have stiffened and I can no longer make a fist.
When I emerge from the station at Belsize Park I am briefly surprised by the hazy daylight filtering through a lacy veil of clouds. It’s less than an hour since I left Dr. Whitaker, but the intense darkness of the Underground seems to have lasted forever, consuming the brightness of several days.
Instead of returning to Celia’s flat, I walk the short distance from the Tube station to the Royal Free Hospital, a multilevel, modern-looking structure with a large illuminated canopy over the main street-level entrance. I’ll lose precious time waiting for an X-ray, but what else can I do? My wrist is beyond painful now, and as swollen and shiny as bruised fruit.
Fluorescent yellow ambulances dart in and out of the lower-level loading bay, near where I enter A&E—the accident and emergency department—through the sliding glass doors. I give my details at the reception desk and am assessed by a triage nurse in a prim, old-fashioned uniform of robin’s egg blue. She declares me green–Priority 4, meaning my injury is not life threatening. This also means I will probably be waiting here forever, until all the more serious cases have been seen to.
As I take my seat in the hot, crowded, antiseptic-smelling waiting room across from a man in a soiled boilersuit pressing a bloodied rag to his forehead, I try not to think about the last time I was inside a hospital, five months ago. Instead I attempt to keep my wrist elevated, as the triage nurse instructed, above my heart. This being England, there is no ice.
A large, flat-screen TV anchored to the wall scrolls rapid, capital-letter updates about the ongoing terror alert, but the ill and injured assembled beneath it seem strangely blasé. I turn away and take out my cell phone. Edwina’s lecture probably finished at two or two thirty. It’s nearly three o’clock now and she answers on the second ring.
“Edwina, it’s Dayle.”
“Dayle—any news?” She sounds frantic.
“Not exactly.” I fill her in on the threatening photo and Dr. Whitaker not knowing of Celia’s overdose. Then I tell her about my accident.
She gasps. “Were you pushed?”
“I don’t know. It was crowded. I wasn’t paying attention…” My voice catches. “I lost most of Celia’s manuscript when I fell.”
“Sit tight. I’ll be right there.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I insist.” She pauses. “As would Celia.”
After hanging up with Edwina, I phone DC Callaway. My first question is whether there’s been any news about Celia. She says that there hasn’t.
“You should probably know, I had an accident at Tottenham Court Road Tube this afternoon. I fell—or was pushed—to the platform,” I explain.
“Well, which was it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Did you fall or were you pushed?”
“I’m not sure—”
“Did you report the incident?”
“No. I was too shaken up.”
She exhales heavily. “You should file an incident report at the station.”
“But I want to report it to the police. In case…”
“In case what?”
“In case there’s some connection to Celia.”
“Should there be?”
“No. I don’t know.” I pause, rubbing my eyes. “Look, I’m waiting for an X-ray. Your station is on Rosslyn Hill, right? That’s close by. I’ll come over when I’m done—”
“No,” she interrupts with an irritated sigh. “Don’t bother. If you feel the pressing need to make a statement, I’ll meet you there. The Royal Free? I’ll be there shortly.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what else to say. “Well, thanks, then,” I add, but she has already hung up.
*
I am called into an exam room more quickly than I expected and after an initial and rather brusque examination of my forearm, wrist, hand, and fingers, the doctor orders an X-ray. While the technician positions my aching arm, the pain worsens and I feel sick. Waves of nausea lash the sides of my stomach while my throat tightens and dries.
When I emerge from the station at Belsize Park I am briefly surprised by the hazy daylight filtering through a lacy veil of clouds. It’s less than an hour since I left Dr. Whitaker, but the intense darkness of the Underground seems to have lasted forever, consuming the brightness of several days.
Instead of returning to Celia’s flat, I walk the short distance from the Tube station to the Royal Free Hospital, a multilevel, modern-looking structure with a large illuminated canopy over the main street-level entrance. I’ll lose precious time waiting for an X-ray, but what else can I do? My wrist is beyond painful now, and as swollen and shiny as bruised fruit.
Fluorescent yellow ambulances dart in and out of the lower-level loading bay, near where I enter A&E—the accident and emergency department—through the sliding glass doors. I give my details at the reception desk and am assessed by a triage nurse in a prim, old-fashioned uniform of robin’s egg blue. She declares me green–Priority 4, meaning my injury is not life threatening. This also means I will probably be waiting here forever, until all the more serious cases have been seen to.
As I take my seat in the hot, crowded, antiseptic-smelling waiting room across from a man in a soiled boilersuit pressing a bloodied rag to his forehead, I try not to think about the last time I was inside a hospital, five months ago. Instead I attempt to keep my wrist elevated, as the triage nurse instructed, above my heart. This being England, there is no ice.
A large, flat-screen TV anchored to the wall scrolls rapid, capital-letter updates about the ongoing terror alert, but the ill and injured assembled beneath it seem strangely blasé. I turn away and take out my cell phone. Edwina’s lecture probably finished at two or two thirty. It’s nearly three o’clock now and she answers on the second ring.
“Edwina, it’s Dayle.”
“Dayle—any news?” She sounds frantic.
“Not exactly.” I fill her in on the threatening photo and Dr. Whitaker not knowing of Celia’s overdose. Then I tell her about my accident.
She gasps. “Were you pushed?”
“I don’t know. It was crowded. I wasn’t paying attention…” My voice catches. “I lost most of Celia’s manuscript when I fell.”
“Sit tight. I’ll be right there.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I insist.” She pauses. “As would Celia.”
After hanging up with Edwina, I phone DC Callaway. My first question is whether there’s been any news about Celia. She says that there hasn’t.
“You should probably know, I had an accident at Tottenham Court Road Tube this afternoon. I fell—or was pushed—to the platform,” I explain.
“Well, which was it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Did you fall or were you pushed?”
“I’m not sure—”
“Did you report the incident?”
“No. I was too shaken up.”
She exhales heavily. “You should file an incident report at the station.”
“But I want to report it to the police. In case…”
“In case what?”
“In case there’s some connection to Celia.”
“Should there be?”
“No. I don’t know.” I pause, rubbing my eyes. “Look, I’m waiting for an X-ray. Your station is on Rosslyn Hill, right? That’s close by. I’ll come over when I’m done—”
“No,” she interrupts with an irritated sigh. “Don’t bother. If you feel the pressing need to make a statement, I’ll meet you there. The Royal Free? I’ll be there shortly.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what else to say. “Well, thanks, then,” I add, but she has already hung up.
*
I am called into an exam room more quickly than I expected and after an initial and rather brusque examination of my forearm, wrist, hand, and fingers, the doctor orders an X-ray. While the technician positions my aching arm, the pain worsens and I feel sick. Waves of nausea lash the sides of my stomach while my throat tightens and dries.
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