‘…there will be decorations to hang, and food to prepare, and your auntie is working all day on Sunday –’
‘Nani, I’m coming, okay?’ I tap my pen on the keyboard in front of me. ‘I said I was coming, it’s just I’ve got Sunday night shift until six-thirty the next morning. But I promised Auntie I’d drive up straight after.’
‘You will be tired,’ Nani says. ‘Driving after working all night.’
She’s right: I’ll be stuffed by the time I make it to Mildura on Monday morning. Although if I get in early I might be able to wrangle a nap before Hansa needs me in the kitchen. I can worry about that later. This bloody wedding – it’s still five days away, but Nani must be stressed about it if she’s calling me on my mobile.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I reassure her. ‘I’ll drink a lot of coffee and I’ll definitely be there.’ A car pulls into the emergency ambulance bay, which is strictly not allowed. They’d better have a good excuse. ‘Nani, I have to go, I’m staffing the front desk at work. I’ll call you again tomorrow, all right?’
I swap hurried goodbyes, and I’m just slipping my phone into the pocket of my uniform pants when a gnarled hand slaps the blue counter top.
‘I’m sorry, but you can’t –’ I start on the standard spiel, jerk to a halt.
A pair of red-rimmed brown eyes stare into mine. ‘Tell me where he is.’
Dennis Derwent has cheeks like sandstone caves, and antipathy seems to seep out of his pores. Plus booze – booze is a sour constant with Mr Derwent, as if he’s wearing vodka cologne. His clothes are dusty and there’s dirt under his nails.
I think quickly: Barb is not on shift. Penny is in Exam Room Three, dealing with an Urgent Care case. Unless another staff member walks past, I’m on my own. I consider whether to press the security buzzer.
‘I know you allknow.’ He lays the snark on thick. ‘Now I’m not gonna stand here and listen to some bullshit about –’
‘Mr Derwent,’ I say evenly, ‘you can’t park in the ambulance bay. I’m happy to talk to you but first you need to –’
‘Tell me where my son is!’ His hand thumps on the counter again, fisted this time. ‘He can’t stay hid forever. He’smyson.Mine. You got no right –’
‘Mr Derwent, I’m sorry, but I don’t know where Harris is.’ The lie falls out of me easily. I back it up with truth. ‘Even if I did, we’re not legally permitted to pass on patients’ personal information without –’
‘Don’t you gimme that crap about legal permission!’ Dennis flicks my words away. ‘That fat cow said a month, and it’s been a bloody month. I know he’s around someplace – is he in Ouyen? Or has he gone back to Melbourne?’
The thick counter stands between us and I should feel protected, but I don’t. I’ve dealt with irate patients and their families before. Dennis Derwent is in a different class.
But the way he speaks to me, the way he speaks about Barb, and his own son, lends me some steel. ‘I can’t give you Harris’s address, Mr Derwent.’ I steeple my fingers against the desk top, push down hard. ‘Please go and move your ute out of the ambulance bay.’
Dennis bears forward, venom sparking out of him with every word. ‘Fuck the ute. I’m not bein’ ordered around by a bloody teenager.’ He shakes his head. ‘When I catch that boy, I swear…’
That boy. I stood next to that boy only a few days ago, heard some of his history. I think I’m starting to get a fuller picture of how Harris became the person he is now. The armour he’s constructed around himself, piece by bleeding piece, and why he needed it so badly.
My voice goes flat. ‘I’m sure Harris will tell you where he’s living when he’s ready. He can make his own decisions.’
‘Harris? Make his owndecisions?’ Dennis thrusts himself so far over the countertop, I see his wrinkles and whiskers in close-up. ‘I’mhis fucking father.Imake the decisions. It’s not your job to interfere, it’s got nothing to do with you. Now gimme that ledger –’
He grabs for the daybook sitting open on the desk in front of me, which is ridiculous because it doesn’t even hold personal records. I’m not gonna let him snatch it, though.
‘Hey, give that back!’ I grab for the ledger. The pages scrunch and tear as I wrestle Dennis for it, and I feel it when my fingernails scrape his hand.
‘Shit!’ He holds up his red-marked hand, his expression thunderous. ‘You rotten little bitch!’
For a sick old alcoholic, Dennis moves like lightning. He grabs my shirt front in his fist, yanks me against the counter. His lips are wet with spittle. He looks demented. I’m half-stunned that it’s escalated so fast. Then my hip whacks against the edge of the desk and I react without thinking: I rear back and smack him hard across the face.
His eyes bulge and his cheek goes white. Before it has a chance to redden, he lifts his arm, fist balled –
Another hand grabs his wrist.
‘Right– no you don’t.’ Mel Stubbins twists Dennis’s arm up and back until he yowls and releases me.
I stumble, right myself; I’ve never been so glad to see the flash of Mel’s white uniform shirt.
She has a hand sunk into the scrawny meat of Dennis’s nape. ‘Back offright now, Dennis, or I’ll break your bloody arm.’
