the familiar sounds of chairs in the waiting room being moved and the occasional cry from a child accompanying his mother to the clinic.
Think fast, he urged himself, you've always been a fast thinker. Think, think. What are you going to do?
He slipped the lock closed on his office door and quickly washed his hands and face in the basin, eyes avoiding the mirror. He dried himself slowly and deliberately with a hand towel, taking great care to remove all traces of sweat from his brow. Then he straightened his tie, buttoned up his white coat and unlocked the door.
Walking slowly and deliberately past the early arrivals he made his way to the medical library and checked inside. It was empty. He closed the door behind him and propped a chair against it so that anyone trying to come in would first have to push it aside, giving him a few seconds' grace. He quickly scanned the shelves lined with text books of obstetrics and gynaecology, until he came to the section dealing with infectious diseases. He flicked through one or two until he found what he wanted. In one large tome there was a detailed and comprehensive chapter on AIDS. Checking to make sure no one was about to suddenly disturb him, he ripped the pages out, folded them in two and slipped them inside his coat pocket. The textbook was carefully placed back on the shelf, its spine pushed slightly inwards so no one would see the title easily.
Back outside again he made an excuse to be alone. 'Nurse, would you ask Dr Sharif to look after this afternoon's clinic? I'm going up to the wards to check on one of my patients. You can page me if you need me.'
He made his way along the back stairwell to the 'on-call' bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed, the pages from the textbook spread out in front of him. The 'on-call' bedroom was located in an inaccessible corner of East Wing and was never used during the day. As he read his hands shook. He felt slightly nauseated. The more he read the more his insides churned and heaved. The textbook set out clearly the staging of AIDS, the steps of disease progression.
By his reckoning he was already at stage IVcl, HIV related secondary infections: oropharyngeal candidiasis.
There were only two further stages.
As he read details of the symptoms it was like a jigsaw coming together in front of his eyes. The recent night sweats, the bouts of nausea, the unexplained recurring diarrhoea he had put down to eating from unhygienic takeaways.
All these reflected earlier features. He was by now convinced the AIDS virus had totally destroyed his body's defence system. And in his already tormented mind he decided he was dying. He didn't know when, he didn't know how, but he decided there and then he would soon be dead.
He finished reading and stood up slowly, mind racing, heart pounding. He knew what he should do, but equally knew there was no way he would inform Luke Conway of his suspicions. If he went along the orthodox and correct route his whole underlife would be revealed. He would immediately be suspended from working and almost certainly dismissed from the hospital. Next would come a Medical Council enquiry. There was no way he would allow the medical establishment, the very bastards he hated and despised, to look at the darkness under his stone.
No way.
They would have a field day.
No way.
He folded the textbook pages into his pocket again and set off along the corridors of East Wing, face rigid, jaw set in determination.
First find out if you really have AIDS, he told himself, then decide how to handle everything else.
Get the facts.
Find out exactly.
He walked as casually as he could, past a room where three newborn babies cried with hunger while their mothers padded around in slippers, watching as a nurse showed them how to prepare a milk formula feed.
Maybe you won't be positive, he tried to convince himself, maybe this is a simple infection you've picked up from some patient.
Fuck off!
He heard the real Dean
Think fast, he urged himself, you've always been a fast thinker. Think, think. What are you going to do?
He slipped the lock closed on his office door and quickly washed his hands and face in the basin, eyes avoiding the mirror. He dried himself slowly and deliberately with a hand towel, taking great care to remove all traces of sweat from his brow. Then he straightened his tie, buttoned up his white coat and unlocked the door.
Walking slowly and deliberately past the early arrivals he made his way to the medical library and checked inside. It was empty. He closed the door behind him and propped a chair against it so that anyone trying to come in would first have to push it aside, giving him a few seconds' grace. He quickly scanned the shelves lined with text books of obstetrics and gynaecology, until he came to the section dealing with infectious diseases. He flicked through one or two until he found what he wanted. In one large tome there was a detailed and comprehensive chapter on AIDS. Checking to make sure no one was about to suddenly disturb him, he ripped the pages out, folded them in two and slipped them inside his coat pocket. The textbook was carefully placed back on the shelf, its spine pushed slightly inwards so no one would see the title easily.
Back outside again he made an excuse to be alone. 'Nurse, would you ask Dr Sharif to look after this afternoon's clinic? I'm going up to the wards to check on one of my patients. You can page me if you need me.'
He made his way along the back stairwell to the 'on-call' bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed, the pages from the textbook spread out in front of him. The 'on-call' bedroom was located in an inaccessible corner of East Wing and was never used during the day. As he read his hands shook. He felt slightly nauseated. The more he read the more his insides churned and heaved. The textbook set out clearly the staging of AIDS, the steps of disease progression.
By his reckoning he was already at stage IVcl, HIV related secondary infections: oropharyngeal candidiasis.
There were only two further stages.
As he read details of the symptoms it was like a jigsaw coming together in front of his eyes. The recent night sweats, the bouts of nausea, the unexplained recurring diarrhoea he had put down to eating from unhygienic takeaways.
All these reflected earlier features. He was by now convinced the AIDS virus had totally destroyed his body's defence system. And in his already tormented mind he decided he was dying. He didn't know when, he didn't know how, but he decided there and then he would soon be dead.
He finished reading and stood up slowly, mind racing, heart pounding. He knew what he should do, but equally knew there was no way he would inform Luke Conway of his suspicions. If he went along the orthodox and correct route his whole underlife would be revealed. He would immediately be suspended from working and almost certainly dismissed from the hospital. Next would come a Medical Council enquiry. There was no way he would allow the medical establishment, the very bastards he hated and despised, to look at the darkness under his stone.
No way.
They would have a field day.
No way.
He folded the textbook pages into his pocket again and set off along the corridors of East Wing, face rigid, jaw set in determination.
First find out if you really have AIDS, he told himself, then decide how to handle everything else.
Get the facts.
Find out exactly.
He walked as casually as he could, past a room where three newborn babies cried with hunger while their mothers padded around in slippers, watching as a nurse showed them how to prepare a milk formula feed.
Maybe you won't be positive, he tried to convince himself, maybe this is a simple infection you've picked up from some patient.
Fuck off!
He heard the real Dean
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