Wednesday 7th September 2022
Prime Minister’s questions
The House of Commons UK, the Palace of Westminster, London
Sylvia is almost certain that she’s waited long enough in the void between the floor above and the suspended ceiling below her. She carefully slides a ceiling panel open and peeps out into the dim light to ensure the corridor is empty before silently lowering herself to the vinyl clad floor. Standing on an adjacent plastic chair she slides the panel back into place – just in case. She stands very still, her breathing quiet, listening intently for warning signals that might cause unnecessary irritation.
She smooths her green scrubs, drapes a stethoscope around her neck (over her identity lanyard) and adjusts the bright yellow badge, displaying her name, Dr Sylvia Kraujas. Donning a face mask she casually sets forth wearing a pair of cherry red ‘Doc Martins’ boots. She smiles, knowing that her bubble glass spectacles make her look like a myopic goldfish.
In the enormous empty outpatients’ waiting room she stops. High-pitched squeaking, and out of tune whistling, echo from one of the four corridors leading into the cavernous space. She waits. A porter pushes an ancient hospital bed into the room.
That could do with some oil, Sylvia says as the whistling porter approaches.
Yeah, the wheels and me both, Doc, he replies.
I was thinking of your whistle, she laughs.
Bloody doctors, he mutters as he continues on his way.
Sylvia has memorised the hospital plan she’d been given by an ex-nurse who’d fallen under her thrall and had, frustratingly, died from exsanguination after a night of Sylvia’s gluttony.
Arriving at her destination, she stares in disbelief at the badly handwritten sign ‘Blood Getting Room’ slightly obscuring the word Phlebotomy. The grammar is appalling but her real incredulity is the naivety of the nurses and their managers: have these people no respect for the dangers to their patients’ safety – had they not seen the red-tops who’d been running the story for weeks?
She shrugs and opens the door. Entering in the dark, for a moment she’s overwhelmed with delight at the lingering aroma of blood. She pauses on the threshold. There’s something wrong. Yep, it’s male human sweat. A male voice bellows, ‘Gotcha!’ Sudden bright light bursts from the room. Sylvia flees as confused police officers stumble over each other in pursuit. Not yet! she shouts. Bursting through the emergency exit she jumps onto the passenger seat of the motorcycle that awaits her before it roars away into the night.
The Daily Mail’s front-page headline reads – ‘Dr Blood escapes! The Met fails yet AGAIN!’
On an inside page, The Guardian teases, ‘Is the recent escape of this dangerous woman, known as Dr Blood, a rare example of the Tory government actually preventing ever more blood haemorrhaging from our NHS?’
Prime Minister Truss denies that the Tory government, under her leadership, has ever allowed money to be cut from the NHS.
Sir Lindsay Hoyle (The Speaker) can’t stem the laughter.
I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More
© Phil Cosker 2024
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