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 doesn’t even try to look remorseful. ‘You know, I always forget my wallet,’ he says, pleased with himself. ‘Plus all my drink-driving charges have cost me a lot of money.’
‘What?’ I stare at him. ‘What do you mean charges? I thought there was only one?’
The Godfather coughs. ‘I’ll get you a cocktail, Kitty,’ he says quickly. ‘Anything you want.’
I’m glaring at Max, the Godfather is paying for our drinks, Estelle is flirting with Con, and the paint is chipping off the wall next to us, the pub as old and seedy as ever.
People say that doctors save lives, but, being a doctor, I know the truth.
A routine operation can kill you, but friendship is forever.
Ashes, dust and beer.
SIXTY
sixty
On my last day of work as an intern, the last day I will be the most junior doctor in the hospital system or the world, I get a phone call from Winnie as I’m walking home.
‘There’s something for you at the door,’ she says, sounding a bit confused. ‘Um, are you going to be home soon?’
‘It’s not a bloody bomb, is it?’ I ask, wondering if maybe the Joker has risen.
‘No … but it’s pretty explosive.’
I sigh. No doubt it’s another parking fine. I make a mental note to have a go at Winnie as soon as I get in. Like, who calls someone up about a fine?
Walking down North Avenue, with the hospital looming behind me, I wonder how I will feel when I wake up tomorrow morning as a medical resident, now only the second-most junior doctor in the hospital. Probably much the same, I realise, allowing myself a small grin. Still, one rung higher is one rung higher. Medicine is nothing if not an exercise in delayed gratification.
As I near number 19, I notice there’s someone sitting on the front doorstep. Oh, God—they’ve actually sent a debt collector?! I turn through the front gate and stop abruptly, unable to believe what my eyes are telling me.
He’s as tall as I remember. His dark hair is the same, flopping over his eyebrow. He’s tanned and looks like he’s stepped off an island paradise—which he probably has, I remind myself. He’s wearing a t-shirt with a picture of a cartoon dog on it, and he is holding a package. I stand gaping at him, speechless.
‘Hi, Doc,’ he says. ‘We’ve got to stop running into each other like this.’
The violins which have started up in my head come to a screeching halt.
‘Nice line,’ I say. ‘What do you think this is? A movie?’ Then: ‘Well, you took your bloody time! Good to see you’re capable of actually making a flight!’
‘Do you always have to start an argument?’ he replies, looking irritated. ‘I’m trying to be romantic.’