After the End(10)

“How long have you been here?”

Nick looks at his watch. “Five and a half hours. Subarachnoid hemorrhage on the stroke ward.”

“Have you slept?”

“I managed a couple of hours under my desk.” He rubs his neck. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“And the patient?”

“Died.” He takes a mouthful of kotlet. “This is amazing. What is it?”

“Beef mince and potatoes, covered in eggs and bread crumbs, then deep-fried. Very fattening.” Leila grins, because Nick is tall and skinny, with the enviable ability to eat whatever he fancies without ever putting on weight. Leila is the opposite. Not quite as diminutive as Habibeh, or as comfortably built, but curvy and able to absorb kilos simply by looking at a pastry.

“Busy day ahead?”

“Isn’t it always? We’re extubating Dylan Adams this morning.”

Nick wrinkles his forehead. “Remind me.”

“Three-year-old medulloblastoma.”

“Pneumonitis?”

“That’s the one. We’ve attempted three times and each time he’s been back on the ventilator within twenty-four hours.”

“Airway reflexes?”

“Intact.”

“Secretions?”

“Manageable. He’s definitely ready. We’ve weaned with SIMV and pressure support over the last forty-eight hours—all the signs are good.”

“Happy days, then,” Nick says, through a mouthful of kotlet. Leila says nothing. She can’t shift the feeling that something bad is about to happen.



* * *





She hears the raised voice before she gets to the ward, and she quickens her pace until she reaches Room 1, where Cheryl is speaking calmly to the source of the shouting: a thick-necked man, with an England football shirt stretched across a barrel stomach.

“Like I said, I can’t do that.”

“Then find a fucking doctor who can!”

“Good morning, everyone,” Leila says brightly, as though she hasn’t noticed anything is amiss. A second nurse, Aaron, stands next to Cheryl, fists clenched, like the men on the fringes of a pub brawl.

Pip Adams has one arm across her son’s pillow. In her free hand is a small hairbrush with soft bristles—the sort you’d use on a baby. She strokes the sparse fluff on the boy’s head; a far cry from the soft brown halo of curls in the photo on the wall by his bed.

Dylan Adams, almost three. Medulloblastoma. The details pass through Leila’s thoughts almost subconsciously, like the caption of a photograph flashing on-screen.

On the other side of Dylan’s cot are Alistair and Tom Bradford, Darcy’s parents.

Darcy Bradford, eight months old. Bacterial meningitis.

“How was the theater?” Leila asks them, partly through politeness, and partly to defuse the atmosphere.

Alistair smiles. “Very nice, thank you.”

“Happy anniversary for yesterday.”

There’s a derisive snort from the other side of the room, and suddenly Leila both realizes what’s going on, and at the same time hopes she is wrong. She walks over to Liam Slater’s bed, to where mum Nikki is standing with the barrel-stomached man Leila assumes must be her husband. She extends her right hand. “Dr. Leila Khalili. I’m one of the consultants looking after Liam.”

The man stares at Leila, who resists the urge to flinch. She holds his gaze and keeps her hand outstretched until it is clear he isn’t going to take it.

“This is Connor,” Nikki says, her voice shaking as though she isn’t certain. “Liam’s dad.”

There’s a vein throbbing in Connor’s neck. Leila can smell fresh sweat and the faint trace of stale beer. Finally, he speaks. “I want Liam moved.”

Liam Slater, five years old. Asthma attack. Critical but stable.

“Moved? Mr. Slater, your son is very sick. Pediatric Intensive Care is the best possible place for—”

“Don’t patronize me, Doctor.” He makes it an insult. “I want him moved to a different bed. Away from these people.” He spits the words in the direction of Tom and Alistair Bradford.

Leila lets her face show confusion she doesn’t feel. “I’m sorry—away from who?” She hopes Connor Slater will balk at spelling it out, but Tom Bradford doesn’t give them the chance to find out.

“Away from the gays, he means.” There’s amusement—real or manufactured, Leila can’t be sure—in the exaggerated way Tom says it, and Connor’s top lip tightens.

“Really, Mr. Slater?” Leila is a doctor, not a guardian of social morals, but judgment colors her question nevertheless. She thinks of the night Darcy came in, her temperature sky-high, and a telltale rash covering her little body. Alistair and Tom, white knuckles intertwined. Parents, like all the others, frightened for their child.

“I want him moved.” Connor Slater’s voice is harsh and angry, his fists clenched by his sides, but his eyes are swollen and red rimmed. There are parents who cry openly on the ward, others who would rather die than be seen crying. Connor Slater, Leila suspects, falls into the latter category.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“I think it’s incredible Tom and Alistair are being so calm when you’re talking about them in such a revolting manner,” Pip says. “It just shows what lovely people they are.”