When the scans and checks are complete, Doctor Sharma informs me in mournful tones that I have ‘. . . a collection of blood’.
‘Pardon?’
She repeats her assessment.
‘All right. I don’t know what that is. It makes it sound like I’m stockpiling haemoglobin as a side hustle.’
‘It means you might die.’
‘I think I prefer my interpretation.’
‘I’m sorry to be so blunt, but you need to start taking this seriously.’
‘Of course. Sorry . . . I’m just . . .’ I’m just floundering. ‘Is there anything you can do to help?’
‘The collection of blood means our attempts to repair your veins weren’t successful. At least not entirely. So we’ll open you up and where the trauma wasn’t repaired, we’ll use grafting to seal the wounds shut. How does that sound?’
‘Let’s hope the operation isn’t in vein this time.’
‘That’s your worst yet.’
‘I was going to say it sounds like a bloody mess, but it felt too on the nose.’
She removes her glasses and gives the point some thought. ‘No. That would have been more accurate. Believe me, Mr Novak, this whole thing is a bloody mess.’
‘I take it I’m going to be moved back to the big hospital for the operation?’
‘Sadly not. Your Mr Peters has insisted we undertake surgery here. Security concerns, apparently.’
‘That doesn’t sound ideal. Is this place suitable for operations?’
‘Oh, there’s a theatre. Hasn’t been used since the Relief of Mafeking, but we can spruce it up. The main issue is getting the staff that we’ll need over here. Medically speaking, that will cause a level of discomfort in the piriformis.’ She sees me looking blank and clarifies, ‘It’ll be a pain in the arse.’ She turns to leave. ‘You’ve got some paperwork to fill in and then . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘There are a couple of gunmen who’d like to see you.’
I peer at her. She’s not joking.
‘Just a couple? I must be slipping.’
*
I hate paperwork. I especially hate medical paperwork. The form Doctor Sharma gives me to sign essentially states that if anything goes wrong with the operation, such as me dying in theatre, well, it’s just bad luck. The document is an ‘Oh, well!’ waiver. A legal shrug of the shoulders. The medics responsible cannot be held to be responsible in any way.
Yes, I know it’s all about insurance and indemnification, but it does nothing to boost my mood or my confidence in the people who’ll soon be slicing me open and sifting through my veins and arteries like a chef examining the quality of a pan of linguine.
But still, I scrawl my signature at the bottom of the third page and hand it over to Doctor Sharma.
‘Thank you, Mr Novak.’
‘No problem. But I want you to know I’ve auto-set my account ahead of time. So if I do die on the operating table, I’ll be leaving this place a very scathing review on Tripadvisor.’
‘Good.’ She checks my signature and nods. ‘That might be enough to get me suspended on full pay. You’d be doing me a favour.’
‘I’ve not just put ideas into your head, have I?’
She closes the document and begins to walk away. ‘You may never know, Mr Novak. You may never know!’
‘Always a pleasure to see you, doctor.’
‘I’ll send in the gunmen!’
‘Thank you.’ And momentarily alone, I murmur to myself, ‘I remember when it was nurses.’
*
The ‘gunmen’ Sharma was referring to are the two bodyguards Simmonds drummed up for me. They’re both built like bison and wear dark suits tight enough to ensure the outlines of their shoulder holsters and sidearms are clearly visible through their jackets. One introduces himself as Dave. No imagination. The other calls himself Emile. They both have English accents that suggest they hail from Lancashire or Yorkshire.
‘Well, I appreciate you coming. But I’m hoping you’re just here as a precaution.’
Dave is already looking around my small room and doesn’t break off from his assessment. ‘I’m afraid not, Marc. Mr Simmonds has already received some significant intel.’
‘Significant intel?’
‘That’s right,’ Emile confirms. ‘All the intercepted comms point to one thing. There’ll be a full-blown attempt on your life within the next twenty-four hours.’