David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good Read Online Free

mid-thirties, presented
this morning having been driven by his boss from work. He is complaining of a
blow to the head suffered on a business trip to Europe. He appears to be
moderately disoriented and is unable to state clearly the circumstances of
the accident, his date of birth, or his health service no.
    He is not
happy about being admitted and has repeatedly stated his intention to
self-discharge.
 
    This is the second occasion within the
last 6 months that the patient has suffered a moderate to severe blow to the
head. It is therefore recommended that an MRI scan be carried out at the
earliest opportunity to assess the risk of permanent brain injury.

 

 
 
 
    Chapter Three

 
    I’ve ended up needing treatment many times, over the years. It’s an occupational
hazard. But I’d never been hurt saving a drug dealer, before.
            I’ve found myself in all
kinds of different medical institutions. Huge teaching
hospitals. Tiny, charitable clinics. Sick bays on ships. Even a veterinarian's
office on one unfortunate occasion. But never anywhere
as picture-perfect as St Joseph’s. It was made up of four matching
buildings. They dated from the early eighteenth century, according to a round
blue sign I saw on my way to the MRI suite, and were arranged symmetrically around
a rectangular garden.Three of the wings
contained the patients’ wards and private rooms, plus operating theatres and
suites for all the specialist treatments the hospital offered. The other housed
the kitchens, offices, meeting rooms, and stores.
            I’m
usually desperate to leave hospital before the doctors want me to. I even had
to break out of one, once. But I’d never wanted to be cooped up for longer. Not
until that morning, after a bored technician had taken two hours to fill his
machine with little electronic slices of my brain. Because
someone had taken that time and used some of it to slip into my room. Poke around in my locker. Spill my water. Search inside my pillowcases.
Scrabble around under my bed. Rifle through my clothes. Toss my keys and empty wallet onto the floor. And skulk out again, unnoticed.
            But whoever this person
was, and wherever they went, they didn’t leave empty handed. They took
something with them. Something that didn’t belong to them.
            A pair
of boots.
            Grenson brogues. In black. They were nice to look at. The
leather was supple, so they were comfortable to wear. Even for days at a time.
And the toecaps were solid - almost as good as steel - which is essential in my
line of work.
            I’d bought the boots in
London, the last time I was here for more than two nights in a row. That was
three years ago, now. Since then I’d worn them on four continents. In fourteen countries. During twelve jobs. And there’s plenty of life left in them, yet. Enough that I’d figured to keep
them another couple of years, at least. Till they got too
scruffy. Or I found something I liked better. But either way, I was
going to make the decision when to change them. It wasn’t going to be forced on
me by some small-time sneak thief. Not at home, in England.
            I want to be very clear
about those boots. They weren’t government issue .
There were no secret gadgets hidden in their heels. They weren’t needed as
evidence in any high stakes trial. They were simply my boots. Chosen by me. Paid for by me. And now stolen by someone I’d
been injured while protecting. Which meant those boots represented something
more than footwear. They represented betrayal. And that’s something I’m never
going to take lying down.
            There was a practical
aspect to the theft, as well. Consider the circumstances. What was I supposed
to do without boots? Wander into town in a pair of disposable slippers?
Hospital footwear was good enough to get me to the admin wing, though. And,
appropriately enough, the first office I came to