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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

If only I’d pursued acting, I say to myself mournfully as I approach the hospital entrance. It’s been the same story every morning for the last five days. I allow myself the luxury of a small existential crisis in the short walk between home and the hospital, just to make myself feel better. Maybe it’s not too late? If I lost a few kilograms and had a nose job I could still be in the running. I have dark hair and green eyes, and men often compliment me on my bum—maybe it’s time to capitalise.

At least it’s Friday, I tell myself as I open the door to the stairwell. The stairs, I remind myself, are good for me. The incidental exercise won’t go astray if I’m to secure an acting agent and an audition for the next Daniel Craig feature. I’m charging up the steps two at a time to increase my heart rate when the door to the fifth floor flies open, forcing me to halt in my tracks.

I stand there gasping, demonstrating how horrendously unfit I am.

A man in scrubs is staring at me.

‘Hello,’ says Dr Prince.

I’m so out of breath I have to bend over. No doubt my face is the colour of a beetroot.

‘Oh, fuck, hi,’ I wheeze, dragging in a breath and wiping sweat off my face.

‘Are you all right?’ He looks concerned.

‘Sorry for swearing,’ I choke out, leaning on the handrail. ‘I’m just puffed after running up the stairs.’

‘Will you be right to come to theatre, do you think?’ he asks, peering at me closely. I’m relieved to see that he’s smiling.

‘Yes, yes,’ I reassure him, attempting to look calm and collected.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘I’ll see you later then.’

‘Bye!’ I bellow cheerfully, waving gaily as I resume my passage up the stairs.

After our round together I had hoped I could impress Dr Prince with some more neurosurgical insights, but alas my nerves get the better of me. I have no idea why I can’t just have a normal encounter with the man, one in which I look together and attractive. Even better, one in which I make a sage remark on arterial supply of the brain, or something equally surgically impressive. Instead, usually when he sees me I’m either swearing my head off or covered in sweat.

Embarrassment and poor cardiovascular fitness aside, today, I remind myself, is going to be a good day. Once I get through the morning round I can look forward to going to the operating theatre to help Dr Prince.