The connection between the St. Rupert Memorial Hospital and Bedlam’s Hollow could not have been more intangible or insubstantial. Normally worlds collide in an explosion of colour and sound. This time, almost nothing happened. I say almost nothing, because there was one tiny thing that did happen. 

Morgan Heel disappeared from a recovery room in the east wing of the best Paediatric ward in Guildford. And re-appeared in Mrs. Rails slug-plagued cabbage patch, underneath her kitchen window.

What linked the home of Mrs. Rails with this private hospital in Guildford? Not a magical object, or a stray curse. Not a fairytale creature or an ill-conceived science experiment. But simply, the light that leaked out of the back of a brand new theatre lamp in the campus’ principle Operating Room.

‘Strap yourself in!’ Morgan’s mum snaps over the sound of the radio, ‘I read a statistic yesterday you’re never more than five minutes from a fatal road accident in Greater London.’
Morgan quietly does as he’s told. Slowly, he and his mother pull off their long, gravel drive to wait at the lights by the Indian Take Away. It doesn’t feel like there’s a fatal accident on the horizon. 

Their leather-interior Mercedes drinks petrol, even while they’re sat idling at the Give Way. They turn right the moment the green-man starts to flash over the pavement, and follow the ring road clockwise, towards the Frog & Ferret. After about a mile, they turn right again, plunging headfirst down a steep slip road, onto the M4. Suddenly, a fatal accident seems like the common goal of all those present. 

The gleaming lanes of cars shuffle about a bit, to let them in. They are not planning to travel to the capital though, like everyone else; they’ll be filtering off after about twenty miles, towards a private hospital on the edge of Guildford. Morgan has an appointment there with Doctor Winston. 

Doctor Winston looks more like an evil, druid priest than anyone else he's ever met. Which is why he knows him as Doctor Death. And I promise you, this has some great significance later on, but for now, we should get back to the M4. It’s hard, it’s black and it’s steaming like an angry kettle because for days it’s done nothing but rain. 

As recently as an hour ago in fact, it was raining harder than Hell. Finally though, the sun has broken through the low, grey clouds, burning off some of the shallowest puddles. The whole of July has been about as wet as Dale Winton’s washing; a real damp squib of a summer month by anyone’s standards. Morgan would happily tell you this himself, only his entire being is consumed at the minute by the rhythmic ticking and tocking of the Mercede’s windscreen wipers.

At last, their hold over him breaks and his thoughts return to him. He remembers the phone call he received shortly before breakfast, from his annoyingly well-mannered G.P. That was the moment his journey really began, half-an-hour after his dad left for work and an hour before his mum got ready to do the same; eight-fifteen on Thursday the 3rd of August it was, eight-fifteen on a grey, wet Thursday almost exactly the same as any other. 

Morgan wasn’t surprised by the call. In fact, he expected bad news on Thursdays. He always got bad news on Thursdays. His mum, Petra, kept Thursdays free because like him, she knew how often they turned out to be the worst kind of slap-you-in-the-face-with-a-wet-fish days. 

Not even the swallows resting lazily on the Heel’s telephone line at eight fifteen were surprised. The call was short and to the point. The results of Morgan’s blood tests were in. He was officially well enough to undergo the painful operation he’d been pencilled in for at St. Ruperts, and should plan to check in, any time before eleven. News couldn’t get much worse than that. 

Operations in the middle of summer were also something Morgan had grown used to. Having them during the long, winter months when the swallows (and probably anything else with a passport) had flown four-thousand-miles south for some sub-Saharan R and R, might have made him happy. Which was entirely not the point of operations.

Operations were there to make him as miserable as possible for as long as possible, or so it seemed. They were a clever device employed by the healthcare profession to confine him to a starchy hospital bed when the days, not the months, were long, and there was at least a chance of some brilliant blue sky outside. Countless hours of Morgan's childhood had already been spent listening to the cars in the hospital car park wilt in the sun. And he suspected, countless more would go the same way before he turned sixteen. It was what he deserved he knew, for being so disgracefully ill all the time.

~

Yep, having acute hypertrophic cardiomyopathy really sucked, there was no denying it. He hadn’t enjoyed a decent summer holiday with his parents for five years. They told him that was because whenever he was discharged from hospital, his doctors prescribed him quality time at home to refresh and revive himself. The real reason though, was the dreadful week they’d once spent together in Minehead.

Morgan’s fragile body had reacted badly to a course of antibiotics he’d been given the day before they’d left. After he’d thrown up in the car, passed out in the hotel lobby and foamed at the mouth when the waiter showed him the sweet trolley, his parents got scared. So scared in fact, they drove him home. 

The next day, they sorted him out with a fresh prescription and returned, optimistically, to Devon. But it was no good. The mood of the holiday was ruined. His dad sulked. His mum smoked. And for the last three evenings of their stay at the Bay View Hotel, they argued non-stop in their sweaty little room.

~

Holidays are one thing, but have I mentioned what hypertrophic cardiomyopathy does to your social life? Let me tell you, its effects are not good. It makes it incredibly difficult to stay in touch with your school friends for a start. Morgan regularly missed half of every academic year, struggling to cope with the side effects of this life-threatening heart defect.

His classmates couldn’t spell hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, let alone relate to it. He suffered regular blackouts, was susceptible to the weakest strains of flu virus known to man and felt frail and breathless nearly all the time. He managed to pick up a little of what was going on at his school from an online chatroom, set up by one of his favourite teachers, Mrs. Finch. But for the most part, he got left out and left behind.

He knew, for instance, how much sandwiches cost in the school canteen, and how long Principle Dyfford had allowed himself off with his gammy leg. He didn’t know however, who had failed to hand in their homework three days in a row, or who had sent the vicious text message to year six yesterday. This sort of thing completely passed him by.

Get Well Soon cards piled up on his windowsill once the spring term ended. The odd bunch of flowers sprouted magically from one of the two glass vases at the end of his bed. But very few people ever came to visit him at St. Rupert’s.

St. Rupert’s wasn’t an easy place to get to without a car. And who could reasonably ask their parents to hang about in a hospital waiting for them, while they made small talk over a colostomy bag? No, they (his school friends) rarely gave up their precious free time to visit him. They all seemed to spend their summers in Majorca, plastering themselves with sun cream, talking about budget airlines and global warming.

Morgan was forgotten, left to rot in the custody of his high-tech hospital. Pale and unripe, he felt like a green, salad tomato glued to a skinny tomato vine, never expecting to be picked for anything besides another painful operation.

~

Petra, his long-suffering mother however, imagined herself as something far better. A fluffy quiche lorraine perhaps, or a fresh prawn vol-au-vent. For Petra Wellington-Heel (yes I’m afraid she'd held on to her maiden name, in case the TV shows she'd appeared in as a child ever got her noticed) life was one long party. Every weekday had a purpose, as follows:

Mondays were gym day. Tuesdays were stay-slim day. Wednesdays were pamper-yourself-at-the-spa day. And Fridays were pamper-the-car day. Thursdays, as I’ve already explained, were set aside for random acts of God, assorted unexpected disasters and out-of-the-blue events. But that aside, you take my point. Petra had a place for everything and everything in its place. Especially her son Morgan. His place was better defined than anything else’s...

Petra’s weekends were dedicated solely to her greatest passion, horse riding. Petra worked hard in the city (well hard-ish) all week so she could enjoy a long hack with her horsy friends on the weekend. She absolutely refused to feel guilty about this, and was quite happy to tell anyone who’d listen, any time at all.

Morgan’s dad, Jasper, was not a fan of the Thames Valley Pony Club. While his wife tore up the countryside on this season’s chosen thoroughbred, he tore up the lanes between Godalming and Farnham in an over-waxed Porsche Boxster with really, really low profile tyres. He was a bit of a kid at heart, but so what, how was that hurting anyone...? 

They weren’t the worst parents in the world. Indeed, they weren’t the worst parents any kid with acute hypertrophic cardiomyopathy ever had. But they were about as bad as it was possible to get without running into problems with Social Services. 

‘They’ve got money – looking on the bright side,’ several of the duty nurses at St. Rupert’s pointed out to Morgan, any time he felt like complaining. Money wasn’t everything though, he’d have gladly taken a refund on his latest PlayStation game, to receive an ounce of honest affection from either of them. 

Now you know anyway, a little bit about Morgan Heel and his parents, Petra and Jasper. And you know why today’s a Thursday, and why hypertrophic cardiomyopathy looks really, really bad on your C.V. Remember Morgan and his mum were sat in a silver Mercedes, hurtling down the M4 not so long ago? Well they’re still there. Morgan’s mum has just managed to squeeze her car into the fast lane, but has been frustrated by a wrinkly old grandad in a clapped-out Skoda ever since. The elderly man can’t, or won’t, go a fraction over 69 miles an hour...

Bored of staring at his filthy reg plate, Morgan has just turned his head to gawp out of the passenger window. The litter-strewn embankment fills his field of vision. His seatbelt rubs on his neck so with his left hand, he fidgets with it, trying to get it to sit right over his shoulder. Lumbering HGVs keep sliding by, their flapping canvas sides casting his face into deep shadow.

‘Mind if I drop you off at the door?’ his mum asks him optimistically. ‘You could call me at midday, to let me know you’ve settled in OK. Only… I’m supposed to be in a meeting ‘til then.’ Blinking at exactly the right moment, she manages to avoid making eye contact with him.

‘Fine,’ Morgan shrugs. An exit whizzes by, signposted ‘Swillchester’ or ‘Shirtingham’ or somewhere. Morgan watches the tracks of white lines divide, then merge again on the other side of the junction. Guildford (Central) read the letters on the sign above the lane next to theirs. Soon, they’ll be turning off.

‘Call my mobile,’ his mum insists. ‘Because I won’t be at my desk.’
Morgan repeats what he’s been told, automatically. ‘Call at eleven. Use your mobile number.’ A VW campervan pulls out of his left ear, like a decorated ball of sticky earwax rattling up the slow lane. It undertakes a private-hire coach full of pensioners, then disappearing behind a convoy of sluggish low loaders. 

‘Idiot!’ snaps his mum. ‘Undertaking like that. That’s so dangerous.’
Morgan breathes on the glass in front of him, drawing a miserable cartoon face in the condensation. ‘I wish-‘ he begins, ‘I could-‘ But before he can finish whatever it was he was about to say, a stomach-churning squeal of brakes outside electrifies the road. 

‘Hey!’ his mum shouts, yanking the steering wheel hard over to the right. A pebble taps their windshield, then a shower of sharp stones pitter-patters up their long bonnet. A huge, reflective surface looms ahead of them, a quirky rectangular void, somewhere in the middle distance. It takes Morgan a moment to work out exactly what he’s looking at. His mum’s brain lags a second or so behind his. 'Hey!' she says again, more quietly this time, but it's too late for her to expand on this simple thought, too late even for her to scream.

~

Thirty yards away, the liveried wall of a thirty-tonne, solid-sided, artic truck has hit the central pillar of a concrete bridge and fallen onto its side! A mushroom cloud of dirt and gravel surrounds it like the bow wave of a great ocean liner. Morgan’s heart beats in and out once, before the cloud has engulfed his side of the Mercedes completely.

Clumps of turf pummel the roof over his head. A TESCO’s carrier bag and a Coke can leap out of the dark, making him flinch before rolling away harmlessly to his left. He almost has time to marvel at the fact that somehow, incredibly, the Mercede’s windshield hasn’t shattered yet. When the Mercede’s wide windshield shatters spectacularly, and a gasp of hot air rushes in to sting his cheeks.

There’s a grinding, screaming noise that makes his headrest vibrate and his teeth want to leap out of his lower jaw. At a speed of more than thirty meters a second, a wall of shining stainless-steel is shuddering closer and closer. Morgan’s quarterlight explodes. The car’s nearside wing mirror disappears, as though it always knew it had the option of travelling several yards behind the rest of the vehicle if it wanted to. 

An intense flash of light fills Morgan’s head, a deafening thud shatters his right eardrum, and all the air in the Mercede’s evaporates instantly, making it impossible for him to breath. He feels his chest tighten, his arms fly forward and his body begin to bend in the middle, like a rag doll in the hands of a clumsy toddler. Both his legs are pushed back under his seat, while his neck is catapulted forwards into the dashboard. 

Bleeding, he finally slumps sideways, unconscious. The car spins to a halt, coming to rest with its front wheels hooked over the crash barrier in the middle of the central reservation. It’s now three feet shorter and eighteen inches thinner than it was when it left their long drive. 

The radiator hisses and fizzes like an unexploded bomb under the heavy canopy of the motorway bridge. Inside, Morgan’s torso lies awkwardly across the handbrake, his head resting on his mum’s chest. Her blouse has been torn revealing a deep gash like a surgical incision running right across her middle. Neither of them is moving.

Behind them, all hell is braking loose. Cars are swerving wildly across both carriageways, trying to avoid each other. A minibus spins round and round on its roof. Its occupants are pinned by centrifugal force to its upside-down doors and windows. A pickup truck carrying timber roof trusses has shed its load, then sped out of control over the hard shoulder, demolishing an emergency telephone booth on its way. 

But predictably, it appears the VW camper van that caused the whole damn mess, has escaped unscathed. It accelerates away from the scene while in the distance, sirens begin to wail mournfully. Overhead, a police helicopter circles the crash site.

~

The next thing Morgan knows, he’s staring up at the tall, cylindrical building that forms the architectural centrepiece of St. Rupert’s Memorial Hospital, Guildford. He appears to be looking at it through the rear doors of a National Health ambulance, something he’s pretty certain he’s never actually done before. His nose is wrinkled in pain and his lips have turned a funny blue colour. 

The movement of his head has been severely restricted by a fat, foam collar clamped round his neck. Despite this, he tries to pull his chin up to his chest, so he can see exactly what’s going on around him. A female paramedic is sat close by his side. She leans over and brushes the back of her hand across his clammy forehead. 

‘Sshhh,’ she whispers in his ear. ‘Lie still,’ she says. She tests Morgan’s right wrist for a pulse and finds it quite good and strong. Satisfied, she sits back again, allowing his arm to drop like a stocking full of butcher’s bones to the squeaky mattress underneath him. 

At the same time, the brakes of his trolley-bed are released. He feels himself rolling forwards, shuddering out of the back of the ambulance on four solid-wall tyres. He’s bumped onto the kerb where a few concerned faces nod in and out of sight. There’s no sign of his mum in the crowd though. He decides to count his teeth with his tongue, because it’s about all he can do. Sadly, there are two bloody gaps near the middle where a pair of ice-white incisors used to be. 

The trolley-bed picks up speed, bursting through some curtains into a bright foyer and then, darts left down a long, panelled corridor. It’s soon cruising along at a mighty seven linoleum floor tiles per second. 

‘Mum?’ Morgan says, more interested in knowing whether he can still speak, than in finding out what’s happened to the snottier half of the divorce-court drama he’s been expecting since he was six. His voice is shaky, but the nurse from the ambulance has good ears.
‘She’s fine,’ she answers him clearly. Morgan notices she has bouncy, sandy coloured hair and a beautiful countenance.
‘She probably practices that angelic smile of hers in the mirror every morning,’ he thinks to himself. Nurses do that you know, practice their smiles, so they can rustle up precisely the right one, as and when it's required.
‘I’ll tell her you’re asking for her,’ she soothes him. ‘But they’ll probably keep her in bed for a while. Maybe she’ll be well enough to pop in and check on you tomorrow...’

Morgan smiles inwardly. It’s pretty obvious she doesn’t mean a single word of this. She’s probably no idea where his mum is, or when she might be fit enough to see him. ‘What happened to us, to me?’ he asks her, wide-eyed. ‘One minute I was in my mum’s car, overtaking a coach load of OAPs -‘
‘And the next… you were in an ambulance, overdosing on pain killers,’ the nurse sniffs. ‘That’s life eh?’ She pulls her body in slightly as they go through a doorway. ‘There was a pile up,’ she explains, ‘on the motorway. A lorry hit a bridge. Closed the eastbound carriageway of the M4 for several hours. You’ll be alright though. No bones broken this time. Well no bad breaks anyway.’

‘A car crash?’ Morgan swallows. His mouth seems to be producing a lot more soliva than normal. ‘I don’t believe it. A dozen life-threatening operations and I almost cark it on the M4, in a blood-and-brains-on-the-back-seat car crash. Unreal.’
The nurse frowns, probably at the use of the words blood and brains in relation to a fatal traffic accident.
‘Sorry,’ Morgan apologies before she can say anything else. ‘I just-‘ he begins. ‘I just – I always thought a surgical slip up would spell the end for me. Not a car crash.’
‘Well it’s not spelt the end for you has it?’ the nurse tuts. ‘Cuts and bruises is all you've got, and I think it was seven... yes seven, mis-aligned vertebrae.’

Morgan can’t help falling in love with her professional smile again and goes all floppy in her gaze. His entourage pass a giant sheet of floor-to-ceiling glass, through which he spots the ugly north wall of the Obstetrics Department. At once, his heart leaps right into his throat. The Paediatric Unit is next door to the Obstetrics Block, they’re getting very close... 

‘I’ve heard about you,’ the nurse whispers to him as they step into an all-aluminium lift a minute later. ‘You’re Morgan Heel. You’ve been on St. Rupert’s books for ages. Today, the emergency services airlifted you to the General in Guildford – standard practice after a vic’s been involved in a road traffic accident. But St. Rupert’s asked for you to be brought back here, the moment they got wind of it. Good thing they did I ‘spect. They’ll fix you up in no time eh?’ 

Morgan realised suddenly the nurse had stepped backwards whilst talking to him, letting the lift doors come between them. ‘It was nice… to meet you,’ she was waving.
‘Aren’t you…? I mean I thought-‘ Morgan felt terribly vulnerable at that moment. He didn’t want to say goodbye to the nurse just yet. He wasn’t ready.
‘I don’t work here,’ now she was laughing. ‘I’m still learning. I’m a student at the General.’ She saw the look of disappointment on his face. ‘I’ll email the desk on your ward though,' she added quickly. 'Check on your progress later,’ her face seemed to be squeezed out of shape by the lift doors as they finally came together. And then she was gone, completely. 

Creaking and groaning, the lift lurched upwards, like a fish caught on a hook. Only a half-dozen belt buckles and the odd flatulent bottom surround Morgan now. He chose to stare at the wall, rather than at the bulging butt cheeks on all sides of him. Finally, the lift doors parted again (Thank God it was the lift doors, and not those bulging butt cheeks!) and there, in all its glory, was the Priory Lane Children’s Ward, exactly as he had left it. He shut his eyes, braced himself, then filled his nostrils with its distinctive smell. For better or worse, he felt instinctively like he was coming home.

~

‘I’m not stopping,’ were the words Petra Wellington-Heel chose to catch the attention of the starry-eyed receptionist on duty at the Paediatric Desk much later that same evening. She was sat bolt upright in a black, leather wheelchair, rolling slowly towards her. Like Morgan, she was wearing a large, foam neck brace. Her head was all bandaged up and her arms were strapped tightly to her sides. She’d apparently been left with just enough movement in her wrists to activate the controls of her battery-powered wheelchair. Her high cheekbones and piercing, grey eyes peeked out from behind several thick layers of crepe bindings. ’I just want you to tell me he’s all right,’ she said sharply to the receptionist. ‘Can you do that?’  

There was a moment’s silence, during which a plain piece of A4 paper fluttered to the floor, disturbed by a fan in the corner of the room. ‘Who?' begged the receptionist, slightly taken aback. 'Sorry, do I know you?' she added looking up.

Petra could taste blood at the back of her mouth. She didn't care for the taste one bit and swallowed hard, trying to get rid of it. 'He's in the Priory Lane Ward...' she explained. She obviously felt very uncomfortable in the hospital lobby. She knew she wasn't making sense, which made her even more prickly than usual. 'Morgan Heel,' she confessed her son's name at last, as if it were a deadly sin. 'He's been in a car crash.'

The receptionist finally found her stride. ‘Of course,' she beemed. 'I’ll tell him you’re here to see him,' she said, 'right away. Just give me a minute,’ she stood up, took a deep breath and trotted away. 'I'll only be a minute,' she called over her shoulder. 'That's all.' 

‘Stop!’ exclaimed Petra, fiddling with her wheelchair controls. The nurse froze mid-stride. ‘I just want to know he’s OK... OK?’ Petra suddenly seemed to possess the voice of an angel. Her wheelchair jerked to a halt right underneath the lip of the reception desk. ‘That’s all. Please don't tell him I'm here,' she purred. 'He'll only worry.’
The nurse still had her back to her. She shrugged matter-of-factly. ‘If you’re sure?’ she sniffed. She waited a moment, to see if Petra changed her mind, but she didn't. 
Her head bobbed up over the desk. ‘He gets all clingy,' she smiled, then her head disappeared again. 'Thinks he can't cope on his own. Just find out if he's alright,' she repeated. 'That'll do for now.' 
The nurse clicked her heels together smartly. 'Whatever you say,' she called. She rolled her eyes upwards and waddled off towards the Priory Lane Ward.  

Petra waited for her in the foyer, hemmed in by random pieces of spotlessly-clean furniture. She had time to file down two broken nails and scratch the head clean off a nasty scab that had been giving her jip for ages, before she returned.
‘I’ve seen him,’ the receptionist said coldly, ‘and he’s fine.’ She sat down, her face turned deliberately away from Petra's now. ‘No complications I gather,' she sounded tired and cross. 'Should be out in a day or two. So there's no need to worry.'
Petra was obviously not satisfied with this terse appraisal. ‘Is that all I get?' she frowned. 'What about his heart? I mean... what about his operation?' 

The receptionist grumbled something under her breath. 'His operation?' she barked, incredulously. 'He's got a compound fracture in his left leg, a cracked rib or two, an ugly bruise on his forehead and a nasty case of whiplash. I shouldn't think anyone else is focusing too hard on his heart operation right now. They're just glad he's in a stable condition for the night. If you want to know any more,' she folded her arms, 'you'll have to pop up yourself... talk to the nursing team on duty... I'm clocking off in five minutes.'

'The operation?' Petra prompted her again. 'Come on, you must know something. Has it been re-scheduled or what?' She glanced impatiently at her watch. 'It's important you know. If you could just tell me, I'd appreciate it a lot.' She tapped the arm of her wheelchair with her long, spidery fingers. 'Anything...?' she grinned. 'Please...?'

‘No Mrs. Heel,' the receptionist scolded her. 'I can't.' She looked deep into Petra's unflinching eyes. ‘I mean… they're going to keep a close eye on him. They'll monitor his progress over the next twenty-four hours. They'll make sure there are no complications. Then I expect they'll re-evaluate his suitability... for a major heart operation. But he’s by no means out of the woods yet. Perhaps you can come back again tomorrow... and if you're lucky, take him home with you? That'd be nice.'

‘I’ll talk to the doctor,’ Petra nodded patiently. ‘We’ll see...’ She fumbled in her pocket for her mobile phone. ‘Doctor Winston isn't it?’ she fussed. ‘He can tell me straight, if there's going to be a delay. If there’s the slightest chance we can keep things on track though, I just know he'll agree, we absolutely should.’ She swallowed more blood, smiling despite the disagreeable taste. ‘By the way,’ she lifted her gaze briefly from her slippered feet. Her collagen-enhanced nose twitched like it belonged to some fading, Hollywood has-been. ‘My name's Wellington-Heel. Wel-ling-ton,' she mouthed, 'like the Duke...' 

She steered herself backwards, off the edge of the lobby carpet onto the concrete concourse that came right up to the hospital door. The receptionist had no time to think of a reply, which was probably just as well really. You could be disciplined for swearing at the snotty relatives of even the nicest patients. 

Petra's phone was pressed hard against her ear, or at least the crepe bindings that covered her ear. It appeared her call had not yet been connected though. ‘Thanks and chow!’ she called, spraying the words over her shoulder like confetti. She was obviously listening to the doctor's answer-phone message now. You could see a suitable response forming in her mind, as she drifted out into the night. ‘I'll see you around,’ she said thinly. And with that, Petra Wellington-Heel was gone. The receptionist picked her jaw up off the floor and got on with her paperwork, undisturbed at last. The automatic hospital doors swished back into place and on the ground floor, all was quiet.

~

But on the second floor, in the hospital canteen, the vending machines were working overtime, trying hard to keep their over-priced produce cool. ‘I’m afraid I don’t like him,’ said one Nurse Barrows over their general din. ‘I feel awkward around him,’ she offered Nurse Tate a cup of coffee and a chocolate bar. ‘And that’s that.’
‘But don’t you think he’s smart? And funny?’ Nurse Tate replied, beginning their search for a table now. ‘Stuff it, I think he’s absolutely hilarious. Don’t you? Really?’ She stared at Nurse Barrows, expecting her to start back-peddling fast. 

Nurse Barrows was twenty years her junior, with a fashionably cut fringe and a gift for applying expensive make-up to her face in abstract patterns. ‘He’s childish,’ she complained, ‘and really mature at the same time. I can’t read him.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘And he sets off the fire alarm at night, when he ducks out of the emergency doors to look at the stars.’
‘True,’ Nurse Tate’s upper arms tested the seams of her size-eighteen nurse’s outfit. She was a big girl in every sense, but with a big heart to boot. She brushed her hair, in need of a thorough shampooing, out of her tired eyes. ‘But I can forgive him that,' she said, 'because he’s got spirit, bucket loads of it. And he’s had a really tough life, growing up in here.’
‘It can’t have been easy,’ conceded Nurse Barrows. ‘But that doesn't excuse his behaviour. I’ve heard his parents are a bit of a nightmare...’

‘A bit,' Nurse Tate turned sharply. 'That’s an understatement,’ she played with the gold St. Christopher round her podgy neck. 'He hardly knows them.’ They sat down in a quiet booth, shuffling their bottoms along the padded bench seat 'til their faces were roughly opposite each other. ‘They’re always promising to visit him, but they never do. I really think they’ve tried to ignore him as best they can since the day he was born. His mum keeps these fancy, thoroughbred horses; his dad’s into fast cars and rugby. Honestly, they might as well put him up for adoption.’

‘So... What's stopping them?’ Nurse Barrows took a long sip of her frothy coffee. ‘When exactly did they find out he was ill anyway? Maybe that's when they should have done it.’
Nurse Tate slowly raised her coffee mug to her lips too. Cappuccino scum clung to the bottom of her badly bleached moustache. ‘About ten years ago,’ she said. It seemed impossible to her that ten years had slipped by so quickly. ‘When he was… oh I don’t know… two or three years I suppose. He had a minor stroke and was rushed in as an emergency. Later they diagnosed him as having… wait for it ‘cause it’s a fantastic name… acute hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Basically, one wall of his heart's way too thick to be healthy. A severe heart attack's been waiting right around the bend ever since.’

‘Severe atrial fibrillation,’ Nurse Barrows nodded sagely. ‘It can happen,’ she raised one eyebrow. ‘I’ve seen it you know, when I was on sabbatical in Sydney… If he undertakes any strenuous exercise he'll likely suffer fits and nausea.'

'He does,' agreed Nurse Tate quickly. 'Really badly.'

'They put him on beta-blockers I expect,' Nurse Barrows was a one-woman medical encyclopedia it seemed. 'Straight away. To curb the strength of any abnormal heart rhythms.’ 

‘Right,' Nurse Barrows nodded. 'Dead right. They did tests, and discovered he had a great big bulge,’ she pretended she was holding a watermelon, ‘on the inside wall of his left ventricle.' 

'The myocardium,’ Nurse Barrows insisted. ‘I’m revising for an exam.'   

‘Anyway, before long they’d decided to fit him with an ICD - Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator,' Nurse Tate proved she could spout her fair share of fancy medical terms too, 'and for a while, it looked like Morgan might be able to lead a pretty normal life.’
Nurse Barrows’ attention had wandered off; her eyes had picked out the delicious new doctor at the sandwich bar. She fancied him. Despite herself, she flashed him a cheeky grin.
'But it wasn't to be,' Nurse Tate turned down her lower lip. 'Pumped full of drugs, half child, half machine,' she carried on, 'he had a sudden and dramatic relapse. Doctor Winston thought he'd lost him, on more than one occasion that I can remember. Then anyway... he was told the horrible and indigestible truth. He'd have to make regular visits to St. Rupert’s for the next ten years atleast. He'd have to undergo a series of painful operations, and if they were going to give him a fighting chance of reaching a ripe old age, he'd need a transplant at some point.' 

‘OK so he’s had it tough,’ Nurse Barrows looked away from the sandwich bar. Her eyes were still twinkling, no doubt picturing Doctor Green in the altogether... ‘And he’s grown up in a weird environment,’ she casually touched her ruddy lips with her manicured finger. ‘I’ll give you that. But do you know?’ She sniffed matter-of-factly. ‘It’s had exactly the effect you’d expect it to have… It’s made him flippin’ weird!’ She whirled her fingers round and round next to her ears. 'Loopy,' she said, rolling her eyes. 'Nuts!'
Nurse Tate's pager sounded, which was probably just as well. ‘Who’s spilled their laxative tonic over their bed sheets now?’ she cursed, digging it out of her dress pocket. ‘Damn stuff sets like jelly on them fancy new mattresses.’ She read the text message she'd received. ‘Emergency in Priory Lane Ward,' it read, ’please respond ASAP.' She groaned and got up, leaving her padded bench-seat to find its own shape again. ‘Better see what's up I suppose,’ she said.

Nurse Barrows had obviously received exactly the same message. She shuffled herself out from behind the table too, standing beside her colleague in a show of paediatric solidarity. Their forgotten coffees watched them straightening their dresses, waddling away in their flat-heeled shoes to find out exactly what had gone wrong. 

For a moment, the canteen seemed an oasis of calm without them. Then the fans in the vending machines started up again and the silence was shattered.
  
~

Morgan had lost consciousness twice in the last few minutes, but had swum back towards the light in his room one last time, to press the help button beside his headboard. As his eyelids fluttered shut for the last time and a rasping breath died in his throat, he saw Nurse Tate burst through the door of his private room. She smashed a water jug sitting innocently on his bedside table in her haste to get to him. Nurse Barrows followed close in her wake.

Glass crunched under their feet as they tried to judge the seriousness of the situation. Exactly when it occurred to them that Morgan was dying wasn’t clear, but before long, they had called for a crash team to assist them.

‘Clear!’ was the last thing Morgan remembered hearing. The paddles of a portable defibrillation unit came towards him like two electric steam irons. Then he blacked out. This time, he didn't wake for several hours. When he did, eventually come round, it took him an age to work out what on earth he was looking at. Fluorescent tubes, he decided at last, streaking passed overhead. He was obviously being dragged from one side of the Oncology building to the other in a heck of a hurry. He watched the vast hall of the Orthopaedics Ward open up beyond the x-ray rooms to his left. 

‘Emergency Myectomy!’ someone yelled over his head. Morgan groaned as the pain in his chest got worse.
‘The accident must have affected his heart rhythm,’ someone else swore. ‘Maybe compromised the effectiveness of his ICD.’
‘Endocarditis?’ a consultant surgeon suggested as they breezed through his waiting room. ‘We better act fast.’
Morgan knew exactly what all this meant. It meant more operations. A myectomy had been something he'd long dreaded. A section of muscle would be cut away from his heart, more specifically his septum, the muscular wall at the centre of his heart. Then he'd been sewn up again. It was one of the few procedures nowadays that still required full and easy access to his chest cavity. Open-heart surgery in all its brutal and ugly glory. 

An incision would be made here, he tried to move his finger to his left breast but couldn’t feel his arm. A scalpel would be drawn across his middle, he imagined the skin parting behind it. A half-dozen ribs would be removed, the thought of all the bones and blood made him wince. Then at last, a blade would descend into the most important muscle in his body... He suddenly sat up and screamed as loud as he could for as long as he could. 

‘His lungs are still working then,’ someone joked as he finished. He went limp and shrunk into himself.
‘Calm down,’ Nurse Tate hissed in his ear. ‘You don’t want to die now,' she said. 'You’re being rushed into surgery right away, but you have to let the professionals,’ her eyes flicked up, away from his for a second, ‘do their job. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll see you...,' she paused, 'on the other side.’ 

Morgan wondered whether she meant the other side of the theatre curtain, or the other side of death's dark door? His trolley slammed through two tall sheets of toughened glass, into the operating theatre. He opened his eyes, just a crack, and caught a glimpse of someone's face, puffy and green at the thought of having to scrub in for their first heart op... 'How comforting,' he thought, 'to know someone else was scared too...

Morgan knew this was a watershed moment. The angiograms, echocardiograms and whatever-else-io-grams he’d endured to get to this point were all behind him now. It was do or die time, literally. 

There was the distant squeak of white-soled shoes on a heavily polished floor and he realised he could smell bottled gas. The anaesthetist must have entered the room, testing his equipment, squirting chemicals into the air to see what worked today. Surgeons sounded quite unlike nurses and orderlies. Morgan could hear their voices, more detached than most, discussing his case with a mild, cool sense of indifference. 

He knew no one would shout anymore, or even raise their voices. Hospital theatres were like libraries, people just knew you weren’t supposed to argue or squabble in them, you got on with whatever it was you were doing and if things got tense, you certainly didn’t show it.

A huddle of people gathered around him. He was being stuck with needles. An assortment of small suction cups were pressed onto his chest. He tried to gather his thoughts. What had he eaten that day? When had he last been to the toilet? Who would tell his mum and dad what was happening?
Suddenly, the anaesthetist’s mask was settling over his mouth and nose and he was having to concentrate just to breath. He took two quick mouthfuls of 'air', before finally allowing himself that crucial, mighty drawing-in-of-breath that would herald the end of all sensible thought. A shiver rattled down his spine. ‘His life was no longer under his own control,’ he mused. Instead, it had passed, very gently, to the presiding, senior surgeon on duty at St. Rupert’s today, Doctor Winston. Or, if you prefer, Doctor Death…

As I explained earlier, Doctor Death looked like the arch baddy in a children’s storybook. People with problems like his usually get themselves sectioned under the Mental Health Act before graduating from university. Somehow though, he managed to avoid being diagnosed as schizophrenic or sociopathic or both and instead, forged a highly successful career in medicine. 

With his confident, tranquil eyes, his intelligent smile and his gently furrowed brow, he managed to convince everyone he was a likeable chap. A little awkward around people he didn't know perhaps but so what? Everyone respected him, everyone that is, except Morgan. Morgan hated the way he strode about St. Rupert’s as though he owned the place, stroking his trimmed, white eyebrows, curdling souls with his wicked stare. 

But now the gas the anaesthetist had given him was beginning to take effect. He lost himself and for a moment, forgot all about the deadly doctor. Then his smug face swam into view and his blood ran cold. Doctor Winston had a way of flaring his nostrils and consciously shrinking his pupils whenever he felt like it. Morgan didn’t know what it meant, but it looked hostile, potentially lethal! His powerful, steady hands stroked his chin. There was a force behind his deep, unfathomable eyes not entirely of this world. 

Morgan felt the agony of an irregular heartbeat beneath his ribs and told his brain to go looking for that soothing anaesthetic again. He was, he knew it, not far from the next life. That’s assuming there was a next life, he wished he’d paid more attention in R.E....
He couldn’t cross his fingers so instead, he crossed his eyes and hoped for the best. A pair of big hands compressed his left shoulder and side from the front. He felt nauseous, then strangely hollow, then if it’s possible to do so, felt absolutely nothing at all. A profound, chemical sleep took him and wherever he went, he knew he’d left his body and mind far behind...