“But it depends on how they change, doesn’t it, as to whether it creates a chasm. I’m just glad I’m back here. It’s going to be helpful.” There was a look again, a shadow that stole some of his light.
“Helpful with what?”
A microsecond of a pause. “The new job. Just that. The new job.”
It wasn’t just that, I could tell. “You’ll smash it.”
“Maybe. Or I might take up mudlarking full time.”
“Save that for retirement.”
Carter messaged me a photo on Sunday, a picture of his haul from the river: old roman pipes, a battered broach and a coin, all of which would be dealt with in accordance with the rules, because Carter always followed the rules, even if he pretended to be a rebel.
The picture was pretty, the objects on the sand, the weak winter sun twinkling on the grains.
I saved it as my phone’s wallpaper, although I wasn’t sure why.
I’d analyse it later.
CHAPTER 3
Rose
Ileaned against the cabinets in the small staff kitchen and unfortunately rested my head against an upper door handle, which rudely knocked me out of a moment of self-pity to pain then more self-pity. The handle summed up the day.
“Wardle’s looking for you. I think he wants you to stay on – we’ve just had another emergency.” Nina, one of the nurses, dashed into the kitchen, grabbing a half-clean cup and filling in with water – a quick drink because that was all there would be time for.
“I’m meant to be meeting Fallon for dinner.” I felt my shoulders slump. “Where’s Annabelle?”
Annabelle was one of the other ward psychologists who’d just come back after maternity leave. She was a few years older than me, and disillusioned with her job and life in general.
“Running late. Isla’s running a fever so her mother-in-law’s said she can’t look after her while Annabelle’s husband gets back. She’ll be in as soon as he’s home and she’s gotten here.” Nina gave me the news like she was telling me what she was having for dinner. This happened fairly routinely and I’d heard several discussions about why Annabelle wouldn’t just fork out for a childminder or au pair.
I found the strength to move away from the cupboards, accepting of my fate. “What time did Annabelle call in?”
“A couple of hours ago. She said Phil will be back about half six.” Nina rinsed the glass out and put it to drain. “She’ll be in for seven.”
That wasn’t too bad. Phil worked all over London and didn’t have a predictable time for getting home – this had happened multiple times before. It was just after six now; I had a spare change of clothes in my locker, so I could still meet Fallon on time.
“I better go and check this emergency then.” I fixed on my game face and headed back onto a ward that was starting to feel kind of wild.
We had patients with an array of difficulties, all emergencies and staying with us until they were discharged or moved onto a different ward where inpatient treatment could be delivered long term. Most of the cases were in for a few days or just overnight, depending on a multitude of factors.
The newest addition had been brought in by an ambulance with police presence after assaulting a member of staff in their care home. There were signs of disassociation and distress, and I forgot about Annabelle and Fallon and the fact I was hungry and couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a drink, because I became absorbed in working with James, a thirteen-year-old who I learned had been having rather a hard time of it.
The next twenty minutes involved helping him to regulate, quickly learning his patterns of behaviour, and that he had a strong left hook that struck me right on the temple.
I took it, it wasn’t the first time a child’s crisis presented in this manner, and it wouldn’t be the last. He started to breathe, shifting out of fight mode, with no need for restraint, which I’dquickly learned would only over-stimulate him. We were dealing with trauma and probably not yet diagnosed neurodiversity, the bigger picture being dripped fed to me by the carer who was with him, and then a hurried social worker who looked like she hadn’t slept for three days.
I walked off the ward onto the corridor with a throbbing cheekbone that I knew wouldn’t need blusher any time soon, and straight into Carter in a white medical coat, smirking at me not having noticed him sooner.
“In the wars?” he pushed his hands in his pockets and looked far too unbusy.
“Don’t.” I touched my face. It felt tender and needed an ice pack. “Busy shift.”
“Want first aid?” He pointed to the nearby staffroom where there would be ice packs.
“I can sort it myself. Fallon’s going to love commenting on this.” He followed me through the door and went straight to the medical fridge, entering the code to open it and pulling out an ice pack.
