We’re all waiting for the outcome of the inquest into the death of the child from Wingabby. The preliminary findings will be released in the afternoon, and Estelle texts me to say that she’s expecting the worst.

I’ll know by the end of the day. Stay tuned.

Finally, at around 4 pm, my phone beeps with a message from her.

Meet me in the utility room next to the men’s theatre change rooms. NOW.

I stare at the words in disbelief. They could only mean one thing. Poor Estelle!

My phone starts to ring.

I answer it, preparing to say something sympathetic and supportive.

‘JOKING!’ Estelle shouts into the phone, sounding as if she’s just won the lottery. ‘Forget the utility room and get your arse down to the pub because we are celebrating, Dr Holliday! I’ve been cleared of any wrongdoing. I’m innocent!’

For once I feel no guilt about leaving work at the appropriate time.

I find Estelle at our usual table.

Con points at us. ‘You have to pay today,’ he shouts. ‘I had to call in the plumber and you won’t believe what he’s quoted me. Fucking tradesmen.’

‘So apparently the poor kid had congenital cardiomyopathy,’ Estelle explains. ‘Even if I had intubated the trachea, it still wouldn’t have saved him. But it took ages to work out, because it’s such a rare condition they had to get some pathologist in America to come and consult on it.’

We’re both silent for a moment.

‘Man, the inquest was stressful, though. I was shitting myself. It was horrible. The parents … Jesus.’ She looks grim as she reaches for her beer. I reach for my own. Beer: thank God it exists. ‘So, it’s all over,’ Estelle says, sighing. ‘We don’t have to start Hot Licks after all.’

I laugh. ‘Man, it’s almost a pity. Now we have to think seriously about the future.’

The Future. Just the thought of it makes me feel weird. After all of this, what’s next for us? For me, for Estelle, for Max, for the Godfather, Dr Prince—where next? At least we have a next, I realise soberly, thinking of the poor child from Wingabby—not to mention Rachel Copeland. Any kind of next is still better than cold hard dirt, a box, and my medical degree sitting silently behind a sheet of glass.

We’re interrupted by a commotion at the bar. Max and the Godfather have arrived, and Max is trying to persuade Con to shout him another drink.

‘We’ll give you free medical care,’ he promises.

Con laughs. ‘The only time I see you is drunk, mate. As if I’m going to make you my fucking doctor!’

‘Drunk doctors are the best kind,’ the Godfather says, pulling out his credit card. ‘It’s okay, Max. I’ll pay.’