My phone vibrates on the floor. It’s not the bleep, it’s someone ringing me.

I’m not on call, it’s OK.

Except it’s a private number which usually means the hospital, and it’s not even 6 a.m. and—

Just fucking answer it.

‘Hello. Dr Palmer speaking.’

‘Hi, Tim, listen, it’s Fred Dornan.’

My consultant is really sound. He hasn’t forgotten what it’s like to be a junior, though I’ve never heard him sound so stern.

‘I need you to come in before your shift, ideally now.’

I sit up. Is it a terrorist incident? The 7/7 attacks knocked everyone for six last summer, but I never thought something would happen down here in the sticks. ‘What’s happened, is it an accident or—’

He coughs. ‘No. It’s one of our patients. Mrs Lomas.’

I can’t picture her. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘She’s gone into anaphylactic shock and it looks like a prescribing error. We need to get your statement before you come on duty.’

I blink. Prescribing error. ‘Is she all right?’

A long, long pause during which I finally remember her: a woman in her late thirties, who’d had a cholecystectomy. Routine stuff. I can picture her children, too, being told off by the head nurse for running up and down the corridor.

‘Don’t panic, Tim. But I do need you to come in as soon as you can.’

This is real.

Mrs Lomas is allergic to the penicillin I prescribed for a wound infection at her operation site. I didn’t know about the allergy, but I didn’t check for it either. It would have been there, buried somewhere in her notes.

And because I didn’t check, she’s now in ICU and there is a significant risk she will never wake up.

I describe the steps I took and everything I can remember about her treatment. The human resources woman tapes my statement so there can be no comeback later.

There is a protocol for this.

Fred Dornan’s voice is calm again, but he won’t quite meet my eye, and I am asked if I am prepared to take today as leave. I then have five scheduled days off till I’m due on shift again next week.

By that time, we may have a clearer picture of what’s what.

The words sound as though they’re coming from a long way away.

I go to the mess and remove everything from my locker. Debbie comes in. I brace myself for an outburst because I know the other F1s will have to take up the slack while I’m away.

But instead, she puts her hand on the locker door. ‘Hey, I’m sure it’ll be all right.’

She knows already. They will all know by the end of today.