Death of Connor Sanderson: Chap 1:Part 3.

Chapter One: Part 3.
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Her throat was covered with an impeccably starched white detachable collar, that formed part of her crisp white apron, and her back was ramrod straight, and yet...he could almost taste the air of agitation that surrounded her.

Confusion folded his brow as her footfalls were accompanied by a galloping beat, like a tenderising mallet smacking against a bloody steak. As she drew closer, the wet pounding sound separated into four harmonised mallet strikes with an accompanying shushing descant note, and Connor’s gaze darted around the corridor...What is that sound?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Are you feeling unwell, Doctor Sanderson?”

“Not at all. I am quite well, thank you, Nurse Ramsey.” Connor forced a calm response and turned his head dismissively to look along the corridor in the direction from which she had come. The beating of her heart galloped in his chest, and vibrated through his ribcage with the thudding of a jungle drum beat.

“Well, if you are sure,” she said, unwillingly tearing her gaze from his stony expression. Her apron swished as she busied herself brushing an imagined speck of dust from the fabric.

His jaw clenched as the symphony of the wet clattering sounds became faster and he watched a rouge flush stain her cheeks before she moved slowly away.

Connor remained rooted to the spot, swallowing the sudden taste of citrus that had filled his mouth, and waiting for his own palpitations to subside. I must get checked out. Vomiting, and now, palpitations...

When the corridor became the focus of his attention again, it was empty. As the clattering inside his head faded to the dull headache once more, he felt cold...and bone dry? Not the aftermath of clammy dampness that followed an adrenalin rush of clattering emotions. So, the perspiring heat of palpitations was no longer a likely explanation. And I have never found Nurse Ramsey fetching, in any event. Although, for the first time, it hit him like a slap in the face that she harbored feelings for him. How do I know that? The air around her had hummed with a magnetic charge that tingled through his fibers.

A frown cast a shadow of intensity over his face. He eased a crooked finger around the upright starched collar that embraced his throat, and, pressing a cold thumb pad to his carotid artery, he found a sluggish and disturbingly slow pulse. Very slow, no wonder I passed out.

Reliving this morning’s rude awakening, Sir John’s face, wearing a glowering expression of censure, suddenly filled his mind. Being late is not an option...and he wondered how much time he had wasted.

The ticking of his pocket watch invaded his consciousness as a strident plinking noise that, most likely, was always there, but once you notice how loud it is, you are cannot tune it out again. Connor palmed the watch, glanced at the pale ivory face, and felt the twanging of the spring inside it like the buzzing of a trapped hornet resting in his hand.

He hurriedly tucked the watch inside his pocket, and he could feel the hornet buzzing angrily beneath the tightly woven fabric, oscillating against his chest. Connor dragged both hands over his tight face and prayed that this was a nightmare. ...just fatigue, I guess...or a brain tumor.

Laughing bitterly at his own joke, standing still became a quagmire of unfamiliar sensations that he needed to escape, and so he started walking...fast.

His agitated footfall echoed off the white, porcelain tiled walls of the corridor and bounced around inside his skull. But more disconcerting, was the impact juddering up each leg, vibrating his tendons, and tingling along muscle fibres that pumped like pistons, whisking him along at a pace that exhilarated, and still his heart rate slumbered.

Barrelling forward without pausing, he marched the half mile of the hospital’s hallways and arrived outside Sir John’s office. His mentor was a force of nature. After six months under his tutelage, Connor knew everything about the anatomy of the human eye. And the one thing that will not be countenanced by Sir John...being late is a crime rarely forgiven.

As always, Connor stopped outside the door, and gathered his wits. He drew himself up to his impressive height, filled his lungs with a steadying breath, and held on to it. His routine was to pause for ten seconds or so, and when his lungs ached as they hunted for more oxygen, he would release it in a slow forceful puff through tight lips...and my nerves along with it.

The ten seconds ticked away to thirty, and still holding his breath, he slipped his angry waspish watch from his pocket and watched the minutes tick by. The impatient rustling noise of Sir John shuffling sheaves of papers on the other side of the thick oak door brushed over his eardrums and clawed at his concentration. Connor gently released the breath in a whistle of disbelief. Seven minutes...impossible. There was no suggestion of lactic acid being burned inside his tissue...impossible.

His knuckles rapped a distracted staccato on the door as his expression tightened to stony confusion.

“Come,” said a baritone voice, thick with disapproval.

Connor folded his fingers around the brass doorknob, turned it silently and braced his muscles to push it open. With a bump of his shoulder, the door flew open. The heavy oak did not offer its customary resistance, moving effortlessly as though skimming over ice, and he released the handle quickly as though it were hot coals as the polished-brass ball began to buckle in his hand. Perplexed, Connor entered the room, and the atmosphere rushed into his lungs, chest and throat as though he had breathed in molasses.

A nauseating cocktail of odours settled like a stone in his stomach. The oak panelling tainted the air with a greasy, linseed aroma. The musk of furniture polish wafted up from the desk, its decoratively tooled leather top smelled of tanning chemicals, the gas mantle lamp that cast a yellow glow over the sheets of parchment-coloured paper smelled of carbon, and Connor could taste the motes of dust that danced like fireflies in the eddying current of moist air.

Even as he tried to make sense of the thickened air, he turned and carefully closed the door behind him, and stood stock still as Sir John appeared content to ignore his arrival. He thought about coughing, but taking in more of the toxin-flavored atmosphere did not seem like a good idea. He moved slowly to stand in front of the aromatic desk and gazed at his mentor’s lowered head with its carefully combed grey hair. Connor’s lip curled, easing his tongue over teeth that were on edge. He smells of...blood.

“Sanderson, you are...” Sir John blinked as though a pistol shot had startled him. “...late.” He darted a puzzled glance towards the closed door before finding Connor's face once more.

Connor’s apology for being late died on his lips as he struggled to decipher the scene unfolding. Connor absorbed Sir John’s open-mouthed, shocked expression, and as a static hum of alarm ionised the air, tingling though his nerve endings, he realized...he didn’t see me move.
To be continued...