Beloved Poison by E. S. Thomson

I stared at him. Something cold and hard, something dark, and filled with hatred seemed to be stirring at the back of his blank, glazed eyes. He blinked, and cocked his head as though he were listening, listening to a voice deep within himself that he had not understood before. Then he turned, and stumbled out of the operating theatre. The door crashed closed behind him. No one followed. No one spoke. I had been acquainted with Dr Graves for years, and yet, at that moment, I realised that I did not know him at all.

     
    But the spectacle was set to continue, and the next moment the door opposite burst open and a pair of orderlies marched in. Between them they carried a stretcher, upon which was strapped a tall thin man of about fifty years. He lay still as he was carried forth, but on apprehending his two white-clad surgeons and possibly thinking he had arrived early at the celestial gates, all at once he burst into violent activity.
    ‘Calm down, man,’ roared Dr Magorian. ‘Do you not recognise me?’ He kicked the blood box around the operating table until it stood below the place where the patient’s hip would be once he was in position. The patient was now wild eyed. He had been dosed with opium and alcohol, but he had caught sight of the table of knives and fear at what was about to happen seemed to have rendered useless all attempts to stupefy him.
    There was a cry of ‘hats off’ so that those at the topmost standings could see. The patient gave a muffled gurgle. Dr Bain offered him a leather strap to grip between his jaws, and this he did, an involuntary moaning sound coming from behind his clenched teeth. The orderlies – burly men with hairless heads and giant hands – lashed the man’s body to the operating table with thick, buckled straps. One of Dr Bain’s dressers donned Graves’s discarded nightshirt and took hold of the pine tar spray. Another eager student sprang down from the standings to man the pump in the bucket. Dr Magorian picked up a knife. A saw waited its turn. Beside me, Will was now as limp as a rag doll. He moaned faintly.
    ‘Sniff this,’ I said. I passed him a handkerchief. Hidden in it was a bottle of salts.
    Will buried his face in the linen folds. ‘Oh!’ His head snapped back, his eyes streaming.
    ‘Easy now,’ I whispered.
    ‘Oh!’ cried Will again. ‘Oh!’ His voice echoed round the theatre.
    ‘Mr Quartermain, if you could restrain yourself,’ said Dr Magorian. He leaned forward.
    ‘Mist!’ cried Dr Bain. The students began working the pump and the aphid spray.
    I saw the flash of the blade as the white flesh parted and a crimson flood poured onto the operating table. The students craned their necks to see. Dr Magorian’s voice boomed out instructions, drowning out the dreadful muted screams of the patient, which soon evaporated into a whimper as the man lost consciousness with pain and fear.
    Dr Magorian clamped the knife between his teeth like a pirate and plunged his fingers into the wound. The patient’s blood stained his lips and cheek; his hands were coated in the stuff, his new white smock soaked from the waist. There was a glimpse of bone and gristle and red glistening tissue. There came the sound of the saw, and the
thunk
of Dr Bain’s boot as he kicked the blood box forward, the better to catch the thick streams of scarlet that dripped over the lip of the operating table.
    Will’s face was as white as a corpse. Would he attempt an undignified exit, or simply crash sideways off his chair onto the floor? The first time I had witnessed an operation I had brought salts in my handkerchief and a pin in my pocket, just in case. I would not have had any of the medical men think I could not bear it. In the event I had not needed them – after all, was not blood and pain a woman’s lot? Beside me, Will began to sway. I put my arm about his shoulders but he shook me off and staggered to his feet. He took one step in the general direction of the door, and then