‘Thanks.’
I examine his face. ‘Anything else you need? Are you in pain?’
He shrugs awkwardly. ‘I’m due another dose tonight.’
I narrow my eyes. He’s frowning, and his forehead has a light sheen. Since I started working here I’ve learned that patients aren’t always the best judge of how much pain they can handle. Male patients, particularly, whinge about minor injuries like they’re dying, but almost never admit to serious pain. I’m gonna have to make this easy for him.
‘Gimme a number,’ I say. ‘If one is ‘Shit, I’ve stubbed my toe’, and ten is ‘Please god, make it stop’, where are you?’
He takes a breath and looks away, across the room.
‘Hey.’ I tap him on the arm. ‘Don’t whitewash it. Just tell me.’
His throat moves as he swallows, and he doesn’t say anything.
I study him, see the lines on his forehead, the furrows of tension around his eyes and mouth. I abandon the laundry trolley and walk out of the room.
It takes me a few minutes to find Barb and fill her in on the problem.
‘Well, how long has he been like this?’ She sighs and grabs a pair of gloves from the wall dispenser as we walk. ‘Hasn’t anybody else noticed the poor bugger’s been suffering?’
‘He’s been out of surgery, what, two days?’ I hand her a wrapped syringe. ‘Look, he’s not the most forthcoming patient, maybe he’s just been real quiet about it.’
‘Mmph,’ she says, and loads the syringe.
We enter Harris’s room together and I can tell he recognises Barb.
‘Hello there, Mr Derwent.’ Barb uncaps the syringe as she moves to the other side of his bed. ‘Amie tells me you’re struggling a bit.’
‘Could be,’ he says. He’s still panting a little. I feel like a fool not to have noticed before now.
‘Well, you know, that’s why the Good Lord gave us analgesics,’ Barb says. ‘Also, we have that nifty little buzzer beside your bed. All the mod cons here. So next time you’re doing it tough, give us a bell, all right?’ She grabs the tube of his drip with one meaty hand.
He nods just as she depresses the plunger. His face instantly releases – hard lines softening and lips opening as the pain recedes. The sight of his reaction gives me a little shiver. I get over myself, grab a towel and smooth his hair back off his forehead.
‘Dummy,’ I say softly.
‘Thank you,’ he says, and I think he really means it this time. His voice has gone thick, liquid.
‘Well spotted,’ Barb says to me. ‘I’ll have someone come in to check his blood pressure and do some obs, and then maybe we’ll have a talk about the drug sheet. He shouldn’t be getting so much breakthrough pain at this point.’
As Barb heads out, I move to stuff the dirty linen in my cart; I’ve still got beds to change in Twelve. Harris snags my wrist as I’m turning.
‘Hey.’ He’s slurring his consonants. ‘M’sorry for being an arsehole patient.’
‘You’ve been in pain.’ I shrug. ‘Pain can make people a little crazy.’
He’s still holding my wrist. His fingers are warm, shaky, and a little sweaty. His eyes glow like green neon, the pupils mere pinpricks. ‘I knew you were the sarge’s kid. He’s an okay bloke. I know I see him a bit more than he’d like, but he’s awright.’
I’ve heard Dad talk about Harris, on occasion. I don’t know if all the things Dad had to say about him were as complimentary.
‘Well, I’m glad you think so.’ I gently extricate my wrist, patting his hand as I go. ‘Now start getting better, and you’ll be kicking the footy again in no time.’
‘Yeah, okay,’ Harris sighs. His eyes close.
I think of something then. ‘Harris, when you’re checked out of here, do you have a place to go?’
‘Dad,’ he says softly. ‘Dad’ll want me back.’
It’s not until I’m out in the hall with the trolley that I realise he didn’t really answer the question.
