“The next time that Hardparcel woman calls for an ambulance”, said Dr. De’Ath, “tell her she’s got a wrong number.”

            Tolwood Hospital was collectively traumatised by the most recent family food-poisoning and in dread of the next. “They got vomit on the ceiling! The husband sleepwalking into paediatrics, and the delinquent friend of that revoltingly priapic son . . just how in hell did he open the controlled drugs cabinet? ”said De’Ath out loud, but secretly hoping the boy would break into the narcotics box again to cover up the newly pilfered morphine ampoules.

Nurse Mkebi, writing a report with one hand, the left struggling eternally to make an XL uniform close across an XXL chest, said something soothing in Yoruba. The doctor, who spoke only NW1 English, understood nothing and, like most of the hospital’s heterosexual staff and some of the gays, found his eyes drawn uncontrollably into the immensely undulating brown cleavage.

Babies screamed futilely in the waiting room. Miles the always-exhausted-orderly pushed a cart over-loaded with medications and supplies past the nursing station and with a despairing burst of energy rammed the swing doors open, side-swiping Mrs. MacLeish’s crutch from under her arm to topple her with a fading shriek amidst a cascade of catheters, bags of saline and sterile swabs. A roll of cotton gauze unwound slowly along the corridor.

Nurse Mkebi leaned forward to push the clip-board into its tray. Dr. De’Ath groaned.

Sister Walter looked up from the medications tray and gave him a cyanide smile that would have sent anyone sober to the morgue. “It’s the change”, thought De’Ath. “She was nicer as a man.”

Along the other corridor in Sterilization the autoclave finished its cycle: flashing LEDs and a buzzer made sure everyone knew. Eventually Miles the always-exhausted-orderly dragged himself in, turned it off and started slowly taking out the sterilized minor surgery and obstetrics kits. The last green paper-wrapped packets came out from the lower tray still hot from 120 degree high-pressure steam, revealing a single, and well-cooked, human finger pointing straight at him.

 Miles stared back at it, wiped his eyes, wondered if his pills might have side-effects and looked again. He tore open a suture kit for a tissue forceps. Sterile it might now be and he had certainly seen and handled worse but this was something he just didn’t feel like touching. He lifted it to the light. There was dirt under the nail and a ring with a square green stone on the proximal phalange close to where it appeared to have been ripped from its owner’s hand – a shred of tendon had been withered by the heat.

“I’d better check the geezers in the freezers”, he thought, “See if anyone’s missing anything.”