Author: Ivor Starkey

“El placer es el relámpago irrisorio del contacto entre el deseo y la nostalgia”

Nicolás Goméz Dávila

Here are the frontlines of pseudo-civilisation, where our sedentary and sterile lifestyles are paid for by yet more sitting still.  All around are city faces. Men stare blankly and dream of their absent lovers whilst next to them head scarfed women attempt to quiet wailing children. All are broken in self-pity, cursing themselves for having to be here in this sterile place, a room made clean of all dirt, germs and vitality.

It’s well past Midnight when a young man comes through the entrance doors. He’s young, much younger than anyone else in there – the children’s department is down the hall. Faces are raised as he goes up to reception before drooping. The receptionist – a thirty-something – asks if he’s okay.

Can’t sleep, night terrors, chest pains, heart palpitations. The youth stands there like a mock Napoleon, clutching his left chest. It’s as if a heavy hand has spread its fingers across his torso, squeezing, grasping, not letting go.

After about 30 minutes of queasy waiting – listening to his heart, stomach dropping at every flutter – the eggshell triage door swings open. A new nurse appears and calls his name. She’s young – only a year or two older than he is – and dressed in blush-red overalls. Their eyes meet as he crosses the Emergency Room floor, both praising and recognising the youth in the other.

She invites him to a seat. “Have you ever had one of these done before?”

“Never.”

She tells him about the test and how it works.

“You study nursing?” The logo emblazoned on her overalls is of his university.

He feels that irregular heartbeat again and another bout of terror comes over him.

“These are going to sting when they come off aren’t they?”

She laughs quietly, her mouth sporting the whitest teeth he has ever seen.

“Not going to lie to you, they probably are…”

She tells him to lift his vest so she can stick on the pads. As she leans over him, her thin fingers pressing into his stomach, his pecs, his sides. Another joke had been on the verge of leaving his mouth, stifled now by the quiet sensuality of the moment.

She considers as she works the contrast between her bronze skin tone and his, which is pale and green with worry.

“Am I taking those off, or are you?” She smiles again with those white, white teeth.

“Oh. Oh, I’ll do it.” And he begins to pull the grey pads off one by one. It’s not painful at all.

“All done now.” The young man and young woman stand and look at each other.

He takes his seat again and looks at his phone. There are a few messages of concern from his parents and friends, but nothing from the one girl he’d wished would have recognised his absence by now.

The triage door opens, and the young nurse pops her head out once again. She recites a name and a large mass heaves itself over to her. The whiteness of teeth shimmers in the air for a few moments before vanishing.

It’s hours before he sees the doctor. At one point he falls asleep, hand under his chin, and misses his name being read out. The whingy, middle-aged voice behind the counter informs him with relish that not only is he no longer part of the queue but is no longer even on the hospital’s computer system.                

The doctor allows him through anyway. She sits in her chair, not even looking at his face. She clicks through test results and goes on and on about blood and the heart and lungs: “Probably a good idea to cut down on the drinking and smoking as well…”

But all he can think about is the white-teethed, dark-haired girl in her red overalls. He’s free to go, our doctor tells him, and with a thank you and a nod, he gets up to leave. As he walks out and across the lobby he looks again at that eggshell door, hoping the young nurse would stick out her head again and call his name – but the triage remains closed, the girl having gone home hours ago.

“How do I get out of here?”

“Second floor. Can’t miss it,” the effete voice speaks again.

After several wrong turns, and a detour to the children’s department, he manages to weave his way out of the hospital. A few dark figures stand outside, smoking their fags. Sunlight is on the horizon, and despite a chill in the air, there is a promise of Spring warmth that, somewhere, is humming along. 

As he walks back home, he thinks of that girl in the red overalls and her thin, brown arms. He really should have got her number. Or at least her name.

Author: Ivor Starkey. Ivor is an undergraduate studying Modern Languages at the University of Bristol. Last year, he came first place in the Roger Scruton Legacy Foundation’s Essay Contest in the 6th form category.