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As Patrick slowly climbed the polished wooden stairs leading to the ship’s medical suite on C Deck, he was momentarily overcome by a feeling of nausea. He felt like the stairway had started spinning around him, leaving him confused and disorientated. The few passengers descending the stairs appeared to rush towards him; crowding around him, their voices blending into a disjointed clamour with no clear rhythm or coherence.
Then they were gone. Hurrying by on their way to lunch, eyeing the man with a bloodied pillowcase pressed to his face, with suspicion. Patrick had a firm hold of the bannister, a reflex act of self-preservation that had prevented him from tumbling backwards. He eased his grip, taking a few deep breaths to clear the fogginess in his head.
“Steady there. You might want to slow down a little. I expect you’re experiencing some delayed shock.” Bernard pressed his hand against the centre of Patrick’s back, helping him preserve his balance and regain his composure.
Patrick’s skin felt like it was ablaze, the sweat pouring from his brow had further soaked the pillowcase. Turning to thank his companion, he struggled to think of the right words. His mouth opening and closing silently before, frustrated, he turned his attention back to the climb.
Bernard, thinking Patrick looked weary, tried to persuade him to rest for a minute, but Patrick was determined to push on. He was beginning to feel hungry, and he sensed he would find food at his destination.
“The medical suite is not far, and I’ll be able to rest there,” he insisted. The two men continued up the stairs, with Bernard providing the younger man with subtle, tactile support.
It had been Bernard who’d insisted Patrick visit the medical suite. “Let’s start by getting you some medical attention, then maybe we should repair to one of the cafés to conjure a plan,” he had suggested. They were intent on milking Patrick’s injury for all it was worth, and to the wily old Englishman the logical first step should be to get official confirmation of the wound, and better still, its probable cause.
By the time they walked through the inviting doorway of the medical suite, Patrick’s breathing had become laboured. Struggling to take a few deep breaths, he felt the unpleasant sensation of fluid bubbling in the base of his lungs, causing him to cough. Politely placing the back of his hand over his mouth, he coughed a fine spray of bright red blood across his fingers. Wiping it away with the already stained pillowcase, he noticed his skin had taken on a pale, almost translucent appearance, and his veins formed dark threads, like a rash spreading across his hands, and disappearing under his shirtsleeves.
“That’s quite a cut you have there, sir.” The nurse’s tone was dour and unimaginative as she rose from her small desk. Her slate gray uniform, buttoned to the neck, hung to a point a quarter of an inch above the floor, the spotless white apron starched rigid. She bustled towards the two men, shooing Bernard away with a dismissive wave.
“This man can talk for himself. We don’t need people loitering about spreading germs. Please go about your business elsewhere, and I shall send for you if needed.” With that she ushered him out into the corridor, shutting the door before he had a chance to reply.
She turned her attention to Patrick, and with a dismissive air, indicated he should take a seat. She had treated many similar facial wounds, either caused by a bite or by a bottle, and the one thing they all had in common was drunkardness. It was the disease of the working class, and she didn’t have time for it and even less time for those getting into fights because of it.
Addressing Patrick brusquely, she returned to her desk. “I am Sister O’Malley. Was that caused by a bottle, or did someone bite you?”
Patrick tried to answer her question but he didn’t know how. He could visualize the words in his head; although if he were honest, he would have to admit he was unsure whether they were the right words. But try as he might, he couldn’t remember how to speak. His lips twitched, and his jaw swung up and down, but even uttering the feeblest of sounds eluded him. The confusion this caused him was compounded by the nurse’s impatient stare. She obviously thought he was wasting her precious time and made no attempt to disguise the fact.
Frustrated, he forced himself to walk towards the sturdy looking chair in front of the nurse’s desk, hoping that, given a moment, his speech would return. But his legs felt heavy and unnatural, and he only managed to stagger a few short steps before his legs cramped up. A fierce burning pain seared through his calves and up into his thighs as each muscle, in turn, stiffened. His toes curled inwards, the cramps spreading into his feet. The intolerable pain caused his face to contort as he pitched forward with an inaudible cry of vexation and torment. He made a final desperate and undignified lunge towards the nurse, who, reading his intent, deftly sidestepped his outstretched arms.
As he crashed to the floor, Patrick felt a cold darkness encircling him. He heard the distant, muffled voice of the nurse calling for the doctor’s help and was vaguely aware of approaching footsteps. A searing pain tore through his insides, every breath stabbed at his lungs as if he were inhaling fine shards of glass, and waves of crushing pressure swept through his head. The cramps that had so debilitated his legs spread up his body affecting his back and upper arms. His whole body burned with an intense fire which started deep within his chest and flowed through his arteries like a tide of molten steel.
And yet, Patrick still felt cold.
Sister O’Malley, aided by Doctor Sampson’s arrival, pulled Patrick over onto his back. His body was stiff and unyielding, his limbs rigid. She noticed the skin around his wound had turned greenish-blue in colour, and the rash had spread to his face and neck. She leaned over him, staring down into his tired, bloodshot eyes. They were dull and lifeless, his stare focused on a point far in the distance. She had cared for British troops during the Boer War and knew that look only too well.
“Sir, can you hear me?” She shook his shoulder gently, but he made no response. She tried again, only with more urgency, her voice raised. “Sir, can you tell me your name?”
“Let me see!” Doctor Sampson said, crouching next to Patrick’s body. He pulled open Patrick’s eyelid and peered into the opaque iris, causing a droplet of blood nestled in the corner of the eye to trickle out across the mottled cheek. The spreading rash had gathered pace and now covered the entire face. It lay just below the skin’s clammy surface, a spindly web creeping through the translucent tissue which oozed a thin, blood-like fluid forming droplets in the open pores and pooling in the body’s natural crevices.
Placing his hand on Patrick’s forehead, he continued, “He is feverish. We need to bring his temperature down.” Then, feeling for a carotid pulse, he added, “And his pharynx has swollen. I doubt he will be able to breathe much longer.”
The Sister, in response to the doctor’s observation about the patient’s fever, was on her way to fetch some wet towels but stopped as Patrick began a series of violent convulsions. Gurgling, rasping gasps emanated from his throat as his body shook uncontrollably, smashing his head repeatedly onto the unforgiving, linoleum-covered deck. Then, as quick as it began, he lay still again.
Rivulets of blood crisscrossed Patrick’s tired features, running from his nostrils, the corners of his mouth, and his wide, staring eyes. These focused on the doctor in a silent plea for help. The back of his head had become a soggy mass of hair, congealed blood, and torn skin. Doctor Sampson also noticed the convoluted twists of brain tissue pushing through the Irishman’s smashed skull.
Patrick tried again to speak, a wet gurgle emanated from the back of his throat. Sampson, straining to hear what he knew would be his patient’s final words, bent forward, placing his ear close to the dying man’s lips.
Without warning, Patrick vomited a fountain of thick, warm blood vertically into the air. It gushed from his throat, hitting the unsuspecting doctor full in the face, before falling back on to his own prostrate form. As the torrent subsided, he let out a rattling cough, sending a fine mist of blood and mucus into the air, which unbeknown to her, Sister O’Malley inhaled as she rushed to the stricken doctor’s aid.
Patrick McGowan let out a soft groan, his eyes rolling up into his head as he finally slipped into a colder, darker world. His body lay in a sticky pool of blood in a room he, only a few minutes before, walked into feeling only slightly unwell and a little disorientated. Such was the speed of his demise.
