Arrows of Time - Kim Falconer [11]
‘Dr Kelly?’
He heard the question but didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. His eyes shifted from the edge of the table to the wrist that lay upon it. Her hand was like a lotus flower, white fingers curled, red-painted nails pointing towards him. He closed his eyes.
‘Dr Kelly?’
His student was next to him, shoulder to shoulder. He flinched at the touch, pulling away.
‘What do we do, Dr Kelly?’
Sound poured into the room as the doors swung open. Outside, in the halls of the emergency ward, the clatter, shouts and demands of the other rooms rushed in. The press couldn’t be here already, could they? How would he handle that? He couldn’t think.
‘I don’t know the procedure,’ his student said, blinking as if trying to awake from a dream.
The student was too close. ‘No one knows the procedure.’ Everett drew further away from the table, away from his student and staff, away from the dead woman. He had to get out. He had to think. He strode to the double doors and pushed through, ignoring the curious faces and questions that followed him. He hunched his shoulders and kept moving.
‘Dr Kelly?’ The student dogged him. ‘Dr Kelly, the procedure? We can’t just leave her like that.’
Everett spun around. ‘Use your initiative,’ he said. He stared at the younger man, disregarding the orderlies who were leading a manacled woman past, one on either side so that her feet barely touched the ground. He paid no attention to the shouts for help as gurneys followed, swerving to avoid him. There must have been an event in the secure unit. He could slip away in the confusion. The press were here for that catastrophe, not his own—not the death. They didn’t know yet. Good. He still had time. ‘The procedure’s in the manual,’ Everett said, releasing his student’s eyes.
‘But where…’
He walked away, throwing his hands in the air. ‘Look it up.’
Was running the procedure so far beyond their comprehension? He understood how that could be, but a nurse would eventually search the manual, find the correct protocols and perform them. They wouldn’t have any death kits in the storerooms—they hadn’t been stocked in decades—but they were an industrious crew, his team. They’d improvise. While they did, he could get away and think this through.
What Labs would make of a death he couldn’t imagine. They’d be calling him soon, requesting an explanation, demanding his presence too, no doubt. That would be a breeze compared to the debacle awaiting him when Admin got word of it. And then there was the press. He looked over his shoulder. A few of them had paused by the open doors, their hungry eyes staring in at his patient’s hand, those fine, curled fingers pointing towards the ceiling. They may not know death when they saw it, but they could read faces. It would be obvious something had gone very wrong in that trauma room. How was he to explain it?
He heard his name called again, but he blocked the voice out. He’d had years of practice creating that wall in his mind, a barricade against all thoughts and questions arrowed towards him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and ploughed on, quickening his pace. It wasn’t far to his office, just a few more turns. He’d be in his sanctuary soon. He’d sort this out.
He didn’t blame his staff for their questions or their helplessness. Naturally they would feel disoriented and confused. He certainly did. None of these people had seen a death before—they were too young. It would take them some time to assimilate the strange event, categorising the symptoms, treatment, prognosis and outcome. Doing the procedure without him would help