of it.

The lead weight in my stomach lifted. Carl hadn’t brought me here to indulge in some illegal drug activity after all.

Thank goodness for that.

So why the hell had he sneaked us into this anaesthetic room?

He released my hand and made a zipping movement across his lips.

Completely intrigued, I nodded then followed him, almost on my tiptoes and hardly daring to breathe. Silence was clearly imperative for whatever crazy thing we were doing.

He reached the doors first, glanced through the window of the left one and turned to me with the baddest, naughtiest grin I’d ever seen. It stretched his mouth wide and balled his cheeks.

I gave him a quizzical look, and then I too peered into the vacuous, sterile theatre.

It had one downturned spotlight glowing in the corner and I scanned my gaze around the large steel objects.

Oh, my God!

I would never have believed it if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes.

There were two figures in the room. One in a white coat, the other in a nurse’s outfit, but not a regular nurse uniform. It was way too short and had a frilly apron over the top. Like something for a fancy dress party, or even, and this is when the realisation of what I was looking at dawned on me, it was like something from a sex shop. And the pretty woman wearing it, I recognised her, had seen her a hundred times before. But never wearing anything like that, just regular pale-blue scrubs. It was Emily Smith, senior theatre nurse and all-round genius at anything to do with surgical instruments and equipment.

I drew my fingertips to my mouth to stop from exclaiming my surprise aloud, and in that moment, as the figure in the white coat turned, I saw who he was too.

Mr Ralph bloody Hartley, head of general surgery, president of the surgical council for Yorkshire, esteemed pioneer of a new cholecystectomy technique and notorious womaniser.

He wore a white coat, yes, but apart from that he was naked. A creased surgical mask sat at his throat, his slim chest was thickly carpeted with black hair, and his erect cock stuck upwards, long and thin, from a bushy mass of pubes.

I stepped backwards, stared at Carl and mouthed, ‘What the hell?’

He shrugged and looked through the window again. I got the feeling he’d seen it before. How he’d stumbled upon this gem of inappropriateness between two of the hospital’s most senior members of staff, including his boss, I had no idea. But I had to grant him major kudos for it, being that he was just a junior house officer and all.

Quickly I resumed my voyeurism, eager not to miss one single nugget of the extreme wickedness and what would, of course, be gold-plated gossip should I need it.

Carl into drugs. How ridiculous had I been?

‘Nurse Smith, I do believe you’ve been neglectful of your duties,’ Hartley said, strolling towards a trolley set out with various instruments. ‘I asked you specifically to set up for appendicectomy not splenectomy.’

‘I am so sorry, doctor. I will see to it straight away.’ Emily spoke in a high-pitched, sing-song voice, not her normal tone at all. She then practically skipped towards the steel trolley, her insanely short skirt flashing white knickers as she bent and began to fuss with the silver instruments.

‘It’s too late for that. How will you have everything autoclaved in time for the arrival of the patient?’ He stepped up behind her, his gaze going to her half-exposed rump.

‘I’m sure I can, really.’ She fussed with the metal implements. They rattled on the polished trolley surface, and as she fiddled she wriggled her hips, with small, inviting little movements.

‘No, it’s simply impossible to get everything sterilised so quickly.’ He flicked up the tiny flap of material that was considered to be a skirt and exposed her twitching behind.