The Courier's New Bicycle (13 page)

There's one clothes cupboard. I search it first, and relocate another few items from the underwear drawer to my pack. I close the cupboard and go to the bed. As I peel back the doona, a scent wafts. I lean down and take a big sniff. It's the same perfume. Whoever my friend let in his front door, he also allowed into his bedroom.

Albee! Who did you accept dirty kit from? Who, apart from Gail and me, would you trust enough to risk that?
And if it wasn't trust but coercion, then who had laid him down without a fight and injected the stuff into him?

I cast about the kitchenette, one chance to find his personal stash before someone with less kind intentions does. After a fruitless search of the cupboards, I find it in the cutlery drawer. I should have realised that Albee's ‘sorting like things' mentality would put the sharp objects together. I separate the velcro tabs and unroll the canvas. There are single-use syringes of T in one pocket, and antiseptic swabs in another. If he'd used anything from here in the last few hours, he had the chance to put it away.

I add the canvas roll to my bag of incriminating goodies and return to the workshop, getting down on my hands and knees for a last check of the floor — and see something nasty at the back of the workbench. It's a large gob of phlegm that Albee must have vomited up before the ambulance arrived. It occurs to me that the Ethical Hormones lab could analyse it for what he took — and that this may be my only way of finding out. Now Albee's in the hospital system there's every chance I'll be locked out of the information loop, even denied access to him.

I eyeball the stuff, cursing. If it's as toxic as they've said, I can't just scoop it up. Then I remember Albee's welding helmet and gloves in one of the aisles of shelving.

Speedily I search the kitchen cupboards for an empty jar and a spoon, then don the helmet and gloves. Down on the floor awkwardly with the spoon, I ladle the viscous gloop into the jar and screw the lid tight. Helmet still on, I deposit the gloves and dirty spoon in the kitchen tidy to seal up and dispose of later. The floor may need another bicarb treatment, but it will have to wait. I remove the helmet and go to Albee's bathroom to scrub my face and hands.

All done, I place the jar on the bench and stare out the workshop windows. Beyond the glass, the sky is lapped in cobalt. Soon dawn will be arriving in ever-paling shades of blue.

Headlights sweep the shopfront. I'm waiting in an unheard-of role reversal: the courier handing over a package to their boss for speedy delivery.

I step through the main entrance of the Jesu Christi Hospital with the first of the fruit-and-flowers brigade, passing by the florist's stand just inside that's touting gaudily to the forgetful. The ground floor is busy with scrubs and stethoscopes, trolleys and crepe-soled shoes, a stream of uniform wearers and clipboard holders beginning the duties of the day. The only people not bustling are those in slippers. These vague souls wander between the lifts and cafeteria, or make for the smokers' area outside, where a hunched contingent of self-harmers are getting in some unnecessary practice.

I check at the main desk for directions to the ICU, and am pointed to the lifts. Two floors up, walking along the short corridor to a pair of locked doors, I realise I smell bad and probably look worse. Stale sweat and saggy-bottomed cycling pants aren't going to help me swing the difference between seeing Albee and being sent away.

I press the intercom button and say who I'm here for.

There's a pause. ‘Are you a relative?' is the query.

‘Albee's my brother,' I reply. It's the truth — just not the one they mean.

The door release clicks.

The nurses station is directly ahead. A doughnut-style arrangement set centre-room, it overlooks the entire ward, which is divided into several open-fronted sections containing four beds each and a lot of gadgetry.

Two heads are bent in discussion over the paperwork. One glances up. I try to imagine what she sees: a person with cropped hair, broad shoulders and a lean frame, no hips or breasts to notice, but no telltale stubble either. Clean-shaven, boyish … too boyish for a girl, and too girlish for a boy.

‘I'm here to visit Albee Wainwright,' I tell her.

She refers to her notes. ‘Are you Salisbury Forth?' She eyes me sceptically.

I refuse to be shamed. ‘That's me.'

‘The ED information has you down as “friend”.'

That was before I realised they'd only let relatives in. I shift to deferential. ‘I came in with him and the ambulance. I'm hoping to sit with him for a little while.'

‘He's in isolation. I'm afraid you can't go in.'

She motions to the right-hand door of a portholed pair, both with signs on them. Obediently I read:
ACUTE ORGANOPHOSPHATE EXPOSURE. ALL PERSONNEL MUST WEAR THE
P
ERSONAL
P
ROTECTIVE
E
QUIPMENT PROVIDED
.

The left-hand isolation door opens and a nurse comes out just as a loud beeping starts a flurry at the station. ‘Wait here,' my interrogator says brusquely, and they both rush off.

I sidle to the other isolation door, and push.

Inside is an anteroom with another portholed door. I go close and peer through. Albee's there, hooked up to a raft of equipment. I don't know if he's sleeping or unconscious. I cast about the anteroom: a desk and chair, a wet area with a shower cubicle and a sluice sink, and two industrial-size biohazards bins. The personal protective equipment is on a table beside me. I glance back through the outer window at the nurses' station. No one back yet. I saw how the ambos did it, so why can't I?

The scrub suit and gown go on first, then the shoe covers, goggles, mark and gloves, the finished effect entirely claustrophobic. I take a deep breath and ease open the connecting door.

Sounds hit me first: the rhythmic hiss and suck of the ventilator on its stand beside the bed, and the beep of the heart monitor, its readout making peaked waves on the screen above. My own heart thuds in my ears, and my throat squeezes painfully to see Albee's solid frame made frail and insubstantial amid the paraphernalia of life support. The tube coming out of his mouth to the ventilator is held in place by tape on his cheek, while an IV line from a fluids bag on a stand disappears under more tape at his collarbone. Another line connects at his wrist then loops to a second stand. More tubes trail from beneath the covers to collection bags at the bed end.

I go to the far side of the bed and place my gloved hand on his above the covers. ‘Albee.' I lean over him. ‘You have to pull through this, because I refuse to live a single day of my life without you. So wherever you're listening from, I want you to know I'm waiting for you, and so are all those beautiful broken bikes that will have to be fixed by someone else if you don't get a hurry on.'

I search for a sign he's heard me, but all I see above the hospital gown are familiar features slackened into an unresponsive mask of grey.

The door swings open and a nurse comes in, kitted up.

‘Actually, you were supposed to
wait
.' Her voice is muffled, but not enough to hide the anger. Hands on my shoulders, she turns me around to inspect me. ‘Your friend's in isolation for a
reason
. If you've done your PPE wrong, we'll have to hose you down — unless you want to end up as a patient too.'

When she's satisfied I've not put myself at risk, she busies herself with the electronic pump on the IV line, then checks the screens and various fluid bags before turning again to me.

‘You can have ten minutes in here with him. Then we talk out there.' She points to the anteroom.

I nod gratefully. ‘Thanks,' I mumble into my mask, but she's already swishing out the door.

Ten minutes goes fast. At the rap on the inner porthole, I squeeze Albee's hand gently and tell him I'll be back very soon.

Her protective layers shed, the irate RN bristles. ‘You shouldn't have gone in there by yourself like that.'

‘I'm sorry — it's just I …' My voice cracks. That Albee not die is all I can think.

She softens minutely. ‘Time to get out of that gear.'

She instructs me in the removal and dumping of the disposables into one biohazards bin and reusables into the other, then takes me to the sink to oversee my hand-washing. When she addresses me again, her tone is more conciliatory.

‘By the way you got kitted up, it looks like you've already had a lesson in the safety procedures.'

Silently I thank the ambos for their unwitting instruction.

She looks intently at me. ‘There appear to be no family members listed for your friend.'

‘I'm the long-term stand-in,' I say.

She nods. She seems to get it.

I'm heartened enough to try her with a question. ‘Can you tell me what's happening?'

‘We need to help him breathe, so we're keeping him tubed and ventilated for now. His blood pressure was very low, so we're bringing it back up with drugs and fluids. I'm afraid we won't know for a few days how much damage has been done elsewhere.'

I try to take it in. It's like digesting a brick.

‘You called the ambulance?' she asks.

I nod.

‘If we got to him early enough, there may not be irreparable damage. Either way, he's in a lot of trouble right now.'

‘But there's a chance he'll be okay?'

‘A chance. I won't lie to you: his heart and brain function are the main concerns. It all depends on how long it was between the overdose and the antidote, and what else he had in his system to complicate things.'

‘He didn't do it deliberately,' I say croakily, and she gives me a sympathetic look. I know she doesn't believe me. Why else would someone inject an organophosphate into themselves?

I'm choking up again, but there's something else I need to ask her. Albee is at the mercy of hospital protocols now, and I need to find ways to protect him. As ill as he is, he could be in danger of being outed as a gender transgressor to the NF watchdogs. All it would take is a quick word in the ear of a local card-carrier for Neighbourly Watch, and he'd be put on the pervert register for future attention.

I feel the stress rise as I try to frame my question. ‘Albee has had some operations …'

Her response is measured. ‘We have no interest in his other condition.'

Normally I'd take exception to that word, but right now I'm just enormously grateful she's onside. Some of my tension eases off. Albee's personal nurse, at least, isn't going to report him.

‘We're not all slavish followers of NF precepts,' she says grimly. ‘Some of us still think our job here is to help sick people, no matter who they are.'

I have to ask. ‘Have the police been in?'

‘Not here — check down at ED. But I can tell you they won't be interested in taking it any further.' She gets the look of someone who's had to explain hard stuff to upset relatives many times. ‘They'll call it in as an unspecified OD; they don't care about the circumstances or the type of drug. Then they'll sit on it for another week to see if there are any new incidents, specifically ones involving high-profile persons. If there aren't, they'll decide it's not enough fatalities to warrant the manpower required for a public safety alert and a proper investigation. With so many dodgy backyard sellers, the field of potential suspects is enormous, and the city cops are overstretched and under-resourced. If anything, they'll hand it over to Neighbourly Watch to follow up. After all,' she adds wryly, ‘they're the only ones around here with seemingly endless resources.'

This comes to me as no surprise. On the surface, the community's attitude is a moralising one: users of kit deserve whatever misfortunes befall them, and who cares about a few dead blasphemers and deviates? But the demand for the products of hormone manufacturers like EHg, NatureCure and BioSyn, and the roaring trade we all know the CEO piss farms do, paints the real picture. The community, far from being an abstainer, is a voracious consumer of banned kit. It's just that it's also in complete and utter denial.

‘Has anyone else been in to see him?' I make it sound casual, but she knows where I'm going with this.

‘One Neighbourly Watch rep, just before you.'

I have to work to hide my dismay. How the hell did
they get to know so quickly? Gail's information network may transcend the usual bounds of time and space, but Neighbourly Watch Central comes in a close second. Lucky for us it's that way around.

She frowns. ‘He sauntered in, flashing his badge, then proceeded to make a nuisance of himself, as they usually do. Pretty soon he realised he wasn't going to be asking the patient any questions and left. There's been no one else — no family members enquiring as yet.'

There wouldn't be. Albee's family are all Word of God Brethren, and they pushed him out of home when he was twelve. Which brings me to my next request.

‘His biological family won't be visiting,' I say. ‘But he has a family of friends who'll come and sit with him if they're allowed. I can give you some names.'

‘You're asking me to put them down as relatives?'

‘Yes.' I hold my breath and wait.

She sighs, tired already at the beginning of her shift. ‘Alright.'

‘You're terrific,' I say. And mean it.

She screws her mouth into a rueful smile. ‘Glad to hear it. Now if only the doctors would tell me that occasionally.'

She waits by the outer door. ‘Time to go.'

I take one last look at Albee through the porthole, sending a silent plea to the patron saint of gender transgressives. It's the closest thing to a prayer that I can manage.

Outside, opposite the hospital's main entrance, the borrowed panel van is a blaring advertisement for seventies
kitsch. I cross the street and do a quick check of my bike in the back, then I call Ellie, an old friend from the youth refuge. These days she's the facilitator of a Melbourne gender support group, and I can trust her to put the word out to the others on the family list straightaway so Albee won't be left alone.

I ring off then stare for a bit at my phone. When Inez and I parted company outside the speakeasy, she was still angry with me, but I need to let her know about this. I text a brief message and end it with an ‘x'.

Almost immediately a message comes in, but it's not from her. I read the display:
Yr prsnt dlvrd 2 bthdy prty
.

Thanks to Gail, my little jar of evidence has made it safely to the hidden facility of the Ethical Hormones group.

 

The rest of Wednesday is a blur. Gail has another courier do my deliveries while I go back to the hospital, tag-teaming with Ellie. ‘Any change?' I ask, and she shakes her head.

Every patient on a ventilator in the ICU is ‘specialled' — allocated their own nurse. I ask the one on duty for an update, but she's less forthcoming than the last, saying only that Albee's stable.

Ellie sticks around awhile, and together we watch the blips on the ECG monitor, willing his traumatised heart to pump and his mind to resurface undamaged. When she gestures she has to go, we hug like astronauts in our protection suits; one life in the balance, ours circling above in a holding pattern.

Late evening and lying exhaustedly on my couch, I glance along the hallway and see a white envelope pushed under the front door. Instantly I think of Inez. I retrieve the envelope — a sealed blank — and bring it back to the couch. The sheet of paper inside is crudely hand-printed:
EVIL IS UPON YOU. CHANGE YOUR WICKED WAYS AND SAVE YOURSELF.

I fling the paper and dive off the couch to make sure the doors are locked, front and back, then peek furtively through the blinds of my bedroom window to the darkened street. This is more than a warning lobbed in public at a suspected transgressive. Now they know where I live.

Back on the couch, I cuddle Nitro to me like a furry hot-water bottle as my mind swings chaotically from one bad scenario to another: Roshani, Albee, the EHg and Gail — and now some nutter connected to the prayer groups fixed on me. I think of the failed delivery to Cutters Lane, no reports yet of other couriers being attacked by prayer groups.
What if they've been following me?
I could have been putting everyone I know at risk.

Gail rings in the middle of my panic.

‘The results from your sample came through while you were at the hospital,' she tells me. ‘They found traces of an agricultural insecticide along with low levels of testosterone and a questionable growth hormone. There's no indication of a sedative.' She pauses. ‘Albee would have been aware when he got the jab. It must have hurt like hell.'