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ARY AYLOR
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Chartridge Books Oxford
An imprint of:
Biohealthcare Publishing (Oxford) Limited
TBACBusiness Centre
Avenue 4
Station Lane
Witney
Oxford OX28 4BN
UK
Tel: +44 (0) 1993 848726
Email: [email protected]
www.biohealthcarepublishing.com
First published in 2010
ISBNs:
978 1 907568 43 5 (print)
978 1 908818 00 3 (e-book)
© G. Taylor, 2010
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of thi s publication may be reproduced, stored in or
introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior
written permission of the Publishers. This publication may not be lent, resold, hired
out or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other
than that in which it is published without the prior consent of the Publishers. Any
person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to
criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The Publishers make no representation, express or implied, with regard to the accuracy
of the information contained in this publication and cannot accept any legal
responsibility or liability for any errors or omissions.
The material contained in this publication constitutes general guidelines only and does
not represent to be advice on any particular matter. No reader or purchaser should act
on the basis of material contained in this publication without fi rst taking professional
advice appropriate to their particular circumstances. Any screenshots in this
publication are the copyright of the website owner(s), unless indicated otherwise.
Typeset by Refi neCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk
Printed in the UK and USA.
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This book is dedicated to the memory of a true gentleman:
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my father in law and friend Harry Mills
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1930 to 2010 R.I.P.
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About the author 7
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Gary Taylor is fi fty years old and comes from a working-class background.
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Married with four daughters, he has lived in the West Midlands area in
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the UK all his life.
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After leaving school, he trained as an engineer within a major bus
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operator, accomplishing, up to the date this book was written, thirty-four
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years of continuous service within the company. For the last twenty years,
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he has also been both a student and instructor within a prominent
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Midlands-based martial arts association, and still competes at European
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level.
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This is Gary’s second novel and is a very different genre from his fi rst.
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The inspiration for the book came approximately fi ve years ago, around
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2005, after a very vivid and reoccurring dream that plagued his mind.
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The author can be contacted via the publishers.
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The birth
Jill Hennessey had been in labour for over sixteen hours; the contractions
had started the previous evening. Her husband, George, as reliable as
ever, had got everything that she required quickly into the car. They
arrived at the maternity hospital within half an hour. As she lay on the
bed waiting for the next contraction, her normally well-groomed,
shoulder-length, fair hair was plastered against her forehead. She wished
she hadn’t been so hasty but had waited for a few hours until the
contractions were stronger; it felt as if time was standing still.
George came back into the room, his swarthy complexion looking
pallid on his stocky fi ve foot nine inch frame, which was wilting slightly
with fatigue. He had just been for a coffee in an attempt to wake himself
up. Sitting down beside Jill, he took her hand and looked deep into her
kind blue eyes, one of the things that originally attracted him to her.
‘Won’t be long now, love,’ he said, gently squeezing her hand. She
returned the gesture. At thirty-eight years of age, they had been married
for almost twenty years. For most of that time, they had been trying to
start a family, but after so long they had resigned themselves to believing
it just wasn’t meant to be. Then out of the blue they had a son, Charlie,
and within two years Jill was pregnant again. Here she lay, about to
deliver their second child at any moment.
It was unusual for the second child to take so long to arrive, but she
had had a healthy pregnancy, so everyone thought it best to just let nature
take its course. Both Jill and the baby were being monitored. They
appeared to be doing fi ne; no sign of any stress. A scan had revealed they
were having another boy, which pleased them both. They were not really
bothered either way as long as the child was healthy, but another boy
made sense fi nancially. Wanting to give the baby every possible chance of
a healthy start in life, Jill had insisted, just as she had done with Charlie,
that the birth would be as natural as possible – no drugs for pain relief.
A few years earlier she had witnessed the birth of a friend’s baby for
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which pethidine had been used for pain relief. Jill had been shocked as
the child appeared stillborn until another drug was administered to
counter the effects of the pethidine.
Jill pressed on the buzzer above the bed; the contractions were now
very close together. Jackie, a cheerful petite lady who had been Jill’s
midwife for the last six or seven hours, came into the room.
‘Is everything OK, Jill?’ she asked.
‘I think it’s nearly time, Jackie,’ replied Jill.
After a short examination, the midwife said, ‘Nine centimetres dilated,
Jill; any time now.’
Jill squeezed her husband’s hand. Having been through it once before,
she knew what was ahead.
The previous day a maintenance engineer had been working on the
Resuscitaire unit, which was in the corner of the room. Just before fi nishing,
he was called away to another job and, thinking he would be back shortly,
he didn’t bother with a ‘Do not use’ or ‘Out of order’ sign. Theoretically,
it shouldn’t have even been in the room during maintenance, but these
machines were in such shortage that staff were reluctant to let them out of
their sight. Inside it, a small screwdriver lay across the disconnected cables,
dangerously close to the supply terminal and machine body.
As the midwife prepared for the imminent birth, she pulled the
Resuscitaire out of the corner; it was rarely used, but best to have
everything in place, just in case. Unknown to her, as she pulled the
Resuscitaire out, the screwdriver lodged against the machine body and
the supply terminal, creating a circuit. If plugged in, a fl ick of the switch
would make the whole machine live.
‘OK, Jill,’ said Jackie, ‘you’ve done this before; I want you to push
when you feel the contraction.’
Everything was going to plan, a little slow but nothing to worry about.
Another hour passed and Jill was tiring; the baby’s heart rate was
becoming a little erratic. Without panicking the mother to be, Jackie
called for assistance, and two more midwives arrived within seconds.
‘What have we got here then?’ asked Martha Simmons, a large West
Indian woman with a beaming smile.
‘I think the cord is a little tangled up,’ Jackie replied.
‘Right then, let’s have a little look.’ The West Indian midwife
took charge; with hundreds of births to Martha’s credit, Jill was in safe
hands.
‘Baby’s nearly here, Mom; we just need to free up that cord a little.’
Her presence made Jill feel safe. ‘I just need to give a small tug.’ The
baby’s head was now two-thirds out and the cord was visible around its
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