Someone To Save you (6 page)

By the time Sam reached the studios, registered at reception and waited on the comfy green sofa, he was full of trepidation. He was close to walking out when a young girl of Asian appearance approached, clipboard in hand.

‘Hi, it’s Sam, isn’t it?’

Sam nodded, and he followed her along a corridor. She talked as she walked, explaining what would happen, but distracted by his own thoughts, Sam only heard bits of it. They went down a flight of stairs, passed through a set of double doors and emerged into one of the main broadcast areas. Three goldfish bowl like recording studies, fronted by glass, led off from the central waiting area in which they now stood.

‘You’ll be interviewed by Simon Saunders,’ the girl said, looking over to the only occupied studio. ‘He’s covering the afternoon slot while Mike is away.’

Sam could see Simon at the control desk, headphones on, talking to the sports reporter sat opposite him. The broadcast was being piped over the speakers. At the moment they were speculating about the latest rumours on the football transfer market. He wasn’t familiar with this presenter, he tended to listen to Radio 4, but Sam was grateful to be spared the confrontational well-known regular host, Mike Bennett.

‘You’ll be on in a few minutes,’ the girl explained. ‘Just after the news. Take a seat and we’ll come and get you.’

‘We’ve got time for one more caller. Richard from London, what’s your question?’

Sam looked over at Simon and wished he was somewhere else. The presenter had been fine, asking some standard questions about the previous night. But he hadn’t reckoned on a full-blown phone in to follow. For almost ten minutes now he’d been quizzed by callers about the crash. Some had wanted to know the basic facts of the event. Others had sought to reflect on the nature of what it meant to be a hero. It was like a backstreet psychiatry session in front of an invited audience. He should have listened to Louisa. But one more caller and it would be all over.

‘Hi Simon,’ the caller began. ‘Hi Sam, how are you?’

The sentence was slow and deliberate, like each word was being stretched.

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Sam lied, gazing down at the console that curved around him. The headphones were starting to irritate and he longed to rip them off and end this now.

‘But you’re not,’ the caller replied, in the same slow drawl. ‘You’re not fine at all, Sam.’

For a few seconds the comment just hung in the air, as Sam decided how to respond. But before he could speak, Simon stepped in.

‘How do you mean, Richard?’ He glanced over at Sam as he spoke, and the excitement in his eyes was clear as he waited for a response.

‘I mean that Sam isn’t as fine as he’s making out. We’ve not heard the truth.’

Sam shook his head. Louisa had been right. This had been a terrible idea.

Simon moved closer to the microphone, keeping his eyes fixed on Sam. ‘You’re not accusing Sam of lying?’

‘I’m not making any accusations,’ the man replied. ‘Just an observation, that’s all. I’m interested to hear what Sam thinks about it.’

Simon looked over at Sam, giving him an opportunity to respond that Sam felt unable to turn down.

‘I’ve answered the questions as honestly as I could,’ Sam said, trying hard not to sound defensive.

‘Ah,’ the caller replied. ‘But that’s different.’

Sam met Simon’s gaze as he moved back towards the microphone – the guy was captivated. ‘I don’t see how.’

‘Tell me about what she said, Sam.’

This was getting totally out of order. Couldn’t the station just cut this guy off? He looked again at Simon. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘I think you do,’ he replied. ‘Tell me about what she said to you, just before the train hit. That’s what I want to hear.’

‘Err, I think we’ve heard enough,’ Simon said. ‘Thanks for your call, Richard…’

‘No,’ Sam interrupted, putting up a hand and leaning into the microphone. He’d changed his mind, now wanting to challenge this individual. ‘I want to know why you think you’ve got the right to ask that, Richard.’

Simon nodded, taking a symbolic move away from the control console.

‘Because I want to be entertained, and you’re not giving me the full show.’

Sam laughed in disbelief. ‘This isn’t a show.’

This time it was the caller’s turn to laugh. ‘It’s entertainment, Sam. And you’re the star attraction.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this.’

‘You think you’re a hero, Sam, don’t you? But you couldn’t save your sister from Marcus Johnson.’

Sam just sat there, stunned. It felt like someone out of nowhere had just delivered a sharp blow to his gut.

Simon stepped in. ‘Thanks for all your calls. And thanks to our guest in the studio, Sam Becker. It’s clear from the vast majority of calls we’ve had that he’s a true hero, and a testament to the staff of the health service. Thanks for coming in today Sam and sharing your experience with us. I know it must be really difficult talking about this. Thank you.’

Sam nodded, the words of the caller lodged in his brain.

‘And now time for the traffic and travel with Claire Davies. Over to you, Claire…’

‘I’m really sorry about that last caller,’ Simon said, as they both took off their headphones. ‘You get those sorts of people sometimes. We try our best to screen out people like that, but every now and again one slips through the net. You’d be amazed by how many crazies there are out there.’

‘It’s okay,’ Sam replied, placing the headphones on the desk in front of him. In truth he felt anything but okay, but he wasn’t about to discuss this with someone from the media. ‘Really, it’s fine.’

Simon nodded, seemingly unconvinced.

‘Sam. It’s Doug. Sorry to call you out of the office.’

‘Doug,’ Sam said, as he emerged from the BBC building onto the busy pavement. The heavens had opened and the rain was bouncing up from the pavement, so he sheltered in the entrance. ‘Did you hear the interview?’

‘I caught the end of it,’ he replied, ‘they had the radio on in the staff room and everyone who could was listening. That last caller was something else. I mean, talk about deranged.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Sam said, resting against the wall of the building and watching as taxis and buses splashed by. He’d spent the past few minutes since the interview reflecting on the caller and his words. What sort of person gets their kicks out of that sort of thing? ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s not good news,’ Doug replied. ‘I was going to tell you when you got back, but I thought you’d want to know straight away.’

‘Go on,’ Sam said, moving out into the heavy rain, already looking for a free taxi. It had to be something at the hospital.

‘It’s that young patient of yours, Sophie Jackson. She’s gone downhill, and they’ve rushed her into theatre. Sister Keller told me that it’s not looking good.’

‘Shit,’ Sam said as he scanned the road – all the cabs were taken. ‘Who’s operating? Mr Khan?’

‘Miles,’ Doug replied. ‘Prof. Khan is on his way.’

This was not good. Miles was technically a good surgeon, but not in the Professor’s league and Sam only wanted the best for Sophie. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘You can see why I called.’

‘Sure, thanks Doug, I appreciate it. I’ll be there as quick as I can.’

7

She lay down on the thin, uncomfortable mattress, staring at the ceiling that was flaking and black from damp. The room, bare except for the double bed, smelt like the cellar in her house. One time she had wandered down there, looking for fairies, only to panic in the darkness as the door closed behind her. Her mum had come to the rescue, chastising her for tackling the steep set of stairs at the age of five. Rescued from that total, all-encompassing darkness, she had never been as relieved in all her life.

But this time her mother wasn’t here to save her.

She sat up against the limp, stained pillow and held her head in her hands. She didn’t know what time it was, or how long she had been in the room. They had taken her watch as soon as she had arrived. There were no windows, so she couldn’t tell whether it was day or night. It must have been hours and hours since the last meal, and her stomach growled, even though she didn’t feel like eating. Her hair, usually kept so pristine, was greasy and unwashed, as was her face.

Then, next door, she heard a noise. A man’s voice, muffled, but definitely the deep voice of a man. She put her ear against the wall and recoiled as she heard moans and groans, this time from both a man and woman. Placing her hands tight against her ears, she began to cry.

And then a lock clicked, and the door to the room opened.

She scrambled back against the bedstead, like an animal trapped by its prey.

‘Is okay,’ the young woman said, edging into the room, holding out a hand. ‘I not hurt you.’

She watched as the woman, wearing a short, tight leather skirt and tightly fitting red top, moved towards her, beckoning her with both hands.

Could this be a trap?

‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘I help you out. Get out.’ She reached out her hand to the frightened child. She was pretty, but would be prettier without the over liberal make-up. ‘Come. Not afraid. Your name?’

‘Amy,’ she said, without hesitation. It was the name of her best friend in school. Amy Long. They’d been friends since play school, meeting for the first time on a play frame.

‘Come, Amy. My name is Yvette. We go. But quick.’

She took Yvette’s hand. It was rougher than she expected.

‘Good,’ Yvette said, as they made their way for the door. ‘Quiet. No noise, please.’

She nodded as they left the room and emerged into a narrow corridor, flanked with doors. It was the first time she had seen it, being blindfolded on her arrival. As they passed the door to the adjoining room, she heard the man inside let out a loud moan.

‘Come, in here,’ Yvette whispered, passing through a door into what looked like a large store cupboard. But at the back of the room, past the bed sheets and boxes, was another door. ‘Stairs,’ she said, pointing at the door. ‘Lead outside. Please, go, go now, quick. Otherwise they come.’

‘Aren’t you coming too?’ she asked.

Yvette shook her head. ‘Please, go quick,’ she repeated.

She nodded and pushed at the door, emerging into a dimly lit stairwell. The metal stairs wound around a central post, like a helter-skelter. She looked back just as the door closed, then turned and began running as fast as was safe down the steps.

She neared the bottom, but on the last turn she realised too late that he was waiting for her. She tried to turn back, but he thrust out a powerful arm and grabbed her ankle. She tried to kick out, but instead slid down the steps, smacking her head against the handrail. He pulled her up, held her firm, and smiled.

Never get too emotionally involved in your patients. Always keep a distance, for your own sanity. As a doctor you can’t afford to get too attached. Sam had always struggled to follow the rules that had been outlined to the class at medical school by their course leader on that first day of undergraduate studies. From those first days on the wards he realised that emotional attachment was a double-edged sword. Yes, it gave him sleepless nights, worrying about how a patient was doing. There had been times when he’d travelled back to the hospital late at night to check on their progress. It also increased the pain of losing people. But it made the job more fulfilling, more human, to feel something for the people under his care. They and their family put so much trust in you, so the least you could do was give something of your emotional self in return.

But the way he felt about little Sophie Jackson was on another level. Sam knew he had got too close, closer than ever before, and that for this reason the stakes felt so very high. She was more than a patient. He searched frantically left, then right, looking for an available taxi. It should take about ten minutes to get back to the hospital, and another five or so to get prepped for theatre. Maybe he could get back in time. But with the deluge of rain, there wasn’t a free taxi in sight. Then, just down the road, on the opposite side, he saw a black cab pull up, having been flagged down. He raced diagonally across the road, darting between the traffic, narrowly missing a moped which had to swerve to avoid him. Car horns blared as he weaved in between two cars that had stopped, stunned by Sam’s presence in the middle of the road.

‘Hey!’ he shouted at the suited man, who was just getting into the back of the cab. ‘Wait!’

The man saw him approach, but ignored his cries and closed the door.

‘Wait!’

Without thinking of the implications, Sam raced up to the cab and stood in front of the vehicle, his palms flat against the warm, wet bonnet. The driver stared back at him with a look of bemusement.

‘I’m a doctor,’ Sam explained through the windscreen. ‘I need to get to St. Thomas’s hospital. It’s an emergency.’

The driver just looked back at him.