‘Yeah.’ Nick shrugs. ‘My car’s just about ready to crap itself. It’s time I bought something decent instead of relying on Grant’s hand-me-downs.’
‘Hey, don’t knock hand-me-downs. Hand-me-downs are cheap.’
‘Yeah, but the difference is, if yours dies in the middle of the road you can get it fixed for nothing.’
‘Dad could have a look?’ But it’s only half an offer. I don’t know how busy Dad will be over this Five Mile business. He might not have time to fiddle about with other people’s engines for the next few days.
‘Nice of you,’ Nick says, but the look on his face tells me he’s already made up his mind. ‘Anything you need before I go?’
‘World peace? A cure for cancer?’
‘Hilarious.’
‘Dunno, is there anything?’
‘Go say hullo to Mrs D, she gets lonely. And you’ll wanna drop in on your mate during obs.’
‘Harris isn’t my mate,’ I point out.
‘You knew him when he came in.’
‘He was in pain when he came in. I was just helping him out. I mean, yes, aeons ago I played netball when he was in under-17s, but –’
‘Glorious sporting years, I’m sure. But they’re clearing the drain in his leg this morning.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Maybe go distract him with footy nostalgia.’ Nick makes a face, which just looks tired. ‘Dickhead Derwent. Don’t know how he managed to get himself shot in the leg. Self-inflicted, probably.’
‘Hey. Give him a break.’ I push at Nick’s arm.
‘Right. If you’re gonna abuse me, I’m off.’ But there’s no rancour in his voice. He’s obviously too knackered, and he’s just not that kind of guy. ‘Have fun, see you Wednesday.’
‘Text me about the pub after work.’
‘Will do. Cheers, babe.’
I drop the clipboard off to the admin desk, text Dad with the question, and collect Spot, the blood pressure machine. Obs is a pretty simple gig: pulling Spot along the hall, going into rooms to say hello, open curtains. Take temperature, pulse, blood pressure, check respiration rate, tidy up a little. It’s a lull; the night duty staff are giving their final instructions and saying their goodbyes, and the earlies staff are still yawning as they come on the ward. Patients not already roused by the breakfast bustle are starting to wake.
Mrs Dougherty in Three wants the loo, and then a blanket. She has wispy-white hair and cold fingers. ‘How’s your dad, Amita?’
She’s also one of the only people I know who calls me by my given name. ‘He’s good, Mrs Dougherty.’
‘When’s he gonna give up the police work and come take me away from all this, eh?’
‘I’ll tell him you’re still available, Mrs D.’ I grin, tuck the blanket around her, let her know I’ll come with her brekky in a bit.
I don’t know what to expect in room Seven. I haven’t seen Harris Derwent since he arrived with such dramatic flourish: paddy wagon lights blueing up the whole bay in a frantic, hands-on, this-is-a-fucking-emergency scene. He was barely conscious then. It’s not like he’ll recognise me now.
The room is still dim. It smells like sweat and antiseptic in here. There’s a bulky figure on the bed, obscured by the sheet-covered cage over the lower half of him. My shoes are rubber-soled so they don’t make any noise at all as I move closer to the other bed’s nightstand and reach for the lamp.
As soon as I flick the switch, I hear a sigh.
‘Could you please turn off that fucking light?’
His bed is half-reclined. He’s all lank blonde hair and whitened tan. I’m seeing a lot of him: he’s shirtless, with the sheet rucked down to his hips. Working in a hospital, you find yourself dealing with people in various states of distress and undress. It’s kind of weird, seeing people you know personally when they’re so vulnerable. Six months into this job it’s something I’m still getting used to.
‘Sure.’ I turn the light off. ‘What happened to your gown?’
