Procedure

Thomas made his way down yet another hospital corridor.

And then another.

And then another still.

Heavy double doors wheezed and sighed as he pushed through them, their hydraulic hinges hissing like they resented the intrusion. The corridors beyond stretched on, carbon copies of the last half dozen . . . long, sterile arteries twisting deeper into the bowels of the building.

The hospital was a labyrinth, and every corridor was just an echo of the one before. Turn left, ramp down, turn right, stairwell, push through another set of doors. Repeat.

The vinyl floor was patterned with a speckled design . . . no doubt chosen to camouflage the relentless scuff marks from the constant tide of foot traffic. But even the speckled pattern couldn’t hide the wear. Not from Thomas. His eyes caught everything . . . the way the pattern dulled where the trolleys hit the same line over and over, the faint drag marks from a patient’s wheelchair, the skid of a shoe that had slipped in a rush.

The walls weren’t much better. A dull, institutional grey . . . the kind of grey that made you forget what colour even felt like. Cold, stainless steel bump orderlies ran waist-high along the length of every corridor, dented in places where beds or equipment had collided over the years.

But worse than all of that . . . the lights.

God, the lights.

They weren’t just white. They were white in that way that tipped into blue. That clinical, humming whiteness that left a sting at the back of your eyes, like staring too long at a welding arc. The kind of light that wasn’t meant for comfort. The kind of light that kept you awake, on edge.

Sterile.

That was the word.

Hospitals weren’t built to comfort the living. They were built to manage the dying.

Beside him, keeping pace with small, quick strides, was a woman. Short. Stocky. Clipboard clutched like a shield against her chest. She wore a sharp charcoal suit, tailored just a fraction too tight across the shoulders, as though she’d outgrown it but refused to admit it. A crisp white blouse peeked from beneath the lapels, her hair scraped back so tightly it looked like it might tear at the roots.

They matched, in a way. Thomas in his own charcoal suit, every button done up, every crease deliberate. To anyone passing by, they looked like colleagues. Just two corporate types marching through a building they had no business being in.

But Thomas noticed things.

The small things.

He always had.

It was what had carried him through the ranks of the military, what had kept him alive when others didn’t make it back. His reputation had shone so bright that it had attracted the attention of the man who now signed his pay cheques.

And right now, it was telling him that the woman beside him didn’t belong here.

She kept pace, but her gait was wrong. Stiff. Artificial. She was trying too hard to walk like she belonged, and that was the giveaway.

Her shoes squeaked softly against the vinyl . . . professional loafers, but the sound betrayed her. A half-second lag in the rhythm. A slight drag on the left step. Subtle shifts in weight that only someone trained to notice would catch.

She was used to heels.

Boardrooms.

Carpeted hallways with glass walls and skyline views.

She was here because she didn’t trust anyone else to handle this conversation.

And that told Thomas everything he needed to know.

“I don’t think you understand,” she cut in, her voice sharp . . . precise, like scissors slicing through velvet.

“Patients are only allowed close family members to visit them. And that, of course, is only after the first forty-eight hours. Mister…?”

Thomas gave a little wave, as though they were already old friends.

“Ah, yes… right, terribly sorry.” He replied, wrapping each syllable in his caramel-coated British accent. “It’s just Thomas, actually. No Mister required. Dreadfully formal, all that.”

He cleared his throat, glancing sideways, adding lightly . . . 

“And, well, you’ll no doubt already be aware that poor old Mr Orpheus, doesn’t really have anyone left, does he? Family-wise, I mean.”

She pressed her lips together, her jaw tightening slightly, but she didn’t respond.

Thomas ploughed on, hands gesturing vaguely as if painting the idea in the air.

“So, yes, look, I suppose that makes me the, ah… well, the eccentric uncle, let’s say. You know, the one everyone avoids at weddings because of the questionable jokes…”

The woman blinked, visibly recalculating.

“Okay… Thomas,” she echoed, not bothering to hide the clipped edge in her voice.

“But there are still procedures to follow before a patient can receive visitors… even from… uncles. He’s going to be incredibly weak. He’s going to need comfort. Support. No matter how strong you think he is, he isn’t going to be fit for questioning. And… ” She glanced ahead, as if checking the hallway for traps.

“…he’s in ICU. You’ll need to gown up. Gloves. Mask. Full infection protocol before you step inside.”

Thomas stopped dead in his tracks.

The woman flinched, nearly colliding with his arm as she overshot by half a step. She caught herself, clearing her throat softly as she pivoted to face him.

He turned to face her with a lopsided, apologetic smile, raising both hands slightly.

“Oh… oh, well, yes, yes, of course. Procedure. Absolutely. All very sensible, I’m sure…”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

“Although, if I might be so bold… I… I couldn’t help but notice no one seemed particularly fussed about procedure yesterday. Awfully… flexible lot, weren’t you?”

A small group of staff passed. The woman waited, silent, until they were out of earshot.

Her voice dropped to a warning hush.

“I think you need to remember that any breach of this agreement will be considered a mutual breach… exposing all parties to maximum legal scrutiny.”

Thomas winced softly, rubbing the back of his neck as if she’d just delivered a scolding he genuinely felt bad about.

“Right. Yes. Legal scrutiny. Nasty business, that. Papers and, uh, tribunals and such… frightfully dull.”

He leaned closer again, dropping his voice to something just shy of a whisper.

“But, well, between us, you do realise, don’t you, that the gentleman in question has more lawyers than most people have spoons? Rather good ones, too. Expensive. And… most amusingly… each lawyer… with their own lawyer… standing neatly in line behind them. Rather vicious too, I’d imagine.”

She stepped closer, her jaw tight.

“Not if he dies from infection.”

Thomas rocked back on his heels, hands slipping into his pockets, letting out a little puff of air like she’d just bested him in a game of chess.

“Ah. Right. Yes. Good point. Excellent point.”

He nodded briskly, raising a finger like he’d just solved the crossword.

“Well, in that case… might as well get me suited and booted, hadn’t we? Gloves, mask, the whole… er… medical pantomime.”

He exhaled, glancing down the corridor with the weary enthusiasm of a man who’d just remembered he had jury duty.

“Let’s, um… let’s crack on, shall we?”