Chapters (70)
- COVER PAGE
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- DEDICATION
- PROLOGUE
- PART I BIRTH
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- PART II LIFE
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- PART III DEATH
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- EPILOGUE
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Max looks at me but doesn’t push. ‘Is that why you’re a bit flat?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ I don’t elaborate. ‘You don’t seem that thrilled to be here either,’ I point out.
‘I really don’t want to start nights,’ he says with a frown. ‘I wish I was still on respiratory.’
Max’s night shifts cover the medical ward, which is probably the worst job in the entire hospital—aside from mine, I realise.
‘At least I’m going to Europe in a month or so,’ he says, forcing a smile. ‘Thank God we get annual leave. I mean, they wouldn’t give it to us if they didn’t have to, but at least that’s something.’
I wish I was going to Europe with Max, I think with a sigh.
We sit in silence, staring into our coffees. My pager goes off. It’s the Joker. Come to theatre.
I leave Max to his misery and walk towards the operating theatre.
The oak tree, overwhelmed with leaves of worry, has transformed into a forest.
THIRTY-SIX
thirty-six
I count down the minutes to the end, second by second. The remaining days on neurosurgery are nothing short of torture. I’m dreading starting my term in emergency after Estelle’s less-than-positive descriptions of her time in there (‘Totally fucked up’), but anything has to be better than this.
The atmosphere in operating theatre six is so tense it feels like the scalpels can cut air as well as skin. The Joker, having no idea of my recent insights into his relationship with his registrar, is his usual intolerable self.
The Smiling Assassin and I have gone from active dislike to active avoidance. She starts showing up late to the ward rounds and finishes early, by default leaving me in charge of all the post-operative patients, which isn’t ideal. The Shark notices I am a single-doctor show and corners me after the trauma meeting on my last day of neurosurgery.
‘Doesn’t your registrar round with you anymore?’ he asks as I press the button to take the lift. ‘The nurses tell me you’re running the neurosurgical ward these days.’
‘It’s fine.’ I try to smile reassuringly. ‘She’s usually there. It’s just because they’re so busy in theatre now with all the traumas coming in, you know … I can always call her.’
‘Mmm.’ He doesn’t sound convinced.
‘I’m liking the responsibility,’ I lie, wondering why I’m protecting the Smiling Assassin and briefly considering what will happen if I tell him the truth.
‘You’re doing well,’ he says, to my surprise. ‘You should think about doing surgery.’
Despite the fact I have spent the last God-knows-how-many years imagining myself as a surgeon, for some reason the remark seems totally ridiculous, and I can’t help laughing.
The Shark looks offended. ‘It wasn’t meant as a joke,’ he says tersely.