“I understand.”
The thing is, I think he does.
Back at the hotel, enjoying the luxury of the bathroom, I shower, dress as Aksel with glasses, and head out into the rain. First I want to register my interest in a hospital vacancy then look for alternative accommodation—even though I have the hotel for another few nights. I am not worried about bumping into Agent Gaultieri because he has no idea who I am, but I want to be closer to St Thomas Hospital and live in someplace more hospital-porter-appropriate. Few reliable agencies offer affordable month-to-month rentals, but I was on the street long enough to know which ones I can trust. And paying by cash always tended to sweeten the deal. I only hope they accept Euros.
But first, I need a job. Rather than search online, I head to the hospital and see if I can apply directly. If not, I will try one of the recruitment agencies dotted around the area. If I can’t get employment, I may need to rethink my plans.
Luck seems to be on my side because as I walk around the corner of the hospital towards the main entrance, I spot a man ina black padded jacket outside a gate into the grounds, sheltering beneath a canopy and smoking a cigarette.
“Do you work here?” I ask, hoping to appear friendly.
“For my sins, yeah. Why are you asking?”
“Do you know if there are vacancies? For porters or domestic staff? I need work. I was told to speak to Ravi Patel.”
“Oh, yeah?” says the man curiously, sizing me up. “You got experience?”
“A little. During overseas deployments.”
He pulls the cigarette from his mouth and squints at me, an eyebrow raising. “You know the work’s hard and the pay’s shit, don’t you?”
“A job is a job.”
He pauses to size me up again before stubbing the cigarette on the wall and putting the remains into his pocket. “Come with me,” he says, turning around and entering the gate.
Ravi Patel wears thick-framed bifocal glasses and sports an almost comical moustache that droops on either side of his unsmiling mouth and double chin. I notice nicotine stains on his lips and his fingernails. Although he’s overweight, his biceps are huge, and I imagine he can easily lift heavy weights. He sits me down in a small room and hands me a form. Before leaving me to write down my details, he explains that they have a post available while one of his staff members recovers from an operation. The position is temporary, for six weeks, but he has to go through official channels and let the recruiters send candidates—hospital policy—and will be able to let me know either way in a few weeks.
Romano warned me to expect this kind of setback, and I continue filling in my application anyway. Patel returns fifteen minutes later, and I wait for him to read through before he fires questions at me, mainly about the physically demanding duties. I shrug and answer with a curt yes or no. During the forty-fiveminutes, he is interrupted by people three times. Eventually, after he has stated the working hours and hourly rate—which is barely minimum wage—he is interrupted again, but this time the orderly appears agitated.
“Ravi. You’re needed. We called security, but they’re tied up with another issue. There’s a nutter in A&E. Grabbed a scalpel from a trolley, and now he’s threatening the nursing staff.”
“Shit,” he says, standing abruptly and scraping the chair away from his desk. “Can you wait here a moment?”
“Do you need help? Don’t worry, I’ve dealt with my fair share of civil unrest during peacekeeping missions.”
“Come on, then.”
I follow him along a corridor until we’re outside double doors that lead into the busy accident and emergency ward, where the man in question is screaming obscenities at staff. Two men dressed like Ravi have backed him into a corner. He uses the metal trolley as a shield to protect himself, and I can see from his face that he’s under the influence of drugs or alcohol. His gaze is unfocused, and every time he shoves the trolley at the men, something drops off. I know the first step is to disarm him, but I’ll need help removing the threat completely without anyone getting injured.
“He’s not planning on hurting anyone,” I tell Ravi.
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve seen the same thing many times. When I give the word, can you get a nurse to administer a strong sedative?” I ask Ravi. The situation is not unlike the times I’ve disarmed drunks with knives when I lived on the street. “I can disarm and restrain him without anyone getting hurt, but I need someone to sedate him. Otherwise he might bolt into the waiting room and cause himself and others harm.”
Ravi follows my instructions. Once everyone is in place, he nods to me, and I move into action.
I wait for the guy’s gaze to turn elsewhere before I lunge forward. When he turns and clocks me, he lashes out wildly but misses. After plucking the scalpel from him and tossing it away, I spin him around and, with my arm secured around his upper body, hold out his bare arm. A nurse who has been standing by steps forward and injects him. He tries to struggle in my arms, but I strengthen my grip on him and hold him in place until I feel the tension in him begin to melt.
Once we’ve secured the man in a wheelchair and taken him away, the nurse who sedated him comes forward and thanks me. Ravi is talking to one of the orderlies about what happened, but asks me to wait. I am ready to tell him I’ll call him in a couple of days and leave when he turns to me.
“You’re hired,” he says, leading us back the way we came. “I’ll let the recruiters know. When can you start?”
“As I mentioned, I’ve just got back in the country, so I need to find accommodation. Is tomorrow too soon?”
A broken-toothed smile breaks out on his face.
“Tomorrow is perfect. You have family with you?”