Page 1 of Magic and Medicine

Chapter one

No good deeds go unpunished, and looking at the clock, I wondered what sort of brain fart made me agree to swap tonight’s shift with Tony.

The day had started badly and turned even worse, with my head pounding hard enough that my brain must have been trying to escape. Pouring enough painkillers down my throat to stun whatever creature was driving a spike into my eyes was my first mistake. The reaction of my liver was slow, but it was evident the cocktail of coffee and paracetamol wasn’t appreciated. Now, I was nauseous and clutching my side like a victim of a vicious hen-do.

As I prepared for this evening’s shift, the music from the radio faded into the latest news report. An outraged reporter talking about the missing tourists and the spate of knife crime in the docklands area. Still, the shiver running down my spine had nothing to do with the statement from an officious commissioner, dismissing the violence as gang warfare or unruly youths acting out, his disdain showing how little the man cared as long as no one rich was hurt. No, this was another of my hunches. My famous sixth-sense, which my medical team often relied on, told me the violence would escalate into something frightening if not addressed in time. I fought the temptation to call the police, realising that while the staff in my department followed my instincts, no sensible officer would listen to nebulous premonitions from a local doctor.

It didn’t take long to organise myself, and my recovery was well on the way when mistake number two was made. A second cup of coffee made me jittery, unable to sit still, and my reaction to the cat jumping onto the kitchen counter left me staring down at the broken shards of a mirror on the floor.

As I grumbled about superstitions and seven years of bad luck, I noticed a minor cut from the mishap along my forearm and decided something had to change. Maybe I’d reached my burnout point, or my luck had nose-dived, but my little problem had worsened in the last few months. My mother had called it my little problem, as if ignoring the nightmares and uncanny knowledge could fix it. However, my visions, hunches, and occasionally seeing invisible people never improved. The older I became, the more shadows moved as if alive, but I learned how to live with it. What other choice did I have? Sometimes, I even saw the mirage of another city in all its medieval glory, fused but separated from my beloved Gdansk. I tested my eyes and scanned my brain, but my health was perfect. It was all in my mind, so I kept quiet and carried on, hoping no one would notice the lead doctor wasn’t the most sane.

Today felt different, with an atmosphere I was too tired to analyse. Maybe tired was the wrong word. When you work in the Emergency Department, tiredness becomes as close a friend as any human, but this time, I felt worn down to the bone. When I started my career as a doctor, everything was exciting, and the adrenaline rush could keep me going for days. Now, ten years later, I was just worn out. Same shit, day in, day out, with different and often hostile faces, and a failing social system that brought us all to our knees. Maybe that was why I sensed death, or perhaps it was just a skill that comes with experience.

I held to this thought because what was the alternative? I was not fucking psychic, or worse, teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown. No, Sara, you are simply brilliant at your job, with vast experience and knowledge that gives you insight into what is wrong with your patients. Oh, and you are bloody good at pep talks and denial.

It was true. I may be an unbreakable doctor at work, but in my private life, I ran away and hid each time I felt threatened, hoping my friends would come and dig me out of Sara’s Den, as they call my apartment. My smirk echoed my feelings on that thought as I leaned down to pick up the broken glass from the floor.

I left the car at home, the warm autumn sun easing the tension between my shoulders as I strode confidently to work. Autumn had always been my favourite time of year; especially September when it had just begun, the cooler air reducing the summer’s unrelenting heat and the trees slowly changing their finery to the rich golds and russets that felt like a hug for the soul.

The city was bustling as the evening’s entertainment warmed up, with restaurants and bars opening to encourage those eager to enjoy the nightlife. Young men and women, dressed to impress, rushing to the next experience. While the unfortunate few, like myself, jostled each other on the tram toward another night of blood and catastrophe.

I wonder if they will bring another one from the notorious Anchor, I laughed out loud at my absurd thoughts provoking disapproving stares from the other tram users. Of course, we would receive a victim of a brawl or lover’s squabble. The Anchor never failed to deliver clients to the hospital.

I wished it were different, that it was possible to see the world with the fresh eyes of a medical student. Now, the expectations were low; all the cards were marked, and I always knew whether I would win or lose. Still, I had to go; I was good at my job, and maybe, if I were lucky, there would be lives saved by my stubbornness today. That had to be enough to keep me going.

‘Hey, boss, beautiful day, hmm?’ Tom, our porter, welcomed me at the entrance, making me smile with genuine affection, and I nodded in reply. The evening was warm, with birds softly singing in the background. It was indeed lovely.

‘Hello, Tom, yes, it’s a beautiful day. Let’s hope for a good night, too.’ He laughed as we both knew there would be nothing good about it, and I slipped through the automatic doors, a feeling of dread settling into my bones.

Pale pink in the sunset, the full moon had just begun rising, and my instincts told me tonight’s shift would be a nightmare. Worse, I still had this bloody headache to deal with. So, I crossed my fingers, hoping Nina, my best friend and the best nurse I knew, would be on shift to save my sanity.

As expected, the sad, lonely, and hopeless stormed our defences together with an obscene amount of drunks. Now and again, we had a genuine emergency, and I would be called to assist my staff. Thankfully, most of the time, I could sit in my office nursing my coffee, organising the steady flow of patients in and out of the department.

It was well past midnight when the phone rang, and a panicked intern informed me we had a stabbing inbound, a cardiac arrest with the knife still in the wound, coming through our front doors. My Gdansk delivered on its reputation, I guessed, eyes rolling at my thoughts as I reassured the intern in a quiet, professional manner.

‘Calm down, prep the team and ensure we have plenty of blood on hand. I will be there in five.’ I said, and somehow, this message made me smile. At least the night wouldn’t be so dull now, even if it was another stabbing to add to my recent collection.

Despite Nina’s absence, the resuscitation room was prepared just as I liked it, and a quick team briefing showed me everyone knew their individual roles. It wasn’t long before the doors burst open, and the paramedics came in with… a corpse on their stretcher. Yup, a corpse. There’s cardiac arrest, and then there’s a body so dead I couldn’t even feel the shadow of a soul. Unfortunately, this was definitely the second.

The knife had penetrated his chest to its hilt, and while the paramedics were desperately trying to save him, I knew this one was long gone. The grey cloud of death covered him, the soulless body bouncing rhythmically during the chest compressions. He had no chance, but I couldn’t tell my team their efforts were pointless. There was no science to back up my claim, so medical training kicked in and, taking a deep breath, I issued the order.

‘Stop chest compressions.’

‘No, he has no pulse.’ The paramedic tried to argue, instantly making me wish Damian and Rysiek were here, but one look at my face and his voice faltered.

‘He’s running on empty. How do you plan on restarting an engine without fuel?’ I said and turned to the team. ‘Secure the airway, prepare O neg and get me a thoracotomy set. We need to crack him open to plug this hole in his heart.’

Like a Formula One pit crew, my team was ready in less than a minute. Pride surged at their response as I bent over to start the incision when the patient’s bright blue eyes snapped open in surprise, and a cold, male hand grabbed my wrist in a vice-like grip.

‘Oh, hell no, you are not doing that.’ His voice was cold and commanding, and the man, about to be opened up like a giant clamshell, sat up, the dagger still fully embedded in his chest. What the actual fuck, I thought, looking at him in shock. It is one thing to feel like there is more to the world than science can explain and a whole other one to stare at this discovery in its smugly amused face.

‘Did you just pull a Lazarus on me?’ I heard myself saying, despite my voice being drowned out by screams of terror and the clattering of fallen medical equipment. I didn’t care. Why would my attention be anywhere other than the talking corpse before me? Maybe years of conditioning, medical missions to war-torn countries and stories my grandmother told me; stories that had suddenly become very real prepared me for it because I was as calm as he was dead. I will never break a fucking mirror on the full moon again, I thought, observing him as he looked around, his gaze eventually falling on me.

‘Pulled a what?’ He asked, still holding tight to my wrist, and for no apparent reason, I reached out with my free hand, pulling the knife from his chest. Some say emergency people are built differently, and while I still could barely believe what just happened, part of me methodically analysed the situation. This man was definitely alive, yet no blood escaped the wound, and I bit my lip, trying to comprehend the insanity. He didn’t even wince when I examined the gaping hole, poking it with an inquisitive finger. He just looked on with impatient annoyance, utterly unphased, before asking again.

‘I pulled a what?’

The knife in my hand looked odd. I’d seen my fair share of weapons, combat, folding, and kitchen knives, but this was different. It was vibrating… no. Looking carefully, it didn’t move, but something felt… tension. That was it. It felt as if it were under tension, like the cable on a bridge or, more accurately, a string on a bow, ready to release its murderous power, aimed at this man before me. In fact, it refused to be pointed anywhere else. Nothing about this blade was normal. Ornate Slavic engravings adorned the metal that, whilst bright and clean, felt like it belonged in a museum. I had to resist the urge to stab it back into the gaping hole in the man’s chest. I wasn’t sure whether the knife was driving the desire or my curiosity at seeing the strange man’s reaction. Then, the real, screaming, noisy world crashed into my consciousness, and I focused on answering his question.

---