‘Is she still alive?’ Caitlin screamed at him, using every remaining ounce of her strength to power her voice.
Rows of meaningless waveforms travelled across the flat, wall-mounted screen just beyond the table. More symbols and numbers flickered on smaller screens on free-standing monitoring equipment behind the young girl’s head.
‘What the hell does this have to do with you?’ he exploded, the visible parts of his face turning puce.
‘Quite a lot, actually,’ Caitlin said, breathing heavily. She jabbed her chest with her free hand. ‘I’m meant to be getting her liver.’
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Draguta shouted a command for her to come out, as if she were shouting at a dog.
‘She’s alive, at this moment, yes,’ the younger man said enthusiastically, as if this was something Caitlin wanted to hear.
She lunged forward, grabbed at the drip lines that were in Simona’s arm with her left hand and jerked them free, then grabbed the ones out of the neck and tore at the cardiac monitor pads.
The surgeon seized Caitlin by her shoulders. ‘Are you crazy, little girl?’
Caitlin responded by biting his hand, hard. The surgeon cried out in pain and she wriggled free, twisting, staring at pairs of eyes behind masks, all of them in shock, uncertain what to do. Then she saw the nurse marching towards her.
She raised the scalpel, holding it by the handle like a dagger, brandishing it at everyone, beyond caring.
‘Get her off that table!’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Get her off that table now!’
The entire theatre team stood motionless, staring at her in shock.
Except the big nurse, who pushed through, grabbed Caitlin’s free arm and yanked her so hard she almost fell over. Then she jerked her back across the room to the door, Caitlin’s trainers sliding on the tiled floor as she tried, with her failing strength, to resist.
‘Let me go, you ugly fucking cow!’ she hissed.
The nurse stopped to push open the door, then jerked Caitlin hard again. She stumbled forward, falling, and as she shot out her arm to cushion herself, the blade of the scalpel, still gripped tightly in her hand, sliced through the top of the woman’s cheekbone, cleanly through her right eye and the bridge of her nose.
The woman let out a terrible howl, her hands shooting to her face, blood jetting in every direction. She staggered against someone, wailing like a banshee, and several of the team rushed over to help and to stop her falling.
In the commotion, no one noticed Caitlin stumbling out.
116
Marlene Hartmann was striding anxiously down the tiled corridor, her normal steely composure already shot to pieces, when she heard the screams. She broke into a run, then saw what looked like utter mayhem spilling out of the operating theatre.
She stormed through the supplies room and saw her theatre team frantically trying to restrain the massive nurse, who had blood gouting from her face and spurting all over her white tunic. She was lashing out with all her considerable strength and screaming hysterically as, blood-spattered, Sir Roger Sirius and two junior surgeons, the anaesthetists and the scrub nurses all wrestled with her. Simona lay on the operating table, wires and lines all around her, oblivious to everything.
‘
‘The girl went crazy,’ Sirius said, panting.
Then, before he could say anything further, Draguta’s meaty fist smashed into his cheek, sending him reeling backwards and crashing on to the hard floor.
Marlene ran over to him, knelt and helped him to his feet. He looked dazed.
‘There’s a police helicopter here!’ Marlene yelled at him. ‘We need to do a lock-down! Pull yourselves together! Do you understand?’
Draguta fell, with several green-gowned members of the team crashing down on top of her.
‘I’m blind!’ she screamed in Romanian. ‘God help me, I’m blind!’
‘Get her sedated!’ commanded Marlene. ‘Shut her up! Quickly!’
A junior anaesthetist grabbed a syringe, then scrabbled around on the trolley and picked up a vial.
One of the nurses said, ‘We need to get Draguta to an eye hospital.’
‘Where’s the English girl? Caitlin? Where is she?’
Blank, dazed eyes stared at her.
‘WHERE IS THE ENGLISH GIRL?’ Marlene Hartmann shouted.
117
The roundabouts were getting worse. Caitlin, freezing cold, sleet tickling her face every few seconds, bumped against the wall, pushed herself away and almost fell over. It was an effort to move her feet. She dragged one, then the other. She was almost at the front of the building now. She could see a car park. Rows and rows of vehicles.
They came in and out of focus.
She stumbled through a flowerbed and nearly fell. Her iPod, dangling from a wire, tapped against her knee. She itched terribly.
They’re going to be angry with me. Mum. Luke. Dad. Gran. Shit, they’re going to be angry with me. Shit. Angry. Shit. Angry.
Above her was a terrible, loud, clattering roar.
She looked up, furiously scratching her chest. A few hundred feet above her head she saw a dark blue and yellow helicopter, like a huge mutant insect. And she saw the word police along its side.
She pressed against the wall, gulping air, fighting for every breath. The wall was moving, swaying. She inched forward. Saw the circular driveway. The helicopter swept away, making a wide arc. Then she saw a taxi, the same turquoise and white colours as the one that had brought them here.
A woman in a fur coat and silk headsquare was standing by the driver’s door, paying the driver. Then she turned and walked towards the front door, towing her bag behind her. The driver was getting back into his cab.
Caitlin ran, stumbling, towards him, waving her arms.
‘Hello!’ she called. ‘Hello!’
He did not hear her.
‘Hello!’
He was getting back into the vehicle.
She grabbed the front passenger door and swayed again, hanging on to it with all her strength. Then she pulled it open. ‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Please – are you free?’
‘I’m sorry, love, this is out of my area. I’m not allowed to pick up here.’
‘Please – where are you going? Could you just give me a lift?’
He was a wrinkled man with white hair and a kind face.
‘Where do you want to go? I have to get back to Brighton.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, great, thanks.’
She half stumbled, half fell on to the front seat. The interior smelled strongly of the woman’s perfume.
‘Are you all right, love? You’re bleeding.’
She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘Just – just shut my hand in a door.’
‘I’ve got a first-aid kit – do you want a sticking plaster?’
Caitlin shook her head vigorously. ‘No. No thanks. I’m fine.’
‘Been having treatment here, have you?’
She nodded, desperately trying to keep her eyes open.
‘Expensive, this place, I’ve heard.’
‘My mother pays,’ she whispered.
He leaned over and pulled her seat belt on for her, then clipped it into place.
She was almost unconscious by the time they reached the front gates.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked.
Nodding, she replied, ‘It’s tiring, you know, the treatments.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said. ‘Not in my budget.’
‘Budget,’ she echoed weakly. Then, as her eyes closed, she felt the vehicle accelerate.
‘You really sure you’re all right?’ he asked again insistently.
‘I’m fine.’
Five minutes later, three police cars shot past in the opposite direction, roof spinners flashing, sirens wailing. Moments later, they were followed by another.
‘Something’s going on,’ the driver said.
‘Shit happens,’ she murmured drowsily.
‘Tell me about it,’ he agreed.
