Sam had woken up with excitement in his stomach, a sense of
purpose he had missed for a number of years. He still enjoyed the challenge of
clinical psychiatry as much as ever, but he had been so enveloped in his secret
world that it had left a huge gap in his life.
When John Staples had been referred to him on Tuesday he
had been irritated; it had been an ideal opportunity to catch up on the ever
mounting tidal wave of bureaucratic nonsense crashing repeatedly upon the rough
rocks that remained of the NHS. He had always prided himself on his
thoroughness and rarely allowed the paperwork to accumulate; however, much of
the present pile’s purpose was only there to demonstrate how well, or badly,
the department ran. It would, along with several other man-years’ worth of
administration, serve to allow number-crunchers and management-suits the scope
to produce charts and tables largely unread and understood by no-one. What they
wouldn’t achieve, Sam was convinced, was a better health service, merely a more
substantially documented one.
Sam had intended to give this man a few minutes of his
afternoon, ascertain that he was in need of a rest and a few cups of tea, and
then send him on his way. Initially this seemed to be the case, however it was
something that John had said, a phrase that rang back to Sam’s days working on
the project with Michael. It had been said in a different context at the time,
but had struck Sam way back then when they believed they had identified their
first and, as far as Sam knew, only level-three candidate. As Sam lay back in
his bed, half listening to the drone of the radio and edging himself towards
starting his morning ablutions, he remembered the moment he stopped nodding and
started listening. It was as John’s eyes had welled up for the second time.
‘In one life I will know everything about you, in another
we will not meet, but in this life I will have to feel my way forward until I
can work out which parts of my memory about you I can trust.’ John had, in his
barely articulate manner, managed to convey the sentiments that she had put
across so eloquently back then, her trust and feelings laid bare before him.
Although he had been flattered that she had chosen to feel that way about him,
he had not reciprocated her emotions. He had tried, though, to prevent some of
her trauma. The techniques used had been experimental and some of the drugs
used to probe her mind almost unknown chemicals back then. Many had
subsequently come through official, conventional clinical trials in recent
years, with their properties being well documented, and Sam was sure that they
could now be administered at little risk to the patient with this new
knowledge.
Rolling out of bed he shivered his way through to the cool
bathroom, sweeping a dressing gown up from the largely ornamental bedroom chair
as he passed. As his mouth foamed with toothpaste he paused to consider again;
a train crash the previous night had killed thirty two people, including a
noted playwright and a leading Civil Servant, a radio announcer had stated in
the adjacent bedroom. Any doubt about what he had started on Tuesday was
dispelled with the knowledge that he could reduce the amount of tragedy in this
world. As he scrubbed his left lower molars he could feel the old arguments,
the quandaries and the paradoxes rearing up in his mind, intruding like near
but not dear relatives at a family funeral. Raking his gums violently, enough
to cause speckles of blood to rest on his lower lip, he fought the thoughts
with the old weapons, the logic and the righteousness, the need to accept the
pragmatic compromise for the greater good. Spitting pink froth into the sink,
Sam returned the toothbrush into it’s colour co-ordinated holder, to stand
guard protecting his enamel for another day. He was right, and he was looking
forward to meeting Mr Staples again today.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright Ray Sullivan 2011
The characters, places and events described in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, places or events, past or present, is coincidence. All rights reserved
I can be followed on Twitter too - @RayASullivan
or on Facebook - use raysullivan.novels@yahoo.com to find me
or on Facebook - use raysullivan.novels@yahoo.com to find me
Why not take a look at my books and read up on my Biog here
Want to see what B L O'Feld is up to? Take a look at his website here
Worried/Interested in the secretive world of DLFs? Take a look at this website dedicated to DLFs here, if you dare!
No comments:
Post a Comment