Blood was starting to swirl up from the bottom. I knelt back down and poked it again, and crimson bubbles began to come up to the surface. I felt so sick – what was that down there?!? I put down the coat hanger and reached into the bin beside me. I tipped the rubbish out onto the floor and wrapped the bag around my hand. I reached gingerly into the bloodied toilet and felt around for the blockage. What I got hold of was slippery and it felt oddly like meat – but why would anybody attempt to flush meat down a toilet? The woman I met in the foyer didn’t seem like she’d be silly enough to do a thing like that! I started to get bad vibes from this – things just didn’t seem right.
At last, I finally manage to seize hold of the object. I pulled hard at it and at last it came free. As I slowly raised the object to my sight, a wave of horror travelled through me. I felt sick and shaky, because the thing that I was holding in my hand was a human heart. Or was it? Could I be mistaken? No, I couldn’t be – I’d seen enough of these things in my training – I’m a doctor back home for god’s sake! It was a perfectly real human heart. My blood was thumping hard in the back of my head, and all that was running through my mind was ‘Is this a joke?’ ‘Who’s been murdered?’ ‘What am I going to do now…?’
I carefully eased the gruesome heart into the plastic bag that I’d retrieved it with and made my way casually down the stairs as if it was a bag of rubbish I was carrying – not an organ that used to belong to somebody.
I went over to the desk by reception and pulled open the drawer containing emergency numbers. I found the one I was looking for – the police. I pondered the problem for a bit, weighing up the reasons for and against calling.
I had to tell somebody – it’s too serious to keep secret. There were hundreds of questions running through my mind, like ‘Who’s the murderer?’ Where’s the rest of the body?’ ‘Was the woman I met in the foyer the killer?’ That’s why I had to tell, the murderer could kill again. On the other hand, it could be a reason not to tell – what If the killer got wind of me telling and I got killed? It could be my heart down a toilet, and to be honest I really don’t fancy that. Also, if the police found out that I was an illegal immigrant, they’d send me back home, and I’d defiantly get killed then….
I slam the drawer shut with a bang. Sighing, I pick up the soggy bag and make my way back up the stairs to try and figure out what to do next…