Far Outpatients

Norbert

Chapter 23

Far Outpatients

I take the stairs down to C floor. (Enid only tolerates my presence in the lift if other people are in it, though the repetitive monologue goes something like: “Mind the doors. Doors closing. What’s that horrible smell? Could it be the gargoyle from Haematology, I wonder?”)

C floor appears to be home to every outpatient clinic in the hospital. From a central lobby signs point down innumerable corridors to rheumatology outpatients, orthopaedic outpatients, cardiovascular outpatients, general surgery outpatients, gastrointestinal outpatients, every flipping sort of outpatients, but there is no sign for the Haematology clinic. Confused people clutching appointment letters mill about everywhere. I study the lines on the floor, but with such a melee I keep getting barged into and knocked off course. I hear: ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you down there,’ several times.

In the end I ask someone wearing an ID badge. ‘Haematology clinic?’

‘Down there, you can’t miss it.’

‘Cut the crap, I work here. Be specific.’

‘Pass through renal outpatients and it’s on the far side of far outpatients beyond oncology outpatients.’

‘Surely, the far side of far outpatients is the car park?’ I say to his disappearing back.

I am stopped on my way through renal by a man with unhealthy yellow skin and yellow eyes.

‘Oi you with the white coat and ID badge, stop right there.’ I obey. ‘I want my kidleys taking out, fixed and put back in again. I am not having someone else’s stuffed in. You hear me? The donor might be a cricketer.’

‘I am afraid transplants don’t work like that,’ I answer patiently to the patient. ‘We can’t store them because we don’t have a kidney bank in England, though there is a liver pool.’  

I continue through oncology, surely the most depressing of all disciplines. Women wearing headscarves to cover their baldness, emaciated bodies ravaged as much by the chemotherapy and radiotherapy as the tumours eating away at their insides.

One woman is sitting beside an arm in a small dog basket.

‘How’s George feeling?’ the woman beside her asks.

‘He’s doing very well, considering,’ she replies, patting the back of the pale lifeless hand. ‘They had to cut away a bit more than they anticipated, but the surgeon is confident he got it all.’

I hurry through and enter far outpatients.

A man in a lilac pharmacy smock immediately approaches and speaks out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Want some gear, little dude?’

‘No thanks.’ (I badly do need a new wardrobe, but I will spend my new found wealth in a proper shop for grown-ups.)

‘Amphetamines, angel dust, applejacks, apache, and they’re just the A’s.’

He doesn’t sound half as sexy as Isabel.

I notice that many of the patients are lying on the floor or pressed up against the windows, licking the glass. Some are openly smoking, but it doesn’t smell like proper tobacco.

‘Are you a real pharmacist?’ I say, looking at his multi-coloured, crocheted Rasta cap and ID badge, which says: “The Candy-Man”. ‘That’s not a real name.’

‘It’s double-barrelled, isn’t it? I’m not breaking no law.’

‘You call pedalling dope in a hospital clinic for drug addicts not breaking the law?’

‘You got me all wrong, dude. The Candy-Man is an entrepreneur, making an honest living through risk and initiative. And you, little dude, look down in the mouth, but worry not. The Candy-Man can elevate you to the clouds.’

‘I am depressed and often suicidal, I can’t deny it. I’ve just been rebuffed and ridiculed by the two most beautiful women on the planet, one of whom I idolize, but she’s the main concubine of a pig, and everyone in the hospital, including the lift, hates me. Give it a minute and you’ll hate me…’ He tries to interrupt, but I haven’t finished. ‘I’m also an orphan kicked out of house and home by my reserve parents...’ He tries again, unsuccessfully. ‘I freely admit that in the past I have used blackmail to obtain out of date prescription medicines, but I would never stoop so low as to take illegal stimulants...’

He grabs my labcoat with both hands and shakes me. In so doing, a stray dreadlock escapes from his cap and thrashes from side to side like the wagging tail of a dog. ‘Whoa, slow down, dude. Don’t get heavy, man, I’m only saying…’

I spot a member of hospital security, sensibly standing guard outside the methadone cupboard. ‘I should report you.’

‘No need. The cat’s looking cool cos The Candy-Man’s no fool. Take summa mine, make you feel fine, or you be visiting the clinic in the sky.’

‘What language are you speaking?’

The smoke with the funny fragrance is getting up my nose and I sneeze. Then I sneeze again, and again. I pull my hanky out of my lab coat pocket. My emergency first aid kit comes with it and falls to the floor. The security man is there in an instant, picking it up before I have a chance to.

‘What have we here, then?’

‘The red cross on the front and the words First Aid Kit should give you a clue.’

He unzips it and the tightly-packed contents spill to the floor. ‘Tickle our Lord!’

‘Grannytickler,’ says The Candy-Man. ‘You in my space, man.’

He is so angry his Rasta cap is swaying about and bulging.

‘I’m a martyr to ill health and I have allergies and deficiencies. I need lots of vitamins.’

‘You is trying to muscle in, grannytickler,’ The Candy-Man rages, yanking his cap off to reveal an equally agitated squirrel.

I raise my hands protectively and cower pathetically. ‘Not in the face, please. I’m not carrying any nuts.’

‘Whatsamatter wid you, man?’ says The Candy-Man. ‘You not got a pet?’

‘I haven’t got a licence.’

‘You don’t need a licence to own a pet,’ says the security man, ‘unless it’s something weird or dangerous.’

‘Keeping an out of control squirrel under your hat fits both,’ I say, backing even further away. ‘And according to my Auntie you do need a licence. She flushed a goldfish Nunky won for me at the fair down the toilet to stop me getting arrested.’

The security man takes his walkie talkie from his belt, holds it to his mouth and presses the button. ‘Hubert to control. Over.’

‘Come in, Hubert, control speaking,’ crackles over the radio.

‘Requesting back-up in far outpatients please. I’ve uncovered a major drug haul and have the twerp in custard. Over.’

‘The word’s perp,’ says The Candy-Man.

The security man listens to his radio, but all I hear is static. He looks at my name badge. ‘Norbert Winstanley Rockhampton-Smythe from Haematology. Over.’ I hear more static. ‘Yes, Enid, he does look a bit like a gargoyle. Over.’ This time I hear merry static. ‘Sorry I don’t carry Twinkle Twat.’ Brief static. ‘Or a cosh.’ This time I hear disappointed static. ‘Will do. Over and out.’

He unhooks a set of pink fluffy handcuffs from his belt.

‘Do you know Gideon Watt-Knott from Brundy Cottage Hospital?’ I ask, as I am being cuffed. ‘You’re in the same job, use more or less the same equipment and are equally intellectually challenged.’

‘He’s my cousin, once removed.’

‘I know him well. In fact, there’s a distinct possibility you and I may become related in the near future. He’s having a thing with my auntie.’

‘Nice try, sunbeam, but you’re still under arrest.’