Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (37 page)

It was true. If the infection spread fast enough and widely enough, the bloodstream would be flooded with bacteria, causing septicaemia, known as blood poisoning. It was usually lethal.

“And him my only one, just Dermot and Minty and me. Dat’s all of our family.” She wept silently. “Don’t let anythin’ take Dermot from us, sir.”

“It will not,” Fingal said. “By God, it will not.” He put an arm round her shoulder and squeezed. “I want you to trust me.” Fingal inhaled. He’d been anxious enough considering a risky course of action which might save the boy’s life and not at the expense of his leg either, but now he was even less confident that it would be the right thing to do.

She stared directly into his eyes.

“We can send Dermot to hospital now,” he said. “The surgeons will have no choice but to amputate the foot, but he’ll live.”

“Take off his foot? Och, Jasus. Do they have to?”

Fingal blew out his breath, pursed his lips, clenched his teeth, and made his decision. “Maybe not,” he said.

“Honest to God?” He heard the hope in her voice, saw a tiny smile start.

“I know a doctor at the Rotunda…”

“Rotunda? But sure dat’s for women and babbies, not wee boys like Dermot.” Her face crumpled.

“I know, but Doctor Davidson’s treating infections just like the one Dermot has. There’s a new medicine that should be able to kill the germ that’s infected Dermot. If I can get some—” He debated for a moment about whether to tell her the drug was experimental, that as far as he knew it had worked only in mice. No. It would take too long to explain. If he was going, he had to go—now. “I can be there and back in under an hour. I think it’s a gamble worth taking.”

“A gamble?” She frowned.

“If I can get the medicine, it might kill the germs in time to save Dermot’s foot. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

He glanced back at the red lines. How high the life-saving amputation would have to be would depend on how far they had travelled up the boy’s leg. Fingal needed to get going at once. If he wasted too much time it could even cost Dermot his life. “I’ll not deceive you, Mrs. Finucane,” he said, “there is a risk, but I honestly think it’s worth it.”

She sniffed, dashed away a tear. “If you say so, Doctor. I want Dermot to have a normal life. I don’t want him to be a feckin’ cripple. Do what you t’ink best for my boy.”

“I’m off,” he said. He left his bag and ran to the door to meet a man who must be Mister Minty Finucane coming in. “Your wife’ll explain,” Fingal yelled, and grabbed his bike.

*   *   *

He was panting when he propped his bike in a rack and headed for the Rotunda Hospital’s front door. The traffic had been heavier than he’d expected when he’d reached O’Connell Street and it had taken him twenty-five minutes to get here. He went through the front door. Now he had to find Doctor Davidson or at least someone who knew about the trial with red prontosil and who might be able to help. If anyone would know it would be one of the senior nursing sisters. Inhaling hospital smells—Dettol, baby puke, and floor polish—he trotted along a familiar corridor to the post-natal ward. That’s where any cases of puerperal sepsis would initially be diagnosed, and if anyone would know about the trial of Prontosil, they would be on this ward. Terrific. Sister O’Grady, an old friend, was on duty.

“Hello, Fingal. What brings you here on a Friday night?”

“I need help, Oonagh,” he said.

“With a midwifery case?”

He shook his head. “I’ve a kid with an infected stone bruise. He’s going to lose a foot unless I can kill the infection. I wondered how the trial with Prontosil was going.”

She glanced round and lowered her voice. “We’re not meant to talk about it, but we think it’s working. It seems to do the trick in about thirty-six hours.” She nodded her head once and smiled. “It’s quite miraculous, but hush-hush. Doctor Davidson doesn’t want to raise hopes until he’s absolutely sure it does work.”

Fingal understood. It was rightly considered unethical to trumpet premature news about a potentially revolutionary form of treatment until its efficacy had been proven beyond doubt. But Sister’s word was good enough for him to want to try Prontosil for his patient. He clenched his fists and grinned. “That’s amazing. Now, how could I get my hands on some tonight?”

Her smile disappeared. “You’d have to speak with Doctor Davidson, the master, but he’s in London at a conference.”

“No.” Fingal nearly shouted the word. Damn it, damn it, he was sure he was so close to being able to save Dermot’s foot and now that chance was being pulled away. “Is there no one else I could ask?”

She frowned. “I—I suppose you could talk to Doctor Williams, the resident doctor.”

“Where is he?”

“I’ll get him.” She picked up the earpiece of a telephone, held it to her ear, jiggled the cradle, and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Operator? Connect me with Doctor Williams, please. He’s in the common room.”

Fingal shifted from foot to foot, inwardly muttering, “Come on, come on.”

“John? Oonagh. Doctor O’Reilly’s here and he needs to talk to you. I’ll put him on.”

He took the earpiece in one hand and bent to speak. “Doctor Williams, Fingal O’Reilly here. We met last year when I was here doing my midder.”

“I remember. Big lad, got your nose bust in a boxing match. How can I help you, Fingal.”

The “Fingal” was very collegial. A promising start. “I’ve a thirteen-year-old with an infected foot, it’s going to have to be amputated…”

“But this is a maternity hospital. I don’t think we can help him.”

Fingal heard the puzzlement in the man’s voice. “I don’t expect you to, but when I was here, Doctor Davidson was investigating red prontosil. I think it would work for my patient. Save his foot. Can you help me get my hands on some?” Say yes, damn it. Say yes.

Silence.

“Hello. Hello. Are you still there?”

“Doctor O’Reilly, I’m sure you mean well…”

The formal Doctor O’Reilly. He’s going to say no.

“… but I have absolutely no authority to release an experimental drug to anyone, no matter how worthy the cause might be. I’m sorry. I really am.”

Don’t give up. “Is there absolutely no possible way you could let me have some? Please?”

“I am sorry, Doctor O’Reilly. I truly am.”

Fingal took a deep breath. Inside he was yelling, but that would get him nowhere. “I understand. Thanks anyway. Good night.” Fingal put the earpiece on the cradle and broke the connection. “Thanks for trying, Oonagh,” he said.

“No luck?”

He shook his head. “Looks like I gambled—and lost.”

“I’m sorry.”

Fingal’s mind was in turmoil. Gambled. The word struck a chord. Gambler. Bob Beresford was a gambler, and Bob—Fingal looked at his watch, quarter to six—might still be home and able to get some Prontosil from the research laboratory. “Oonagh, can I get an outside line? It’s urgent.”

She lifted the earpiece. “Get me an outside operator, please.” She handed the earpiece to Fingal.

“Operator here.”

“Merrion 385, please.”

Pause. Strange noises. “Hello, Merrion 385.” Bob’s voice.

Glory Hallelujah, he was home. “Bob? Fingal.”

“Hello, Fingal. Nice to hear from you. How’s life abusing you—”

“Bob. I need help. Wait for me. I’m coming over. It’s urgent.”

“All right. I’ll be here.”

Fingal did a quick calculation. Parnell Square to Merrion Square? About a mile and a half. “Be there in ten, fifteen minutes.” He hung up the earpiece. “Thanks, Oonagh. I’m off.”

“Good luck, Fingal.” He heard her words as he fled down the corridor. Maybe Bob could help, just maybe, but Fingal O’Reilly wasn’t going to give up without trying everything possible.

36

The Heart No Longer Stirred

Sylvia crouched over Bertie, eyes staring, both hands over her mouth.

“Come with me,” O’Reilly said to Donal to the accompaniment of Sylvia’s high-pitched keening and cries from others of “Oh my God” and “What happened?”

O’Reilly took three paces to Bertie’s side, knelt, ripped open his shirt, and felt for Bertie’s heartbeat. None. “Blue blazes.” O’Reilly pounded his fist against the breastbone, and again. A couple of swift blows might get the heart restarted. No pulse. He put the flat of one hand on Bertie’s chest, his other hand on the back of the first, and leant his weight forward to compress the chest. He relaxed and pressed down again. “Donal,” he called, “run and get Doctor Bradley, Kitty, and the marquis here on the double. And Sylvia, try to calm down. It’s not your fault.”

Her moaning subsided and she stood, sniffling and wiping her eyes.

O’Reilly tipped Bertie’s head back, pinched his nose, took a deep breath and, covering Bertie’s mouth with his own, exhaled into Bertie’s open mouth. Shirley Bassey was singing,

it’s the kiss of death from

Mister Goldfinger …

“Turn that bloody thing off,” he yelled, and bent to his work. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep Bertie’s circulation going with external cardiac massage and mouth-to-mouth artificial respiration—the kiss of life. But he was going to give it everything in his power, at least until he could get his hands on some medication.

Kitty knelt by his side.

“Cardiac arrest,” he said, “can you take over for a minute?”

Kitty, senior nurse that she was, did, and Fingal stood. “Jenny, Bertie Bishop’s in cardiac arrest. Run out to my car, get my bag, bring it here. Your legs are younger than mine.” Just about the same thing Doctor Corrigan had said to O’Reilly back in 1936.

“Right.” She tore off.

The music stopped. People stood in little groups, clearly wondering aloud what was going on. Conversation was muted. O’Reilly said, raising his voice, but keeping it steady, “Can everybody hear me?”

Murmurings of assent.

“Right. Councillor Bishop has been taken ill.” O’Reilly was surprised by the number of voices he heard saying, “Och dear,” and, “The poor soul” and, “Dear love him.”

“I need to give him some treatment. I hate to spoil your fun, but I think those of you with kiddies should collect them up and maybe all of you should go outside and get on with the fireworks display we were going to have later.” He yelled, “Who’s in charge of the fireworks and bonfire?”

“Me, sir,” said Donal, who had returned and stood at the marquis’s side.

“Get people moving and you and whoever’s helping you get things under way, but leave room for an ambulance to get here.”

“Right.” Donal left.

“My lord?”

“Yes?”

“You have keys to the office. When Doctor Bradley comes back, take her to the telephone.”

“Certainly.”

O’Reilly looked down. Kitty was working steadily and Bertie’s colour didn’t look bad. O’Reilly realised that Flo Bishop and Cissie Sloan were standing at his side. Cissie was holding Flo’s hand as if they were a couple of schoolgirls.

“Is he dead, Doctor?” Flo’s voice quavered.

“No, Flo, Bertie’s alive,” O’Reilly said. “But he’s had a heart attack.”

“Oh my God,” she said, “that’s desperate, so it is. Och, Bertie.” She looked down at her husband, then up at the doctor. O’Reilly laid a hand on her shoulder. “He’s very sick, Flo.” No need to tell her that the councillor’s heart had stopped and that it was touch and go. “An ambulance is coming to take him to the Royal.”

“For Doctor Adgey and Doctor Pantridge to look after again, like?”

“That’s right.”

“They’ll do their very best for him, I know that, so I do.” She sighed.

“They will.” He turned to Cissie. “Take Flo back to her table.” He glanced at a tearstained Sylvia. “And Sylvia too. Make sure Aggie’s there and stays with them while you get Flo and Sylvia neat brandies. For their nerves. I’ll come and talk to you all again as soon as I can.”

“I’ll do that, Doctor dear, and never you worry your head about it. I’ll take good care of her, so I will. Flo and me’s been friends since we was…”

O’Reilly paid no further attention and was but vaguely aware of folks moving past on their way out. He knelt beside Kitty. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.” She compressed the chest before breathing into Bertie’s mouth.

“Here.” Jenny handed O’Reilly his bag.

“Thanks. Now go with his lordship and he’ll get you a phone. Get an ambulance.”

“Right,” Jenny said, and took off at a trot.

Found it. The glass ampoule of adrenaline was where he knew it was supposed to be. In seconds he had filled a syringe with 1 mgm. He knelt beside Kitty. “Let me at his chest.”

Fingal counted down from the collarbone. He drove the long needle through the chest wall in the middle of the fourth gap between the ribs on the left, injected the stimulant directly into the heart muscle, and withdrew the needle. Work. Come on, work. He put his fingers at the side of Bertie’s neck. Fight, Bertie. Come on. You’re not the most pleasant of men, but you are a feisty bugger. Fight for your life, Bertie. There it was. Praise be. His fingers felt a pulse in the carotid artery and as Bertie’s chest began to move, the man took a deep, shuddering breath.

Bertie’s heart had started again, but he still had to be taken to the Royal Victoria at full speed where, if he went into cardiac arrest again, they had the recently introduced equipment for delivering an electric shock to the heart muscles in the hopes of getting the heart to beat normally.

O’Reilly put the used syringe into the bag. When Bertie came to, he’d experience excruciating chest pains. Just as Mister Robinson’s bound-up leg muscles were feeling the aching of oxygen lack because the blood flow to them was being interfered with, so Bertie’s heart muscle, which had been damaged by the infarction and was also oxygen-deprived, would respond. And anyone whose chest had been repeatedly shoved at by O’Reilly would not think they’d been caressed by a butterfly. He prepared and administered into the deltoid, the big muscle over the top of the shoulder, an injection of a third of a grain of morphine. Bertie flinched, moaned, put a hand onto his chest. His eyelids flickered and his eyes opened. O’Reilly laid a hand on the man’s forehead and said quietly, “It’s all right, Bertie. It’s all right. Lie still.”