“Maybe at the next conference.” Her tone was a little too sarcastic for someone I was paying.
“If you read the report, then you knowI’mnot the issue here.”
Peter fucking Mercer, my old boss, was the problem.
He was the lazy piece of shit who’d misdiagnosed a patient. A mother. It had caused so much unnecessary pain for her, and he couldn’t have cared less.
I’d been so stressed, fighting to keep my own head above water, and I’d just fucking snapped. I could still hear the shouts of my co-worker, “Macabe, let him go right now.”
I didn’t even realise I’d grabbed him until I saw the fear in his ruddy complexion. I’d barely laid a hand on him, besides creasing his shirt collar, but it had been enough for an immediate suspension.
What I hadn’t counted on was his desire to save himself. At the first whiff of the word investigation, he’d agreed to work the next year into early retirement, if I agreed to six months’ paid suspension and to “never darken his doorstep again”.
“I already completed my suspension,” I told Sarah. “And filled a host of locum positions since then. I wouldn’t be working here if I hadn’t.” With my dream job handed to me on a fucking platter and I didn’t want it because I hadn’t earned it myself.
Wasn’t sure I wanted to stay in medicine at all, if I was being really honest.
The past few years had wrung me dry.
Sarah sighed on the other end of the phone. “Look, I’m not here to play judge and jury. To be frank, I don’t really care about your personal circumstances, but I do have a job to do, so here’s my advice to you.” I had to hand it to her, she was a straight shooter. “If you’re dead set on finding a replacement, try and get people to like you, starting with your patients. Bring your feedback scores up and some of the moredesperatecandidates might be willing to overlook your involvement.”
“My patients? That can’t be the issue here. I was born and raised in Kinleith, these people have known me all my life.”
Shetsked,and I knew I wasn’t going to like whatever came next. “Try googling your name and Kinleith Spring Festival.”
4
Alistair
The Kinleith Gazette – the Isle of Skye’s most popular online newspaper
CITY DOCTOR SPARKS OUTRAGE AFTER HAILING THE VILLAGE OF KINLEITH AS “PIT STOP TO NOWHERE WITH MORE SHEEP THAN PEOPLE”
Residents of Kinleith, one of Scotland’s most up-and-
coming travel destinations, were left devastated when homegrown talent Dr Alistair Macabe described the quaint harbour village as “A PIT STOP TO NOWHERE WITH MORE SHEEP THAN PEOPLE”.
The scathing comments were overheard at last month’s annual spring festival, where the doctor was also overheard mocking the results of the baking contest and later complaining about the village’s “LACK OF OAT MILK”.
No word yet on when our resident hotshot plans to return to the big city, let’s hope it’s soon—
“Did you really have to mention the oat milk?” Mal said the day after my call with Sarah. He winced as I transferred the three crates of whisky bottles from the back of his van into his burly arms, then grabbed the remaining crates and stepped aside so April could close the doors.
Six months of assisting his weekly delivery runs to the village and I could still only carry two. Working alongside Mal was like watching the World’s Strongest Man competition, minus all the shouting and grunting.
“I didn’t!” I bit out, still pissed that the article had been posted almost a month ago and not a single member of my family had thought to mention it. “Not that there’s anything wrong with oat milk,” I continued, as we started walking toward the high street that stitched Kinleith village down the very centre. “It’s better for the environment. And I don’t even remember saying that stuff about the baking contest; they probably made it up to make me sound like some dramatic city elitist.”
The high street looked a lot different than it had when I was a kid. Back then it had been tired, worn thin from harsh winters and neglect. All peeling paint and crooked shop signs and the smell of salt and peat in the air. The scent was just about the only thing that had stayed the same. Now the cobbled street boasted crooked multi-coloured shopfronts and flower baskets. Zigzagged bunting that whipped in the wind.
I loved it. I also hated it.
I couldn’t explain it really . . . just that it felt like a pretty mask, hiding the dirt and grit beneath.
It was just after nine, and the sun was high in the sky, seagulls squawking and diving overhead, waiting for the tourists to meander out of their holiday lets for easy pickings. Boy, Mal’s golden retriever, bounded out in front, bored of our slow pace. Dudley, their dachshund, always remained at home for deliveries, as his wee legs couldn’t keep up.
We had one final delivery at the new seafood restaurant down by the dock, which was literally called The Seafood Restaurant. I wondered idly if it was the same restaurant Teddy had spoken of, the one where her dad worked, then quickly told myself it didn’t matter.
“Youarea dramatic city elitist,” April chimed in from my other side, a little sourly. Clearly still pissed at Mal telling her that under no circumstances was she to do any heavy lifting.
