Page 5 of Maybe
“So sorry it’s such a nuisance,” answered Alaric, in the most unsorry way possible, “But as you can see, we are rather busy and must prioritise the sickest. I’m sure the radiographers are doing their best.”
My elderly patient and I traded amused smiles. “My wife would have shown him the door,” he whispered, “Broken ankle or no.”
A move these days guaranteeing Alaric would end up in theDaily Mail. Our friendly neighbour hadn’t finished.
“And someone needs to get me a wheelchair! I’m not pissing in that fucking bottle again.”
“There are none left, sir. The toilets are to your left, just around the corner. I suggest you use the crutch you’ve been provided with.”
“I don’t pay my fucking taxes to be treated like this!”
Ah, the old ‘I pay my taxes’ routine. If we received a pound every time a patient rolled out that cliché, the Emergency Department could afford enough bloody wheelchairs.
“Pipe down, sunshine.” A note of warning crept into Alaric's voice. “There are properly sick people waiting out there, kids too. They don’t need to hear your effing and jeffing. In the pocket ofthese scrubs, I have a roll of Micropore tape. Trust me, big fella, I’m not afraid to use it.”
The man swore. “I’ve a good mind to phone the papers and tell them how long I’ve been stuck here.”
Alaric huffed. “Then do make sure you spell my name right, pet. There are two G’s in faggot.”
Breaktime was at three a.m., a bowl of microwaved porridge shovelled in with a fork, seeing as the spoons had gone walkabout. With the staff breakroom to ourselves for ten minutes, Alaric hung out of the window, speed smoking. “Sorry to hear about your dad. That programme on the telly featuring him was nice.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I mean, a bunch of lies, but… yeah.”
“You should take some time off, you know. Even if you and he didn’t have the best of relationships, that stuff hits hard.”
“Can’t. Luke’s not back for another month, at least. There would be no one bloody here.”
“Yeah, but you look like shit.”
He wasn’t wrong; I’d caught a glimpse of myself in the toilets earlier. “Thanks for breaking that news to me gently, mate. Have you thought about pursuing a career in palliative care? Your communication skills will be wasted in urology.”
“Always here to help.” He poked his head back into the room. “Honestly, though, I’m sure you have loads of things to sort out. And I’m including your own head in that. Especially as you didn’t have the best of relationships.”
“Mmm.” I sighed. “You’re probably right.”
I’d never had a gay friend before. Most likely because I didn’t hang around gay spaces. Alaric’s brashness took some getting used to. He wasn’t scared to spout pastoral shit like that. Ormaybe it had nothing to do with his sexuality; maybe it was just him. At any rate, I liked him and envied him.
“I’m better off at work.” I scooped up the last of the porridge with my finger. “Gives me something else to concentrate on. And it’s not just that we’re so thin on the ground. I can’t afford to miss the clinical experience.”
“I thought you were dead set on going into cardiac? Grooming the family empire?”
“I am. Of course I am.”
Frowning, Alaric poked his head back in. “How’s pulling dislocated shoulders and lancing whitlows in the ED going to help?”
He had a point. But at least being seen to be busy at work looked like career progression. And Alaric probably wouldn’t understand, but I got a kick out of building a rapport with lonely old guys like my diverticulitis man. Once my cardiac career took off, I’d miss working in ED. I enjoyed patients’ stories, and I loathed lacking both the time and the space to treat elderly patients like him with the dignity they deserved. Frail old folk walked a physiological knife edge. Diverticulitis Man shouldn’t have been lying on a hard trolley in a soulless cubicle with only a flimsy paper curtain separating him from an idiot swearing like a sailor. He should be up on a ward, receiving prompt and targeted treatment before he deteriorated.
Alaric flicked the cigarette butt out onto the tarmac below, then wafted the window back and forth, before closing it and perching on a cheap plastic chair. Neatly crossing his legs, he eyed me shrewdly. “Why was that TV programme a bunch of lies?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I sighed again. “Not the entire thing. I suppose he was a great surgeon, but there are plenty of those around who never get half the plaudits he did. He was better at self-promotion. Shame he was such a shit dad, really. Hardlyever home, and when he was, he nagged me to work harder.”When I was your age, I’d be writing out flashcards, not sat in front of the TV watching American rubbish.
“Can’t have been that bad,” Alaric observed, with a lopsided smile. “You’ve turned out fine.”
When we first met, he used to flirt a lot with me. Some gays had a sixth sense for sniffing out another, and Alaric had sniffed plenty. He flirted much less now, probably because I never flirted back. I preferred it this way—not only was he was out of my league on so many levels, but I needed an ally and friend at work. And I had one.
As I relayed the scene in the solicitor’s office, relieved to have someone prepared to listen, his jaw dropped. “Are you sure you’re not parroting a daytime talk show? Night shifts can do funny things to your head, hon.”
“Sadly not. I’m going to visit my mother this weekend, to persuade her to intervene. Assuming we can find Ezra again.”
