‘Pleasssssee… oh… pleeaaassssssss… no… no.. .’
‘STOP THE CAR!’ John bellowed.
Violent braking. Horns.
‘Help me-help-me-help-me-help-me…’
They were pulling over, onto the hard shoulder. A truck thundered past inches away. Her face was grey, twisted, tears streaming down it, and blood was coming from her mouth. She was shaking like a deranged caged animal, hair flailing, the terrible moans coming faster and faster.
Blood coming from her mouth. Oh Christ. She’s dying. Oh Jesus, no, what the fuck have you done to her, Dettore?
‘Darling – darling – Naomi – darling-’
The moans stopped.
The blood was coming from her lip, not her mouth.
A moment’s silence. She turned to face him with unfocused eyes as if she was staring at some demon, her face clenched up into an emotion he could not read, it could have been pain or hate, or both. Then her voice dropped to a whisper.
‘Help me. Please help me, John. I can’t – I can’t – take – I can’t take another – aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-’
Then she jerked violently upwards, her eyes rolled, she began juddering and let out a single moan that went on and on, for thirty seconds, maybe a minute, maybe even longer, John didn’t know, he was trying desperately to think straight, to work out what might be happening inside her. Miscarrying? Oh God.
He put a hand on her brow. It was clammy with perspiration. ‘Darling,’ he said. ‘It’s OK, you are going to be OK.’
She yammered incoherently at him, shaking her head violently, but he couldn’t understand what she was saying, nor interpret the message in her wild eyes.
‘Darling,’ he said. ‘Calm down, please, calm down, tell me, what is it, tell me?’
She tried to speak but her voice choked in her throat as she began juddering again, then she rammed the back of her wrist against her mouth, biting on it, eyes clenched shut.
John turned to the driver. ‘We need an ambulance – or – are we near a hospital – how-?’
‘Crawley. We’re ten minutes away – less – there’s a big hospital there.’
‘Go!’ John said. ‘Just go as fast as you can, I’ll – take care – any fines you get – please, just go!’
33
In the small white room, curtained off from the Accident and Emergency admittance ward, banks of monitors beeped as digital displays of numbers and jagged spikes charted Naomi’s vital signs.
She was lying on a leather-padded table. John, standing beside her, stared anxiously at the EEG. The bright fluorescent lights gave her pallid face an even more ghostly complexion. Desperate with worry for her, he didn’t care at this moment if she miscarried, he just wanted Naomi to be OK, that was all. And he was feeling utterly useless.
White shelves on the walls were lined with vials, bottles, syringes in plastic bags. There was a smell of disinfectant. A nurse in a blue scrub suit was adjusting the flow valve on a drip line. Another said, ‘Eighty systolic, rising.’ Naomi stared up at John, bewildered. She was a horrible colour, calm one moment, then the next she was all contorted again, shuddering, screaming in pain.
Please let her be all right. Please don’t let anything happen to her. Please Another woman in blue nursing uniform entered the room. ‘Dr Klaesson?’
‘Get a doctor here! Jesus!’ he shouted at her. ‘My wife is losing our baby – get me the duty obstetrician!’
She wore a badge that said: A amp;E, ALISON SHIPLEY, HEAD OF NURSING, and held a clipboard in her hand.
‘Dr Klaesson, could I please ask you a few questions?’
‘GET ME A FUCKING OBSTETRICIAN, FOR GOD’S SAKE!’
Unfazed, she gave him a gentle smile. ‘Dr Klaesson, Mr Sharpus-Jones is on his way down from theatre. He’ll be here in just a few minutes.’
‘John.’
Naomi’s voice. So calm. Serene.
He stared down at her.
‘Just some admittance formalities, please,’ the nurse said.
‘John, please calm down,’ Naomi said, panting, almost breathless. ‘I’m fine now, I’m OK, really I am.’
John stared at the lines connected to Naomi’s chest and wrist, then kissed her on her clammy forehead. Nothing mattered in the whole world except stopping her pain. ‘I love you.’
She nodded, whispering, ‘Love you too,’ and held out her hand. He took it and she squeezed him hard. ‘I’m OK,’ she said. ‘Honest injun, I’m OK.’
The curtains suddenly swished sideways, and a tall man entered, dressed in surgical scrubs and white clogs, with his mask dangling below his chin. ‘Hallo, Mrs Klaesson?’ he said.
Naomi nodded.
He shot a glance at John then looked back at Naomi. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you. How are you doing?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
John wanted to scream out, You are not fine, you have been in unbearable agony, you are not fine at all, tell him the truth! But instead he stood there and said nothing, while Sharpus-Jones examined her carefully, externally first, pressing all around her abdomen, then internally, all the time firing questions about her medical history, some of which Naomi answered directly, and some of which she answered after prompting by John.
Finally, pulling off his gloves, Sharpus-Jones said, ‘Well, the good news is that your cervix is closed and you’re not bleeding, which means that you are not miscarr-’
He was cut short as Naomi suddenly convulsed violently, sending the obstetrician stepping back in shock. She threw her arms in the air, arched her back, her eyes rolling, and let out a scream that tore through John’s soul.
Moments later – barely seconds, it seemed to John – there was a whole team of people hoisting her onto a gurney, then they were wheeling her out of the room and along the corridor.
‘Where are you taking her?’ he asked in sudden, blind panic.
No one answered.
John followed them, but after only a few paces the nurse, Alison Shipley, took his arm and stopped him.
‘Please wait here,’ she said.
‘No way!’
John shook his arm free and hurried after them. Then his path was blocked by the obstetrician
‘Please, Dr Klaesson, I know your anxiety, but I must ask you to wait here.’
It was a command, not a request; non-negotiable, said with a mixture of kindness and authority.
‘Where are you taking her?’ John said. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to do an ultrasound scan and I’ll take it from there. I may have to open her up to see what’s going on inside. It would be better for everyone if you waited here.’
He went outside to call Naomi’s mother and tell her what was happening; he needed someone he could share his distress with.
*
An hour later the obstetrician came back into the room, still gowned-up, mask dangling, looking deadly serious. John stared up at him in terror, and was about to stand, when the obstetrician sat down beside him.
‘That was a close call.’
John stared at him, wide-eyed.
‘Are you a doctor of medicine, Dr Klaesson?’
‘No – I’m a scientist.’
‘OK. We had to do an emergency laparotomy-’ He raised a calming hand. ‘A little incision in her tummy – called a Pfannenstiel incision. She’s fine, everything is fine. The pain she was experiencing was caused by a cyst in the right ovary that had twisted, obstructing the ovary’s blood supply, so that the ovary had become gangrenous. It was a dermoid cyst that she probably had all her life, and I’m surprised it wasn’t found on the ultrasound scans. I don’t know if either of you were aware of it, that your wife has a congenital abnormality of her reproductive organs?’
‘Abnormality? What kind of abnormality?’
‘She has a double uterus.’
‘Double uterus? What – I mean – what does that-?’ John’s brain was racing. Why the hell hadn’t Dr Dettore told them this? He must have known. He must – perhaps he was hiding it from them. Why hadn’t Rosengarten told them? That was easier to answer – he was in a hurry when he had carried out the examination, his mind elsewhere.