Doctor Who: Lost Memories
Graham Bigby had been in a terrible mood every since he had arrived at Saint Mary's hospital. This wasn't too surprising for Graham was a very rude man. When he was young he was a moody teenager, when he was an adult he was grumpy and now that he was old and grey he strove to be the most foul tempered old fart that had ever lived.
So when he had been admitted to Saint Mary's hospital in Manchester it was no surprise that he continued to be as miserable as possible to the good people who had set him up with a private room and worked their hardest to treat the ulcer burning his stomach. It didn't matter that they were polite and caring, to him all that mattered was how bad the food tasted, how disgusting the green walls of his room were and how annoying the constant flickering of the hospital lights was becoming.
It would be a relief to everyone when Graham could finally go home, which was apparently quite soon. The stomach ulcer had been treated via a course of antibiotics and the results had looked promising. Soon he would be home, irritating his neighbours with his moans and groans.
"How are you today Mr Bigby?" the cheerful voice of Doctor Irons asked as he appeared at the door of Graham's room. He was a nice enough man with a brilliant smile and twinkling grey eyes, which was why Graham hated him on sight. The man was in charge of a great deal of what went on at the hospital yet never seemed aggravated by his heavy work load and Graham couldn't stand his constant positivity.
"I'm doing fine," he grumbled. "Can I go home? I'm getting sick to death of sitting in this bed watching Jeremy Kyle on that little box."
Doctor Irons chuckled, unperturbed by Graham's mood, and walked to his bed side before pulling out a folder from under his arm and checking over the notes.
"I'm sure we'll have you home soon. Now I understand you've been placed on a course of antibiotics?"
"Of course I have,” Graham snarled. “That stupid Doctor Timber put me on them. I don't know why I had to stay here though, I could have taken the horrible little things at home."
"Mr Bigby stomach ulcers can result in the formation of cancer, especially in men your age."
"Well I don't have cancer so there's no bloody problem is there?" Graham snapped.
"Right you are, I'm sure we can have you out of here so-" Doctor Irons paused. "Oh my..."
"What's wrong? Are you going to tell me I’ve got to take more useless pills?” Graham grunted.
“No Mr Bigby, I’m afraid I’m going to have to operate on you.”
A cold feeling suddenly spread out through Graham’s stomach. The words registered with him but the effect had yet to sink in.
“You w-what?” he asked, a shake in his voice.
“Oh yes, I’m afraid we’ll need to operate right now,” Doctor Irons spoke, his voice grave but his eyes still bright and shining and his smile still wide and gleaming..
“What’s wrong with me?”
“You’re sick, Mr Bigby. And the only way to fix that is to cut you open,” he replied before turning his head towards the door. “Can I get some people in here to escort Mr Bigby to surgery?”
Four figures in blue scrubs appeared at the door, their faces hidden by surgical masks and their hair covered with plastic caps. The only part of their face that could be seen was the dull glint of their eyes.
Panic swelled in Graham. He opened his mouth to protest but before he could even speak a word Doctor Irons plunged a syringe into the side of his neck. His cries of fear and outrage became pathetic splutters as every muscle in his body turned to jelly.
“Don’t worry Mr Bigby, you’re going to be just fine. Why, when you wake up I promise that you’ll feel better than you’ve ever felt in your whole miserable life.” Doctor Irons told him pleasantly before he and the four surgeons wheeled the poor old man out of the room.
Very few people asked what happened to Graham, he had no family or friends to ask about him, but those who did get curious were simply told that Mr Bigby had developed a serious condition, had needed to operated on and unfortunately had not survived the operation.
It was the ninth person that month that had gone through the emergency operation. All of them the same: bitter, grumpy, alone and angry, the type of people that wouldn’t be missed, for they left no one behind to wonder if something terribly wrong was going on.
And terrible things were going on in Saint Mary’s hospital.... but it was bad luck for the terrible creatures that caused the terrible things, for a mad man in a dressing gown had checked in to the hospital. And he had noticed everything.
Whether it was among his top priorities however was a different question.
“Now... I’m going to ask you a very important question, probably the most important of in your life,” the man spoke solemnly as he gazed into the eyes of the children that sat in front of him. “It’s not hard to answer and no one will get in trouble. So answer me this... which one of you ankle biter’s nicked my fruit pastels?”
The children laughed and scrambled to their feet as they ran away from the odd man. He was a good looking man, although perhaps a little bedazzled, and had wavy blonde hair, an unshaven face and was dressed in blue pyjamas and a matching dressing gown.
Before he had raced into the children’s ward on a wheelchair the place had been a gloomy. No matter how energetic the child being sick always took its toll, but when the odd man had rolled in and began popping wheelies in the wheel chair whilst making terrible jokes the gloom had vanished and laughter had returned to the children.
The nurses had wanted to ask the man to leave, his gorgeous face was very distracting and his silliness was causing no end of problems, but no one could bring themselves to do it. His childishness was infectious and it was nice to see the kids happy.