She then brought in three books from home, put them on Mrs Deal’s nightstand, and hoped for another miracle.
Meg saw the notice after finishing her ward rounds for the day. The rounds were exhausting and exhilarating all at the same time. Especially the current rotation – paediatrics. Meg had always wanted to be a paediatrician, but now wondered whether she might change her mind. Children – even sick ones – were such hard work. Every task had to be made entertaining, or painless, or explained in such a way that a screaming youngster would allow her access to his broken arm or her sore tummy.
Today – after being kicked repeatedly by a five-year-old boy with appendicitis – Meg had even considered switching to veterinary science, where the patients could be tethered, muzzled and caged.
She stopped at the noticeboard on her way out. It had become a habit that had started when she was looking for a bicycle. Watching Patrick Fort swing his leg over the bar of his shining blue bike had reminded her of how much fun it was to get somewhere fast and glowing with blood, with the wind in your hair.
She never did see a bike on the noticeboard, but instead became addicted to the randomness of the messages there.
Kittens free to good homes, only boys left.
Lift offered daily from Newport. Share petrol and wine gums.
Come whitewater rafting in Scotland! Under which some wag had scribbled ‘indoors if wet’.
Kind, reliable person…
The words caught Meg’s eye. She felt herself to be kind. She felt herself to be reliable. She read on.
Meg loved reading. The thought of someone not being able to read for themselves was horrible. The poor patient. But she had so much to do! Everybody knew that med students didn’t have time for anything but studying. There were hospital rotations and the mountains of books, and she only allowed herself two nights a week away from her work as it was. Fridays and Saturdays, when she went to the pub or the cinema with her housemates, or to the occasional party. But she was entitled to some time for fun, wasn’t she? She was only twenty years old, for God’s sake!
Meg walked away from the board, feeling defensive without ever having come under attack.
She stopped suddenly as she remembered that the dissection would soon be finished. There was barely anything left of poor Bill to be sliced and diced now, and soon he’d be off to the crematorium or the cemetery. That would clear two days a week for the rest of the term. She had planned to devote one to further study and the other to relaxation. TV, sleeping, reading; stuff like that. She’d determined to work her way through great literature she’d been told she should read. She already had Our Mutual Friend and something by James Joyce on her shelf, threatening to remain unopened for ever.
Would it really make any difference if she read them out loud – to someone who might be desperate to hear them?
Meg went back to the board and took down Jean’s number.
31
THE DIRTY BLUE-AND-WHITE trainer sat on the polished desk like a trophy.
‘This is very serious,’ Professor Madoc said and Patrick laughed because he thought that was funny, but nobody else did. Not Mick or Dr Spicer.
Patrick looked at the faces of the three men and tried to guess what they were feeling. He guessed at angry and thought he was getting better at this. He was certainly getting lots of practice.
Now Professor Madoc pointed at the trainer. ‘This is yours, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘Can I have it back?’ He was wearing Jackson’s trainers and they were killing him.
‘So you admit you were in the dissection room last night?’
‘Yes,’ said Patrick again. ‘Can I have it back?’
Nobody said he couldn’t, so he took the shoe off the desk and held it in his lap.
‘I’m glad you admit it, Patrick, because we also have the record of your code being used to gain access.’
Patrick didn’t answer pointless statements. He’d already said he was there, hadn’t he?
‘You threw your shoe at Mr Jarvis.’
‘Who’s Mr Jarvis?’
‘I am,’ said Mick.
‘No,’ said Patrick. ‘I threw it over him.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t want to be locked in.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to simply let him know you were there?’
Patrick said nothing. Technically the answer was yes, but he had no words to explain why that hadn’t happened. No words for the clamminess of his skin or the shallowness of his breath. Those things didn’t seem logical now; only foolish – like not having had sex yet.
But you had to get so close!
‘What was he doing there, anyway?’ Patrick said.
‘Not that it’s any of your business, Patrick, but Mr Jarvis frequently works unsociable hours in the embalming room. When he came upstairs and found the dissection room lights on, he became suspicious.’
‘But why switch them off?’ asked Patrick.
‘Because it gives me the advantage over an intruder,’ said Mick. ‘I know that room like the back of my hand. Doesn’t make any difference to me whether the lights are on or off.’
‘But if you’d left them on, you’d have seen me.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘Yes, you would have,’ said Patrick enthusiastically, ‘because I was right under your nose.’
Dr Spicer made a little noise that turned into a cough, and Professor Madoc frowned at him, and looked back at Patrick.
‘At our last meeting I told you that we could not overlook discreditable behaviour simply because of your other issues. Do you remember that, Patrick?’
‘Of course I remember,’ said Patrick testily. What kind of goldfish did the man think he was?
‘Good,’ said Professor Madoc. ‘Because I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
Patrick started to get up and then hesitated. ‘You mean leave the room or leave the whole… college thing?’
‘The whole college thing.’
‘Oh,’ said Patrick.
He remained hovering over the seat of the chair. Now that this was actually happening, he found he did care about leaving. He was quite surprised by how much. He decided against getting up, and instead sat down more firmly. ‘That’s a poor decision,’ he said.
‘Oh, really?’ said the professor, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. Patrick also noticed that he went a little redder in the face.
‘Yes, very. It’s inconsistent. You said discreditable behaviour was inappropriate attitude to staff, a near-physical altercation with a fellow student over a cadaver, ignoring procedure during dissection, and unauthorized access to confidential donation details.’
Professor Madoc just looked at him with his mouth a little open, so Patrick patiently explained his point. ‘You didn’t say anything about throwing a shoe.’
‘I’d have thought that was implicit!’ snapped the professor.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It would have been to any normal person!’
‘We’re getting off the point,’ Spicer interrupted smoothly. ‘The point is, Patrick, that you entered a restricted area at night without permission.’
‘Nobody said I needed permission,’ Patrick said. ‘I didn’t break in; I got in using the code I was given by you. I was not trying to hide from anyone, which is why I turned on the lights. When someone turned them off it wasn’t logical, so I did hide then. When I thought I might be locked in, I created a diversion and left. I didn’t hurt anyone, I didn’t damage anything, I didn’t steal anything. I was there to try to establish the cause of death, which is what we were told to do by Dr Spicer, and which I strongly suspect has been incorrectly recorded as heart failure, when in fact it is anaphylactic shock caused by the ingestion of a peanut.’