BooksBarbecue
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

Lawrence and I exchange a glance. This is some kind of trap, no question.

‘The south of France,’ I say finally.

A funny expression passes over her face. ‘Do you speak French?’ I laugh. ‘I wish. I did it for a few years at school but I’m pretty hopeless.’ I make the little sign between my thumb and forefinger. ‘Je parle un peu français.’

For a second her face reminds me of my own when I’m transporting myself mentally to a preferred destination.

‘I love the south of France,’ she says suddenly.

There’s an awkward silence.

‘You know what they say: speak in French when you can’t think of the English for a thing,’ she says, looking up at us almost shyly.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

She sees my expression.

‘Turn your toes out when you walk. And remember who you are!’ we recite together.

Lawrence’s mouth is on the ward floor.

‘Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass,’ I say in amazement. ‘How did you—?’

‘Never mind,’ she says abruptly. ‘It’s not important.’ Her lips tighten, and she stares down at the patient list intently, as if it will provide the answers to the meaning of existence.

‘Okay … well, we can fix the list for you,’ Lawrence says, looking uncomfortable; it’s bizarre to have an exchange with the Smiling Assassin that doesn’t involve her yelling at anyone.

‘Hurry up about it,’ she snaps. ‘I have to go to theatre.’ She backs away, already pulling on her scrub cap. ‘Call me if there are any problems.’

We watch as she rushes out of the ward, blue scrub jacket flying behind her.

Call her if there are any problems? What?

‘Was she just being, like, nice?’ Lawrence sounds confused. ‘How did she know that quote? Do you reckon her mum’s an English teacher like yours?’

I shake my head. ‘God, who knows? Maybe she’s getting the flu or something.’

I look at the list, and sigh. My pager starts to beep. I look down at it.

Mr Smith in bed 4 bowels not open five days pls review.

I make the executive decision to take the battery out of my pager and leave it on the desk.

‘Come on, Lawrence,’ I say to his shocked expression. ‘Let’s go get a coffee and look at how much flights to Paris cost.’

Mr Smith’s bowels can wait. They’ve been waiting nearly a week with no movement; another hour won’t be the end of the world, or his colon. Plus, I’m about to be deprived of city comforts for a while. Wingabby might be spoiled for choice when it comes to bird species, but I doubt you can say the same when it comes to coffee.

FIFTEEN

fifteen