The John Doe Read online



  The John Doe:

  by

  Veronice Ceccarelli

  (Copyright © 2011 by Veronice Ceccarelli

  Chapter 1

  The John Doe was found in a gutter. A young man, naked and very cold. His only injury seemed to be some very severe anal tearing. There was a lot of dried blood. He wore no jewellery, not even a watch. Dental records were irrelevant, as it appeared he’d never had a filling in his life. There were no tattoos or piercings, and no sign of drug use. He had long hair, which was one handy descriptor, black but with white strands, unusual. And he had distinctive bracelet scars around both wrists. They were old.

  A detailed description was sent to the New York police to see if they could match him to a missing person. There was no sign of physical trauma to the head, but the brain scan was distinctly abnormal. He remained deeply comatose.

  He was a charity patient, and the surgeon was not in a hurry to perform the reconstructive surgery required. When he checked him finally, three days after he came in, he told the resident doctor that surgery was not needed. The resident had a close look, and compared what he saw with his notes. The man had healed amazingly well. He could have sworn surgery was needed. But he was a busy man, and soon forgot the oddity.

  It was nearly Christmas. Another brain scan was performed with no change observable. There was brain activity according to the EEG results, but was atypical – not normal. The bed was needed, there was no sign of recovery, and the John Doe was transferred to Ward 14, the ward that housed over two dozen other comatose male patients, none of them expected to regain consciousness. Tubes kept them alive. Most had a nasogastric tube through which they were fed. Some had intravenous drips as well, often those with muscle spasms that sometimes had them screaming in pain, though supposedly not knowing anything, or feeling anything. All of them had the indignity of a urine bag hanging beside their bed. A few were on breathing machines, but if a person needed help to breathe, doctors at this hospital seldom encouraged relatives to keep them alive. The John Doe, of course, had no known relatives.

  They left his hair long. Somehow it seemed to give him a touch more dignity in his helplessness, though it was more trouble than the very short haircut most of the long term patients had.

  The weeks passed. On the first of March. Rebecca, the nurse, smiled. She thought that one of the other nurses must have a fondness for the John Doe, maybe Josie who was notoriously soft-hearted. Most of the patients were shaved every second day, but John was often left for three or even four days, as he had less beard growth than most. It was Rebecca’s shift that was responsible for shaving the patients, but now Rebecca touched the smooth cheek, and thought that someone had obviously shaved him recently.

  Several days later, Josie laughed to Taylor that Rebecca must be sweet on John, as he was being shaved every day now. She reached over and smoothed down the tape on his cheek that held the nasogastric tube and kept it from being put under strain. It was coming up at the corner again.

  The vague shapes surrounded him. There was an irritation in his nose. His feeble hand tried to remove the tube, plucking at the tape. But consciousness faded and blackness returned.

  It was not until the third week of March that Rebecca told the doctor that John might be coming out of it, that she’d noticed movement, that he’d been trying to remove the nasogastric tube. The doctor peered at him. The patient was young, of course, and sometimes the young ones did show improvement. And there had never been any obvious reason for the coma, in spite of the puzzling brain scans. There was more brain activity shown when they did another EEG. Maybe he was coming out of it.

  The next day, Josie found the nasogastric tube lying on the floor, and the urine bag was leaking where John had presumably interfered with it. At least, the bed was dry. It was getting to be a nuisance, and although Josie spoke loudly to him, there was no response, not even when she tried painful stimuli. She adjusted restraints around his wrists instead. He could hurt himself pulling out the tube when he didn’t know what he was doing.

  Two hours later, he screamed, twisting and struggling frantically against the restraints. Josie pulled them off, and he gradually calmed, staring at her, before trying again to pluck at the tape that held the nasogastric tube. She pulled away his hands, trying to tell him that it was all right, that he had to leave the tube alone. But his eyes were closing, and she readjusted the restraints.

  It wasn’t until the next shift that he started to wake again and tried to raise his hands. Finding himself restrained, he panicked again, screaming and struggling, throwing himself as hard as he could away from those ties that bound him. Rebecca ran to him, holding his arms, speaking loudly, trying to penetrate his fear.

  Her partner said, “Take them off?”

  Rebecca nodded, and the restraints were removed, although with some difficulty as he kept jerking against them. Only when he could move his hands as he wanted, did he stop struggling and lie still. His eyes were open, and Rebecca took the opportunity. “What’s your name?”

  The blurred figure was known to the patient, who could feel her as an individual, even as his eyes saw only a vague shape. “You must not tie me up!” he said to her urgently. “Please, don’t tie me up.”

  Rebecca explained to him soothingly that they were only restraints so that he wouldn’t pull out the tube in his nose. But as she explained that he had to have the tube, even if he didn’t like it, that he’d starve without it, darkness was swamping him again. But they moved him close to the nurses’ station where he’d be easier watched, and they left off the restraints.

  The next time he woke, Rebecca saw his beginning movement, a sudden frantic jerk of his arms. Finding them free, he sighed and relaxed, and stared at the ceiling before turning his head, trying to take in his surroundings. Rebecca jumped to attention as his hands rose to his face, but he only passed his hands once over his cheeks, and then put them down again, feeling, instead, the rails at the sides of his bed.

  She went to him, saying a gentle hello. He looked in her direction, her shape interrupting the light from a window. The shape seemed to be shifting and blending into the background, and he squinted, trying to see more clearly.

  Rebecca took his hand. They so rarely saw a patient recover in this ward, and the nurses had objected strenuously when it was suggested he should be moved, even though a waking patient could be a lot more work than a comatose one. Gently, she was telling him where he was, in hospital, and she said her name was Rebecca, and she introduced Simon, her partner. The nurses usually worked in pairs, as it was easier when there so much lifting involved.

  Simon asked this time, “What’s your name?”

  John took no notice. But when Rebecca asked his name, he answered, “John.” They’d been calling him John, or ‘the John Doe,’ but John was a common name, and his name, quite easily, could really be John.

  “Tell me your full name, John,” said Rebecca. “What’s your full name?”

  John put a hand to his aching head, but he answered Rebecca, who’d been around all his life. “My name’s John Doe.”

  Rebecca and Simon looked at each other, but didn’t press further.

  His hand went to his face, plucking at the tape again, and he complained, “I don’t like it!”

  Simon pulled his hand away, and he resisted a moment, before sighing and closing his eyes. It had been barely five minutes, but the nurses were gleeful. John was getting better. Rebecca touched his smooth cheek. “I wonder who’s been shaving him. It’s not in the notes.”

  If there were indications of waking from him during the next two shifts, it passed unnoticed, though there was another brain scan that showed no change, and an EEG that showed little change, either. The wave pattern still indicated
a comatose state. The resident doctor had a good look at him, and requested a senior doctor have a look. “When I’m not so busy,” said the expert, looking at the notes of an acute care patient.