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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

‘This hospital isn’t the centre of excellence,’ Max says to me seriously. ‘It’s the centre of sexcellence.’

I walk into the ward, still laughing to myself.

Sex, death and nude selfies. Not a bad book title, if you think about it.

FORTY-SEVEN

forty-seven

I walk towards operating theatre six, dreading what’s to come. I’ve been so gloriously momentarily distracted by my eventful morning that I almost forgot the array of awful situations facing me: the Joker and the Smiling Assassin; Dr Prince; my future.

I’m starting to wonder where my future lies in medicine. The hospital has become a place I’d rather avoid. I’ve learned this year that working as a doctor in a big hospital means that the most important person in the equation is your boss, the patient comes somewhere in the middle, and the least important person is you.

What are my options, realistically? I ask myself. I have to complete my intern year, otherwise I won’t be eligible for my full medical registration. I could take some time off next year, maybe, in residency, but then I’d struggle to get onto a training program—and if I still really want to be a surgeon, I can’t afford to take time off to go travelling or write my book.

Will I ever write my book? I ask myself, feeling my soul cracking a little bit more. When I was young, I loved writing detective stories. I invented a character called Detective Hamburger who could crack even the most challenging of cases. I suddenly wish Detective Hamburger was real and that he could solve the questions I have about my life and future.

Someone should have warned me, I think to myself, that once you stand on the platform that says Medical School and board the train, there are no further stops. You can’t get off the train again, not even for a bit of a scenic stopover. Destination: eternity.

I just need a holiday, I think a bit desperately. If I could just go away for a few months and sit with my thoughts, and process them, I might have a better sense of what to do. It doesn’t escape me that my year as an intern has provided me with a lot of material, maybe even enough for a novel. Everyone loves a bit of medical literary sauce, right? I should start writing things down more, I remind myself. Sometimes, when something particularly mental happens, I make a note in my phone, but really I need to start a full-blown diary. Maybe tonight, when I get home. If I don’t drink too much.

I push open the door to theatre six, bracing myself for the worst. To my surprise, the Joker’s there but the Smiling Assassin isn’t. Maybe, I think hopefully, she’s found a better job with another surgeon somewhere else.

There’s a different woman in her place.