Mr Assman bucks back in the trolley like a wild horse, yelling up to the blinding hospital skylights, ‘She’s fucking crazy.’ Presumably he’s hoping someone behind the thin paper curtain might give a shit.
Maybe they do because it’s suddenly yanked back with a force more suited to a boxing ring than a hospital ward. The senior house officer on duty frowns sternly at my patient before turning his appraising stare to me.
Doctor David Dickson is my personal mentor, born and bred in this very hospital, by all accounts. He has a sharp tongue and, if you believe the rumours, an even sharper eye for the students under his charge. His buzz cropped hair is greying slightly at both temples. An ever-present pinstripe tie peeks from beneath the collar of his starched white doctor’s coat, a perpetual reminder of his importance, to himself, at least.
‘Is everything okay in here, Doctor Sexton?’ He doesn’t look at Jen but clicks his fingers in her direction, motioning for the patient notes, an incomplete form pinned between the metal grip of a weathered looking clipboard.
‘She,’ accusation weighs heavily in Mr Assman’s tone, ‘assaulted me in the face.’
‘It was an accident,’ Jen and I say simultaneously.
‘He’s clearly agitated,’ I explain. Doctor code for “high on something.”
I remove a tiny torch from my scrub pocket to examine Mr Assman’s pupils. As I raise my hand, Doctor Dickson shakes his head gently and nudges me aside.
‘I’ll take over,’ he offers, nodding at the blood drying on my sallow skin.
I glance at the platinum pocket watch hanging from my breast pocket. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Go home.’ He says it like he’s doing me a favour, even though my shift should have ended over three hours ago.
When his palm grazes the small of my back, I have to wonder if he’s going to want something in return for this small mercy, but the prospect of the aforementioned shower and wine renders me careless.
A&E is one of the toughest placements I’ve endured during my five years at medical school, primarily because neither the lowly students or the most qualified senior house officers can prepare for what the fuck comes through the front door on any given day or night.
The sheer magnitude of weird and wonderful injuries and traumas should be enough to put me off applying for a position here when I graduate, but privately, I think I might have just found my spiritual home.
There’s something utterly enthralling about not knowing what to expect from one day to the next. Even if it does leave me perpetually bleary-eyed. Amongst the buzz of the beeping monitors, the blinding overhead lights, and the race from patient to patient, I’ve never felt so alive.
I nod at Doctor Dickson, accepting his offer.
Brushing past Jen, I step towards the clinical waste bin to remove my personal protective equipment. She winks at me, and I nod a silent thanks for her support today.
‘I want to make an official complaint,’ Mr Assman rages on. ‘SHEdeliberately elbowed me in the —’
‘We’ll get to that in a minute.’ Doctor Dickson cuts him off in a definitive self-assured voice.
Just as I’m ripping the clammy gloves from my hands, my mentor materialises beside me again, a little too close for comfort. The sickly sweet smell of his cinnamon scented cologne is strong enough to penetrate my mask.
‘One more thing.’ Doctor Dickson’s deft hand catches me by the wrist. ‘If you need some assistance working on your bedside manner, I’ll be in my office tomorrow.’ His gunmetal grey eyes hold mine for a second longer than is comfortable.
‘Thank you.’ I nod to acknowledge his creepy offer. Not to accept it.
I dump the nitrile gloves into the bin and leave before I find myself in any more awkward situations.
Scuttling towards the exit, practically salivating at the prospect of a cold crisp glass of Sancerre, I keep my head down in case anyone else requests my assistance. I’m inches away from the thick, grey double doors when a familiar deep voice booms behind me.
‘Victoria.’
I sigh, swivelling on my clogs, plastering a smile on my face in the process.
Harrison Hughes closes the gap between us in three strides with his ridiculously long tree-trunk legs. The guy could have been a professional rugby player. Instead, he chose to follow in his father, mother, and grandparents’ footsteps and pursue a career in medicine.
We’ve known each other for over five years and while he’s been openly shagging his way through the women on our campus, I’ve had to be a little more discreet about my endeavours, unfortunately. Nothing kills spontaneous, passionate hook-ups like the menacing glare of an eternally present ten-tonne-truck of a bodyguard.
Not to say therehasn’tbeen any nocturnal activity, it’s just I have to plan my activities a bit better than most.
‘You finished?’ His thick stilted English accent screams ‘privately educated,’ probably at Eton along with Prince William and Harry and God only knows who else.
