Читать книгу Impuls - Aster - Страница 5

What it is about them she doesn't know; maybe it's because she's never worked with surgeons, or maybe it's because Clark-who-who-is-no-name and Moss-who-is-always-evil seem like little gods in this vast system called Royal London Hospital.

On the morning before surgery, she wrinkles in front of her locker, buttoning her robe at random, tucking unruly strands into a bun, and checking several times. A piece of paper rustles in his pocket – the form Olivia gave him, time and number: two o'clock in the afternoon, room seventy-four.

Mel jokes wickedly: like a date, by golly – and hands out a hirsute suit in a rustling bag. He adds, "They'll put the rest of the sterile part on you there. Smiles: some experience, if not the greatest, but experience. Rebecca looks crookedly out from under her false eyelashes, and Emily unwittingly wondered if they let her into the operating room…

At the exit of the office nurses meet Dr. Gilmore – the same whom Johnson ran into a few days ago – and politely greeted. Strangely, the doctor, rushing through the corridors, shouting something into the tube about a paternity test, is now a swarthy, almost dark-skinned man with a short red haircut and a nametag sloppily tucked in his pocket.

– Clark asked me to keep an eye on you," Riley says loudly as they walk leisurely down the halls. – She might skin you if I let you out of her sight! – he adds. – Now, where was I… Oh, yes, they'll wake her up to find out if she's been damaged in some way by rummaging around in her head. Don't you worry about it! – Gilmore pats her on the shoulder.

– I'm not.

– We've got the best anesthesiologist in the hospital, by the way! And Higgins promised to stop by, but knowing him, he'll forget.

They go up to neurology, and Emily's legs begin to shake. A metal staircase into the operculum, a circular branching corridor, and they're inside.

She thought it would be sterile, white, and quiet; in fact, the operating room is hardly quieter than the wards themselves: there are white coats everywhere, conversations, and solid doors with glowing numbers – from the seventieth to the eightieth. Separating them from the operating room itself is the washroom, a small space with a hand basin, shelves, and one tin bench.

Emily washes her hands, the fingers, the interdigital spaces, the back and nails of her left hand, in quick, honed strokes; then she moves to her right hand. The smell of sterility and ammonia hangs in the air; wipes rustle; cerigel is rubbed.

A nurse, fidgeting at the lockers, helps her put on her top gown, fixes her sleeves and tightens her sash; Emily feels like an important surgeon and, for a moment, closes her eyes and imagines that it is she who will perform the operation.

But the gloom quickly dissipates – Clark's loud, sonorous voice can be heard even through the heavy doors:

– Finishing balancing!

– Doesn't he tune himself? – Emily asks in a whisper, trying to stay close to Gilmore.

– Trust no one," Riley shrugs.

As soon as the door behind them clicks shut, Clark turns his whole body around, holding a thin metal wire in his hands:

– What the hell have you been poking around in there? We'll get started soon," and immediately retreats to the other end of the room in quick strides.

– Welcome to hell, Johnson," Riley winks and, whistling, retreats to the operating table.