The Papers of Tony Veitch Read Free Page B

what people are like. Laidlaw remembered that one of the things he hated most was élitism. We share in everyone else or forego ourselves.
    â€˜Hullo there, captain.’
    He was an elderly man, slightly cut at the edge of his eye and more than slightly drunk. Laidlaw had noticed him wandering along the room accosting people vaguely, an ancient mariner short of a wedding guest.
    â€˜You a doctor then, sir? It’s ma eye here. Played at headers wi’ the pavement. Ye know? Pavement beat me wan-nothin’. Ah would’ve won if ah hadny been drunk.’
    Laidlaw smiled and shrugged.
    â€˜Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m a stranger here myself.’
    The man went on past the partition at the end of the room. Beyond that lay the legendary Room 9, resuscitation room at the Royal, a place that has seen a lot of what there is to see in the way of physical calamity. The man was ushered out again at once by a doctor who directed him back along the casualty room.
    â€˜Excuse me,’ Laidlaw said. ‘I’m looking for someone.’
    Laidlaw showed his identification-card. The doctor looked at it, his tongue resting on his front teeth, and nodded, showing nothing. He couldn’t have been older than late twenties, bespectacled and shaggy-haired, but already he looked the type who might raise his eyebrows at an earthquake. His coat was speckled brown with the statutory bloodstains.
    â€˜A heavy night,’ Laidlaw suggested.
    â€˜No. This is a quiet one. Although a couple of R.T.A.’s and an M.I. through here.’ He nodded towards Room 9. ‘So who are you looking for?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ Laidlaw said.
    The doctor didn’t show surprise or amusement or interest. He just waited. He was checking the progress of the elderly man along the room. Laidlaw knew that an R.T.A. was a Road Traffic Accident. He thought he’d better not ask about the M.I. The doctor didn’t look in the mood to stand in for a medical dictionary.
    â€˜I’ve been told somebody was brought in here asking for me. Asking for Jack Laidlaw. An old bloke. Unshaven. Probably well bevvied.’
    The elderly man had found the haven of a nurse. The doctor’seyes came to rest on the floor. He looked up at Laidlaw, as if measuring him for an improbable connection.
    â€˜You mean the old wino?’
    â€˜I might.’
    â€˜Yes. That was the name, I think. Kept repeating it. I thought maybe it was his own. Could get nothing else out of him. Having trouble with his airways. They had him in E. God, he was filthy. Didn’t know whether to dialyse or cauterise. A walking Bubonic.’
    â€˜So what happened?’
    â€˜He just got worse. Seemed to use the last of himself just getting here. Cleaned him up. They had him in the Lavage Room. Alcohol and Belair were about all they got, I think.’
    â€˜So what’s wrong?’
    The doctor shook his head.
    â€˜How about everything?’ His eyes were moving around the room again. ‘The nearest they got to a diagnosis was imminent death. The respiratory problem was getting worse. Rather than intubate him here, they took him straight to Intensive Care. He’s just gone.’
    â€˜Where’s that?’
    â€˜Surgical block. That’s—’
    â€˜I know.’
    â€˜But they’ll probably not welcome you.’
    â€˜They don’t have to,’ Laidlaw said.
    On the way out, he threw a cigarette to the young man on the invalid chair. Placate the gods.

 
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    4
    I t was cool outside. Laidlaw took his bearings. The middle unit of the main building, the one in darkness, was administration. The unit on the right, nearest the gate, was medical. He went left.
    Crossing the courtyard, he took the doctor’s point. It probably was a quiet night. It was all comparative. Laidlaw himself had a simple shock-absorber he used to enable him to cope with some of the things he had to look at. He