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"I'll get some from the wash room." said Mangala.
"No! You can't go out of here." wailed Anusha the nurse, "they'll be waiting."
"Not there." he laughed nervously. He went to the washroom just three rooms away. We peered through the semi darkness.
"Oh God, they are carrying him away" Anusha screamed.
I peeked outside. Yes. They had been waiting for him in the washroom. They were carrying him away in an odd upright position. Mangala's head was above his assailants, his feet off the ground and his arms outstretched like he was being crucified. This eerie silhouette dissapeared into the distance along the unlit hospital corridoor.
Yesterday, the wealthy businessman Brasham had been admitted to the hospital. His condition was serious. He was in extreme pain. I had been treating him for over two years and never seen anything like this in him before. Now we were locked up in this hospital room. Brasham seemed only instants away from death. I did not know what fate awaited us.
We could not go out. Already two had been nabbed. It was if they knew what we were planning. I could not make any sense out of their actions. They had isolated us. The electricity was cut but the emergency lights were functioning. Apparently they could not reach the emergency circuitry. All our shouting and waving through the window was useless. It seemed that every room on this hospital floor was occupied by them. And we could not expect people to notice something happening in a half lit fifth floor window in the middle of the night unless, of course, someone dived out of it. But even that wasn't possible for iron bars were welded across the windows.
There had been five of us (I was the doctor), Anusha, my private nurse, Andrew and Mangala the medical students and Brasham the patient. And now Mangala was gone.
I understood that they wanted Brasham to die and die quickly. Brasham's nephew was the heir who stood to inherit a huge fortune on Brasham's death and as such I first suspected that this might be one of his plans. I had met him and although he was not the most pleasing of men, on reflection, I could not imagine that he could be behind this scheme. Besides he was very rich, too. Whoever the perpetrators were, my worries were less on them and more on my survival.
I had only two more doses of morphine I was administrating intravenously. It just made him cling onto life and gave me time to form a diagnosis.
Andrew was pointing to a small circular object on the sealing. He mouthed the word 'microphone'. They were tapping us. I sat down. This was too much.
What did they want? None of us was extraordinary in any way. Except Brasham. He was filthy rich. Did they want to hold him for ransom. Highly unlikely. They seemed to be intent on killing him. Yes. They wanted Brasham dead. We had unwittingly become players in a power struggle somewhere. I remembered my oath and the resolutions I had made to myself on graduation. Safeguard the patient at any cost.Then I thought about my family. They didn’t need an unknown millionaire. They needed me. My other patients relied on me.
I wrote out on my prescription pad, 'Let's pretend that we are running out of medicine. I think they want this chap dead.'
I said, "..that was the last dose. If we don't give another in two hours he'll be a goner."
Andrew added, "His pulse is weak."
Over the next two hours, although his condition changed little, Brasham was methodically and theatrically murdered by the three of us.
Anusha was a bit nervous at the start and got better as we progressed, but we could never have done it without Andrew. He was a superb actor. His gasps supposedly coming from the patient would have convinced any eavesdropper that the patient was actually dying. I understood how he had managed to pass his viva having cut so many clinical sessions. We finished our scene with a noisy and emotional act of trying to massage a stopped heart back to life.
Finally I said "It's no use."
Andrew uttered a few obscenities. Anusha started crying softly.
"He's dead." I said for good measure. Had our plan worked?
An hour passed away in our murmuring. We heard a the director's voice on a megaphone. The phone started ringing. I picked it up.
"Doctor Niels, Doctor Niels, are you there?" asked an operator.
"Yes. It's me. Brasham's dead." I still didn't trust anyone. I heard the operator repeating my message.
Half an hour later, the director and a police officer forced their way through the barricaded doors of the fifth floor. They came to our room. Mangala, looking drowsy but alive, was with them. Together they greeted the nurse, Andrew, myself and a very alive Brasham.
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Copyright © 1999 Rumey Jiffrey