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Back Going Under Save as PDF
Chapters (70)
  1. COVER PAGE
  2. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  3. DEDICATION
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. PART I BIRTH
  6. ONE
  7. TWO
  8. THREE
  9. FOUR
  10. FIVE
  11. SIX
  12. SEVEN
  13. EIGHT
  14. NINE
  15. TEN
  16. ELEVEN
  17. TWELVE
  18. THIRTEEN
  19. FOURTEEN
  20. FIFTEEN
  21. PART II LIFE
  22. SIXTEEN
  23. SEVENTEEN
  24. EIGHTEEN
  25. NINETEEN
  26. TWENTY
  27. TWENTY-ONE
  28. TWENTY-TWO
  29. TWENTY-THREE
  30. TWENTY-FOUR
  31. TWENTY-FIVE
  32. TWENTY-SIX
  33. TWENTY-SEVEN
  34. TWENTY-EIGHT
  35. TWENTY-NINE
  36. THIRTY
  37. THIRTY-ONE
  38. THIRTY-TWO
  39. THIRTY-THREE
  40. THIRTY-FOUR
  41. PART III DEATH
  42. THIRTY-FIVE
  43. THIRTY-SIX
  44. THIRTY-SEVEN
  45. THIRTY-EIGHT
  46. THIRTY-NINE
  47. FORTY
  48. FORTY-ONE
  49. FORTY-TWO
  50. FORTY-THREE
  51. FORTY-FOUR
  52. FORTY-FIVE
  53. FORTY-SIX
  54. FORTY-SEVEN
  55. FORTY-EIGHT
  56. FORTY-NINE
  57. FIFTY
  58. FIFTY-ONE
  59. FIFTY-TWO
  60. FIFTY-THREE
  61. FIFTY-FOUR
  62. FIFTY-FIVE
  63. FIFTY-SIX
  64. FIFTY-SEVEN
  65. FIFTY-EIGHT
  66. FIFTY-NINE
  67. SIXTY
  68. EPILOGUE
  69. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  70. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

‘I want to keep my job!’ she nearly screams at me. ‘Do you know how hard it is for a woman to get a surgical position at this hospital? I don’t have any choice! I have worked so hard to become a surgeon. I have sacrificed years of my life. And if I have to give one creep a few blow jobs to keep this job, then I’ll fucking do it. Don’t you understand, you naive little girl? Don’t you know what he’ll do to me if I say no? This is how the hospital works! OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES!’

Her words echo around the deserted hallway. I just stand there, dumbstruck. Every word is like a sharp slap in the face.

She’s out of breath, and I can see her eyes glistening with tears. Sadness, or anger—probably both.

‘If you tell anyone about this, I’ll ruin you,’ she says.

Then she turns and walks quickly away.

PART III DEATH

PART III

death

‘Sex is also the revenge on death. Don’t forget death. Don’t ever forget it.’

Philip Roth, The Dying Animal

THIRTY-FIVE

thirty-five

When I was a child I was a bit of a worrier. Mum liked to say I was the only five-year-old with a frown line because I worried so much. My parents thought about taking me to a child psychologist but, in the end, Dad started to meditate with me before I went to sleep.

Every night Dad and I went and stood under the worry tree, which was in fact of the lemon variety. Together we hung my worries out one by one on the branches and watched them flutter in the breeze. I was able to go to sleep, knowing that my worries were somewhere else, and that the next day I could take any new worries I thought of to the tree.

Now, as I sit on my bed after walking home from the disaster inside the utility room and outside the change rooms, I think to myself that the lemon tree from my childhood isn’t nearly big enough. I need an enormous oak.

I don’t sleep a wink. Estelle texts me first thing in the morning to let me know that she’s taking three days off. She asks if I can write her a script for valium. I text her back asking if she’s okay, but she doesn’t reply. I mentally remind myself to nick a script from the ward.

I get dressed for work with an ever-increasing sense of dread and leave the house deliberately early, avoiding Max and Winnie.

I reach the surgical ward to find the Smiling Assassin is already there, also unusually early.

I nod in her direction. ‘Hey.’ I can’t look her in the eye.

‘Hey.’ Her tone is clipped. We round in complete silence, apart from her occasional instruction.