Page 1 of The Truth Will Out
PROLOGUE
He reluctantly scribbled on the patient’s notes and inserted the test results into the envelope, glad that his surgery still used the old filing system. His hatred of working with computers was well known amongst the staff. They had pleaded with him to update the system rather than remain stuck in his old ways, but his argument had remained the same for years: “What if the computers go down? Where will we be then?”
Robert Morgan tidied his desk and left his office with his dirty cup and medical bag in hand. He gave the receptionist the cup and announced, “I’m off to see Mrs Evans. I’ll go straight home from there. I have a dinner engagement this evening.”
He could tell the receptionist was dying to know more about his social life; however, she had the sense to stay quiet. He made a point of never discussing his personal life with the staff, and he rarely interacted with them at all. He had rules and stuck by them. The working day should consist of dealing with the patients and their needs, except in most cases, he rarely did that either. He knew his manner was brusque at the best of times and often borderline ignorant at others. His lack of empathy and bedside manner were notorious, not only at the surgery but throughout Workington. It prevented peoplefrom registering with the surgery, which, in turn, made his life easier on a day-to-day basis.
“Goodbye, Doctor Morgan. Enjoy your evening,” Lisa said.
“I will. See you in the morning,” he replied gruffly, then left the surgery.
His black BMW was parked in its usual spot, close to the rear entrance. After depositing his bag on the back seat, he slipped behind the steering wheel and drove off, not giving the surgery or his staff a second thought, as usual at this time of the day. His main gripe, when he attended meetings he was forced to go to, was that the other doctors’ conversations centred around their surgeries, mostly the shenanigans their staff got up to, not only at work but during their time off as well. What concern was it of theirs, or his? That sort of rubbish didn’t affect him, so why should he show any interest in it?
Robert drove out to one of his older patients, whose daughter had rung earlier. She’d told the receptionist that her mother was unable to get to the surgery, hence his need to fit in a home visit on the way home that afternoon. He detested seeing patients in their own environments. Some of his patients’ houses were the pits. What was it with older people who always used Vicks during the summer as well as the winter months? He struggled to work that one out. It was a smell that irritated him and generally brought out the worst in him.
He parked up outside the patient’s terraced house on the outskirts of Workington and rang the doorbell. A woman in her fifties opened the door.
“Oh, hello. I’m Doctor Morgan. I’ve come to see Mrs Evans.”
“Ah, yes. Come in, Doctor. I’m her daughter, Vanessa. Sorry to call you out like this, but Mum has been poorly in bed for a few days. I’m very concerned about her. I think she has a chest infection. She’s hardly eaten the last two days. I’ve been really worried about her. She’s not getting any younger.”
“None of us are. Where is she?”
Vanessa stepped behind the door and allowed him to enter. He didn’t suggest removing his shoes. Why should he? It wasn’t wet outside.
“She’s in her bedroom. Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you. Would you like to show me the way?”
Vanessa quickly shut the front door and then scooted past him to lead the way up the stairs. At the top, the smell of menthol hit his nostrils and sparked his anger.
“The doctor is here, Mum. Everything will be all right now.”
Mrs Evans turned her head weakly to look at him. “Hello, Doctor. It’s nice of you to come. I haven’t been able to get out of bed in days,” the old woman said, her voice sounding strained.
“Yes, yes. Can you tell me what your symptoms are?”
“My chest hurts when I cough, and my nose won’t stop running. It’s not a cold because I always eat well with a cold. I think it’s something more than that.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Mrs Evans. Can you sit her up?” he asked Vanessa.
“I can try. Come on, Mum, let’s get you sat up so the doctor can examine you properly.”
Vanessa struggled to get her mother upright. Robert stood back and watched, not offering to assist them. Why should he?
“I can’t, dear,” Mrs Evans croaked just before she started having a coughing fit.
He raised his hand and turned his head away to avoid catching any of the old woman’s germs. It was at times like this that he preferred wearing a mask, like during Covid; at least the rate of colds and chest infections had gone down back then. He kicked himself for not putting one in his pocket before leaving the car. He opened his bag to see if there was one hiding in there. At the bottom, he found one that was still in the packet but scrunched up.It’ll do for now.He slipped it into position, then stepped forward and placed the stethoscope on the woman’s chest.
“Breathe in… and out.” He did the same on her back and repeated, “In… and out.” Taking a few steps back, he removed the mask and announced, “She has a chest infection. I’ll give you a prescription for antibiotics. That should clear it up within a week or so.”
“But Mum has COPD, Doctor. Don’t you think she should go to the hospital?”
“No. The hospital is inundated with patients. This isn’t an emergency.”
“I beg to differ,” Vanessa snapped. “Look at her, she can barely breathe, and you think that’s not an emergency? I’ve never heard the like. I’m going to ring 111 and see what they suggest.”
He glared at the irate woman, scribbled a prescription, handed it to her, and then packed his bag. “Very well. It’s your prerogative. The medication will have you up and about in no time, Mrs Evans, but if your daughter wants to get you out of your comfy bed and to the hospital, then that’s up to her.”
