Writing Wrongly

Chapter 27 - Certificate Of Proof

Closing the door, Thomas cringed at Warren's groans of agony from behind it. But glancing at his certificate again, he soon stopped and wished they were louder. Assaulting mens' bollocks was becoming something of a habit, and he wondered whether he ought to see someone about it. But because there was no receptionist for him to make an appointment with, or with whom he could leave a short note of apology, Thomas left, keen to get out of the place, find a ladder and then find Janice.

There were two other people in the lift that Thomas entered, and both wore nametags suggesting they probably knew Warren and wouldn't be happy about him being kneed in the bollocks, even if they didn't know his bollocks personally.

"Are you alright?" one of them asked.

Thomas stopped hitting his head repeatedly against the door and glanced at the man. "What?"

"Are you alright? It's just that you were repeatedly hitting your head against the door."

"Was I?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Sorry. I didn't realise," said Thomas, rubbing his forehead. "I've just had five hours of dreadful therapy, you see, so I'm quite disorientated. I can't, for example, recall what pasta looks like."

The man blinked in a nervous way and looked up at the floor numbers, calculating their rate of descent before being disappointed with the result.

Thomas turned to a woman, who'd already done her calculations and was busy considering alternatives.

"What's security like in this place?" Thomas asked her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What's security like in the hospital. Is it good?"

"Good?"

"Yes—for example, if a psychiatrist's bollocks get assaulted, how quickly might the place be cordoned off and security called?"

She looked at her colleague, who appeared even more alarmed than she.

"I'm sorry, but I don't—"

"I should have insisted on that bedpan," Thomas said, turning back to the door.

"Bedpan?"

"Yes. I was going to have a map drawn on it."

"A map?"

"Yes. Look, you don't have a bedpan on you, by any chance? One with a map would be great."

The lift went ping, and the two extricated themselves with the sort of fervour traditionally found on wedding nights. The man was already dialling a mobile phone and the woman was rummaging around in her bag for something similar.

"In there?" Thomas said, surprised one would fit. "I don't need one to urinate in, or anything. And unless it has a map already on it, I'm not really interested." He looked around. "There was a nurse here earlier, somewhere. She had one. Very pretty. Blonde. Shaped like toothpaste. The nurse, not the bedpan. Do you know where I might find her?"

The woman brought a phone to her ear and spoke, not taking her eyes off him. But having arrived on the ground floor, Thomas realised he didn't need a bedpan after all. On its far side were some doors that led to the rest of the world, which was bright and sunny and had lots of places to hide in—one of which might contain Janice. The ground floor was busy, and staff moved about it dealing with cut limbs, ruptured arteries and scalded faces. And the patients didn't fare much better. Indeed, several had been propped up in a corner with a distinct lack of hue, and another was being hosed down. There was a reception desk which was busy and covered in blood, across which a man was strewn, who urgently needed both an appointment and suturing—though not necessarily in that order.