After the End(11)

“Thank you, darling, you’re pretty lovely yourself.” Tom adopts a camp voice Leila has never before heard him use. He raises one hand and lets it dangle limply from the wrist.

Alistair rolls his eyes. “Not helpful, Tom.”

“I’m not having my son exposed to”—Connor’s face is turning puce, so screwed up in rage he’s struggling to get the words out—“to that.”

Aaron takes a step toward Connor. “Come on, mate, you can’t—”

“I’m not your fucking mate!”

A visiting parent, walking past the open door, stares openly. Leila holds up both hands, palms raised. “That’s enough! This is a hospital, Mr. Slater, there are critically ill children and their terrified parents within earshot and your behavior is not acceptable.”

“I pay my taxes—”

“—for which the NHS is truly grateful. There are no other beds, Mr. Slater. Liam is here because this is where he needs to be. If he’s moved, it will be because of a medical need, not because of personal preference. Particularly when that personal preference appears to be at best unpleasant, and at worst homophobic.” Leila stops abruptly, before she oversteps the mark. Perhaps she already has.

An ugly red flush creeps over Connor’s neck as he continues to stare at Leila. He gives a twisted smile and furrows his brow, before looking at his wife and shrugging. “I can’t make out a word she’s saying, can you?”

Leila looks again at Connor Slater’s red-rimmed eyes. She reminds herself that he is teetering on the brink of losing a child, that it is the world he is angry with, not her. She speaks slowly and clearly. “I will not be moving Liam, Mr. Slater.”

He holds her gaze. “Sorry, I can’t . . . it’s the accent, love.”

There is a sharp intake of breath from somewhere behind Leila. Pip, perhaps. Leila does not react. Connor Slater isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. “Would you like me to find another doctor to speak to you?”

“Yes.” Ill-disguised triumph floods Connor’s face. “Yes, I would.”

No issue with her accent that time. “That’s no problem at all. I believe Dr. Tomasz Lazowski is on duty. Or perhaps Dr. Rehan Quereshi?” There’s a beat, as Leila and Connor Slater lock eyes, and then Connor breaks away.

“Going for something to eat,” he tells his wife. She scurries after him, and as the door swings shut—a safety mechanism preventing the slam Connor no doubt would have liked—there’s a slow handclap.

“Bravo, Dr. Khalili.”

Leila picks up Liam’s chart and scrutinizes it, embarrassed by the Bradfords’ applause. “He’s scared, that’s all.”

“We’re all scared,” Pip says quietly.

“You were magnificent,” Tom says, effusive in his praise. Leila wonders if he and Alistair care more about Connor Slater’s words than they appear to. She wonders if it hurts them, or if—like her—they are immune to it.

“I don’t know about that. I’m only sorry it happened at all.”

Alistair puts an arm around Tom. “We’ve been through worse, I can assure you.”

“Even so. Would you like me to try and find another space for Darcy?”

“And let him win? Not a chance.” Tom grins. “Besides, we won’t be here much longer, will we?”

“Not too much longer.” Leila is unwilling to commit to a timeframe. “We’ll get you into High Dependency as soon as a bed’s free, then I want to see Darcy’s sats a little more stable before we start talking about her going home.”

“Hear that, princess? Home!” Alistair reaches into Darcy’s cot and picks her up as gently as if she were made of glass, careful not to dislodge the oximeter wrapped around her foot, the sticky electrodes keeping tabs on her heart rate. Tom puts his arms around them both, and the two of them gaze at their daughter.

“Gorgeous family,” Pip says, and on her face is a smile you’d swear was genuine, had you not glimpsed—as Leila did—the pain in its place a moment ago. “You’ll have to have a big party to make up for spending her first Christmas here.”

“Now there’s an idea,” Tom says, but Alistair is looking at Pip, who has picked up her knitting again, the smile still fixed to her face.

“Sorry, Pip. We don’t mean to rub it in.”

“Don’t be daft. I’m happy for you. It’ll be our turn before too long.” She looks at Leila. “Dylan’s coming off the ventilator today, isn’t he?”

Leila nods. “After ward round’s finished. I’d like to do it here, to minimize stress for Dylan, so . . .” She looks at Alistair and Tom.

“We’ll make ourselves scarce,” Tom says.



* * *





The door to Room 1 is closed. The Slaters are in the canteen, and the Bradfords at work. Leila has tried to persuade Pip to go for a walk, for her own sake as much as for Leila’s and her team’s, but Dylan’s mother has insisted on staying with her son. She is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, in a small concession to Leila’s plea for space.

Beside Leila, on a metal trolley, are endotracheal and tracheostomy tubes, as well as a sterilized scalpel and lidocaine, in the unlikely event that Leila might be required to establish an emergency airway. On one side of Dylan is Cheryl; on the other, Aaron, who is pulling the sticky tape away from Dylan’s face with such care, such tenderness, that Dylan might have been his own child.