Foreign Body
A short story
Kevin’s lolling head—guide lines drawn on its freshly-shaven scalp—is gently locked into position with a steel clamp.
Nine years old tomorrow—Xianyi thinks, from her seat in the observation gallery—the operating table’s much too big for him. She cinches her suit jacket tighter around her shoulders.
The hospital’s in-house counsel—Szeto, or Saydoo, she didn’t quite catch the name—quietly clears his throat. “Ms Chen, are you cold? I can ask them—”
Xianyi lifts her hand, “Thanks, no—I’m just... scared.”
Saydoo, or Szeto, nods sympathetically. He hovers a hand near hers, as if to give a comforting pat, then thinks better of it, and reaches instead to press a switch marked ‘Speaker’.
“—his GCS?” Oldish, male—that would be Parkhouse.
A nurse replies, “Nine. Twelve on arrival.”
“Pupils?” Accented, female—Rasheed.
Nurse, “Left sluggish. Right’s blown.”
Parkhouse, “Tt—are we opening?”
Rasheed, “We’re opening.”
Parkhouse, “Alright. Start the clock. Let’s get that bone flap off in ten.”
***
Earlier.
“There was another thing we didn’t mention earlier,” Xianyi says as Dr Phelps walks into the consulting room from behind.
He drops heavily into his chair, smiles at Kevin. Head nodding in time to a muted game, the boy doesn’t look up from his phone. Phelps sighs, and looks to Xianyi, “Something else, apart from the fainting episodes?”
“Yes—Kevin, put your phone down!—he’s been hearing voices. Kevin, tell Doctor.”
“What kind of voices, Kevin?” The boy holds his phone in front of his chest with both hands, stares quizically at the doctor. Phelps presses on, “Like on a TV?”
“Mmm-maybe? In Korean. Or French.”
“Korean? Or French? Which is it, son? They sound nothing alike.”
“I dunno—like mum’s shows.”
Phelps turns to Xianyi. She holds her palms up. “I like to watch art films? From different countries. Sometimes Kevin sits with me, while playing on his phone.”
Phelps, “So... you hear words in foreign languages, like what Mum watches on TV?”
Kevin nods uncertainly. “Sometimes... a few words in English—asking me to do… stuff.”
“Hmm.” Phelps cups the boy’s chin, parts the bushy hair, and peers at the scar there. “You’ve got an antenna in here tuning into world radio?” Phelps jots on the patient record, “...auditory hallucinations...”
A sharp double-rap on the door. A nurse enters hurriedly. “Doc, radiography says urgent.”
Phelps takes the big envelope from her, slides the film out.
He bolts out of his seat, slaps the x-ray to a light box. Xianyi and the nurse gasp in unison.
A two-inch nail in the middle of the child’s skull.
Kevin murmurs, “Cool.”
***
The sound of the bone saw is awful. Xianyi flinches back, covers her ears. The lawyer turns the volume dial all the way down.
Parkhouse, “Flap’s off—we’re here.”
Through the pools of red, a metallic glint, deep in brain tissue.
Parkhouse, “Stop. We've got an arterial pumper!”
Rasheed, “I can’t see. Get the bipolars in there now!”
Anesthetist, “Pressure’s gone—he’s bottoming out!”
The monitor stutters, then an alarm blares.
***
Earlier.
“When’d this happen?”
Ambulance bay. The gurney’s wheels purr on linoleum. Parkhouse, bald on top, neat grey beard, takes long strides. He consults a clipboard in one hand, lightly holds Kevin’s forearm with the other.
Xianyi jogs to keep up, “Dr Phelps guesses a long time—there’s only the bald spot, and a, a slight dent?”
“I meant you—do you recall when this happened?”
She slows her pace.
Kevin—smaller—stands at the back door, his clothes dirty. He sobs a little. Xianyi walks up with antiseptic and cotton squares. She kneels and parts his hair, it’s matted with blood. She swabs the area carefully. He winces. No more bleeding. She air-kisses the top of his head, hugs him.
“Four... five years ago? He came home, bleeding slightly, but fine. He said... he fell.”
“Did the father have a nail gun?”
“Wh—a nail gun? No. ...No, John’s not very handy.”
They reach the end of the corridor, and go round the corner.
***
Parkhouse holds the boy’s shoulders. “Single pull. Ready?”
Rasheed, over the blaring alarm, “Single pull. Ready.”
Parkhouse, “On my count. Two, one. Now!”
Rasheed pulls.
Everyone holds their breath.
The alarm cuts back to a steady beep.
Rasheed, “Bleeding’s controlled.”
Anesthetist, “Pressure’s coming back.”
Nurse, “Sats, 95 and climbing.”
Parkhouse, “Pupils equalising—he’s with us.”
Xianyi bursts into tears. The lawyer puts his arm around her shoulders, draws her in.
Rasheed whispers, “We’ve got you, Kevin.”
Parkhouse holds out a dish, and Rasheed drops the nail—clink!—in it.
Nurse, “Label?”
Parkhouse, “Foreign body. Mark time of removal.”
***
Later.
Kevin, head wrapped in bandages, opens his eyes. Xianyi cries out his name, lies down gently over the boy. John stands to one side, hair tousled, shirt crumpled. A carry-on bag at his feet. “Good boy,” he mutters. “good boy.”
Kevin looks around the empty ward, at the barricaded doors. “Where’s everyone? And... why are there soldiers?”
Xianyi stifles a sob, hugs him closer. A TV in the corner, muted, shows the hospital from the street. Crowds gathered. Flashing lights. A red-and-white striped tape across the A&E entrance. BREAKING NEWS.
***
The lab is dark. Rasheed sits, hunched over a microscope. Parkhouse stands behind, tapping on an iPad.
Suddenly she lets out a sound, and pushes backwards in her chair, hard.
Parkhouse, “What is it?”
Rasheed, “The nail. It’s not—” She has no more words, just points a shaking hand at the microscope.
Parkhouse bends over, and gasps. “Those lines—regular, patterned. They’re... etched. What are we looking at? A symbol of some kind, repeating... a triangle, upside down in another triangle—”
“Go up, up—near the tip of the rocket. A, a porthole.”
“Aaahh! Is that, is that...”
“...the pilot.” Rasheed covers her mouth. “Mummified.”
***
Later.
Xianyi is still gripping Kevin tightly. The boy turns his gaze to the TV.
For one second, something flickers in the pupil of his right eye.
A triangle, upside down in another triangle.