By the time the HEMS bird arrived on scene, an ambulance and Fast Responder motorcyclist were already there, having been dispatched from the nearby ambulance station in James Lane at the back of Whipps Cross hospital.
Coming together under the supervision of Dr Pamela Bennett, they had all worked tirelessly for the best part of half-an-hour to stabilise the patient, who had suffered multiple injuries after being thrown from his moped. In addition to obvious breaks to both lower limbs and an unstable fracture to his pelvis, his abdomen had become distended and was covered in dark purple bruising, which was indicative of an internal bleed.
As the helicopter began its decent, Myers spotted the dedicated helipad ground crew waiting to receive the patient. As soon as they landed, the patient would be placed on a gurney and wheeled across the tarmac to an express elevator that went down to the accident and emergency department on the ground floor. A trauma team, consisting of A&E doctors, general surgeons, specialist trauma surgeons, and anaesthetists would be waiting to assess and then treat the young man once Pamela Bennett had completed her handover.
Myers toggled his mic. “Pam, we’re coming in to land, and the ground crew’s already on the tarmac awaiting our arrival.” The ground crew included a two-man fire team; operating protocol specified that they had to be present on the helipad every time the helicopter took off or landed.
Bennet raised a thumb in acknowledgement. “Thanks, Pete,” she said, looking up briefly.
The patient was barely conscious. Despite the oxygen they were giving him, his breathing was becoming increasingly laboured, and that concerned Bennett. She had given him as much pain relief as she could, but he was still in considerable distress. “Not long, now, my love,” she said, soothingly.
The landing pad was directly below them now, and Myers eased back on the cyclic control, flaring the helicopter for landing, a technique that puts the aircraft in a ‘nose up’ altitude to increase drag and reduce momentum. A very experienced pilot, Myers bought the machine into a hovering position above the circular helipad, the centre of which was identifiable from the air by a large capital ‘H’ painted in red.
Seconds later, they were safely on the ground.
“Safe to exit,” Myers told his passengers, and then he waved to Mike Cummings, the ground crew supervisor, who crouched a safe distance away, letting him know it was okay to approach the aircraft.
Cummings led the ground team and their trolley forward. The rear doors were opened and the patient was transferred onto the trolley and wheeled off under the strict supervision of Pamela Bennett.
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Garston instructed his two subordinates to wait in the downstairs foyer while he carried out a final recce to confirm that the planned escape route was still viable.
He didn’t go as far as actually visiting Winston’s room, but he did travel the circuit they would need to complete in order to get there and then return to the car park. Everything went smoothly and he was satisfied that, providing they could overpower the three police guards before the alarm was raised, they would have no trouble getting Winston out of his room and safely away from the hospital.
On his return to the ground floor a few minutes later, Garston spotted a harried-looking porter pushing an empty wheelchair through the foyer towards him. Approaching the man, he raised a hand to get his attention.
“Excuse me, my good fellow, where can I get one of those things?” he asked, putting on his best public-school accent again, just as he had done when he’d posed as a solicitor’s intern. For some strange reason, it always seemed to impress the lower classes. “I need to arrange for a patient to be taken for some x-rays, you see,” he said by way of explanation.
The unshaven porter scratched his head. “Well, you can have this one if you like, doctor,” he offered. “I can’t help you myself as I need to be somewhere else, but I could call another porter to push it for you if you like?”
Garston smiled, taking control of the wheelchair. “Good Lord, no. You chaps have more than enough to do around here. Leave it to me.”
What a bloody nice bloke! the porter thought to himself as he watched the slim doctor push the squeaking wheelchair away. Almost immediately, a nurse sashayed over to join him. As they headed towards the freight lift at the far end of the corridor, a stocky, bald-headedporter he hadn’t seen around before lumbered over and took control of the wheelchair. It pleased him that another porter had offered to help the pleasant young doctor out. Well done, mate, he thought. With a final glance at the trio that predominately lingered on the nurse’s calves, he smiled to himself and resumed his journey.
“Did you see how easily I sweet-talked that pathetic little man out of his wheelchair?” Garston boasted as they reached the doors to the freight elevator a couple of minutes later.
Angela didn’t like Garston; she thought he was an arrogant show-off, and she wasn’t remotely impressed by his antics. “You take too many chances,” she criticised. “You should have sent Errol to get the stupid wheelchair. That’s what porters do.”
That put Garston’s back up and he glared at her until she averted her eyes.
They waited for the lift in awkward silence.
When it finally arrived, Garston stormed in and poked the button marked ‘three’, the floor on which Winston was being held. Angela’s abrasive comment had stung him and, after a few seconds of silent brooding, he turned on her. “In future, keep your worthless opinions to yourself,” he warned, jabbing her in the sternum with his forefinger.
She responded by rolling her
