a field and the resulting fireball.
Steven was up in Scotland by early afternoon but it wasn’t until he’d left the motorway to follow the winding border country roads that he really started to enjoy the car. The exhilaration of good acceleration and limpet-like road holding ensured that he was in a good mood when he drew into the car park at Borders General Hospital and cut the engine. Not only was Dr John Motram being held here in isolation but the man he’d injured by dropping a mechanical shovel on his leg, Tony Fielding, was a patient in the orthopaedics department.
Unlike those of inner-city hospitals, where parking was always difficult and a constant bone of contention, the car parks here were extensive. He had found a space without any difficulty, enabling him to maintain his good mood as he left the car and walked over to Reception, where he asked for Dr Toby Miles, the man the file informed him was responsible for Motram’s care.
Miles turned out to be a short, tubby man with wiry, dry-looking hair and a florid face. He was dressed in a grey pin-striped suit, a pink shirt and a purple tie which didn’t help with the complexion problem. He examined Steven’s ID at some length before returning it and asking, ‘What can I do for you, Dr Dunbar?’
‘I understand you are the psychiatrist in charge of John Motram’s case, doctor. I’d like to know your thoughts on what you think might have happened to him.’
Miles appeared thoughtful for what seemed an age, and Steven was beginning to wonder whether the man had an interest in amateur dramatics when he finally said, ‘I’m sorry, Dr Dunbar, but the truth is I simply don’t know. John Motram is out of his tree.’
‘Too technical for me, doctor,’ said Steven with a smile and the ice was broken between them.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it before,’ said Miles. ‘I was told that he’d had a mental breakdown but I’m now inclined to think that it’s not a psychiatric problem at all. It’s more like some form of delirium, and the fact that he has breathing difficulties tends to support this. I’m told that tests are also showing signs of liver damage, so the ball is moving rapidly out of my court and into the realm of the physician. I suppose it was natural to assume at the time that he’d had some sort of break-down associated with stress or disappointment, but he hasn’t. It’s really beginning to look much more like a case of poisoning or even an infection of some sort.’
This was not what Steven wanted to hear. The spectre of something reaching out from a centuries-old tomb to cause modern-day havoc refused to be banished. ‘Let’s hope it’s a curable sort,’ he said without any trace of humour.
Miles shrugged. ‘Maybe things will look brighter when the lab finishes its tests.’
‘Is he conscious?’
‘He drifts in and out. We have to keep him under a certain level of sedation for the safety of the nursing staff. He gets violent if we don’t.’
‘Has he said anything at all about what happened?’
‘Words, but not sentences. Nothing that ever gives a clue to what’s going on inside his head.’
‘Are the words in English?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s not speaking in tongues if that’s what you mean. They’re English words, but apparently generated randomly so no train of thought is ever revealed.’
‘Poor man.’
‘Would you like to see him?’
Steven nodded. ‘May as well put a face to the name,’ he said, and got up to follow Miles.
John Motram was in a locked room under constant camera observation. He would remain there until the possibility of his suffering from an infectious condition had been ruled out. He was awake but obviously having difficulty breathing: an oxygen mask obscured half his face. Steven’s immediate thought was that he just looked like the 52-year-old academic he was, but on closer inspection the look in his eyes suggested a failure to recognise anything around him. He was awake
Steven was up in Scotland by early afternoon but it wasn’t until he’d left the motorway to follow the winding border country roads that he really started to enjoy the car. The exhilaration of good acceleration and limpet-like road holding ensured that he was in a good mood when he drew into the car park at Borders General Hospital and cut the engine. Not only was Dr John Motram being held here in isolation but the man he’d injured by dropping a mechanical shovel on his leg, Tony Fielding, was a patient in the orthopaedics department.
Unlike those of inner-city hospitals, where parking was always difficult and a constant bone of contention, the car parks here were extensive. He had found a space without any difficulty, enabling him to maintain his good mood as he left the car and walked over to Reception, where he asked for Dr Toby Miles, the man the file informed him was responsible for Motram’s care.
Miles turned out to be a short, tubby man with wiry, dry-looking hair and a florid face. He was dressed in a grey pin-striped suit, a pink shirt and a purple tie which didn’t help with the complexion problem. He examined Steven’s ID at some length before returning it and asking, ‘What can I do for you, Dr Dunbar?’
‘I understand you are the psychiatrist in charge of John Motram’s case, doctor. I’d like to know your thoughts on what you think might have happened to him.’
Miles appeared thoughtful for what seemed an age, and Steven was beginning to wonder whether the man had an interest in amateur dramatics when he finally said, ‘I’m sorry, Dr Dunbar, but the truth is I simply don’t know. John Motram is out of his tree.’
‘Too technical for me, doctor,’ said Steven with a smile and the ice was broken between them.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it before,’ said Miles. ‘I was told that he’d had a mental breakdown but I’m now inclined to think that it’s not a psychiatric problem at all. It’s more like some form of delirium, and the fact that he has breathing difficulties tends to support this. I’m told that tests are also showing signs of liver damage, so the ball is moving rapidly out of my court and into the realm of the physician. I suppose it was natural to assume at the time that he’d had some sort of break-down associated with stress or disappointment, but he hasn’t. It’s really beginning to look much more like a case of poisoning or even an infection of some sort.’
This was not what Steven wanted to hear. The spectre of something reaching out from a centuries-old tomb to cause modern-day havoc refused to be banished. ‘Let’s hope it’s a curable sort,’ he said without any trace of humour.
Miles shrugged. ‘Maybe things will look brighter when the lab finishes its tests.’
‘Is he conscious?’
‘He drifts in and out. We have to keep him under a certain level of sedation for the safety of the nursing staff. He gets violent if we don’t.’
‘Has he said anything at all about what happened?’
‘Words, but not sentences. Nothing that ever gives a clue to what’s going on inside his head.’
‘Are the words in English?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s not speaking in tongues if that’s what you mean. They’re English words, but apparently generated randomly so no train of thought is ever revealed.’
‘Poor man.’
‘Would you like to see him?’
Steven nodded. ‘May as well put a face to the name,’ he said, and got up to follow Miles.
John Motram was in a locked room under constant camera observation. He would remain there until the possibility of his suffering from an infectious condition had been ruled out. He was awake but obviously having difficulty breathing: an oxygen mask obscured half his face. Steven’s immediate thought was that he just looked like the 52-year-old academic he was, but on closer inspection the look in his eyes suggested a failure to recognise anything around him. He was awake
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