After the End(9)

“Can I help?”

There’s a man standing on the other side of Leila. She moves her head to get a better look at him, and cagoule woman shouts at her to stay still.

“I’m a trained first aider, and an ambulance has been called.”

“I’m a paramedic,” the man says. “I’ll take a look, then I can update the crew.”

“You’re not in uniform.”

“I’m on my way to work.” He shows his identification, and above Leila’s head she sees the familiar colors of the hospital ID card.

“She took her helmet off—I did tell her.”

“I’ll take it from here.” He walks around Leila and kneels, leaving the other woman no choice but to move out of his way. Leila hears her muttering to someone she can’t see.

“You’re not supposed to take helmets off. I did tell her . . .”

The man smiles. “Hi, I’m Jim. What’s your name?”

“Leila Khalili. I’m a doctor. And I’m fine.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Ugh, you lot make the worst patients. Dentists are a close second. Always know best. Mind you, the general public aren’t much better—they’d rather put their trust in Dr. Google than in someone actually trained to do their job . . .” While he talks, he’s examining Leila; gently checking her skull, the back of her neck, her ears and nose. He loosens Leila’s scarf and runs his fingers over her collarbone. Leila gasps.

“Painful?”

“No, your hands are bloody freezing.”

He laughs, a rich sound that matches the warmth in his face. “Sorry.” His brown eyes are flecked with gold. A smattering of freckles covers the bridge of his nose.

“I landed on my left shoulder. It’s just bruised.” The throng of people has broken up now, the level of drama insufficient to merit getting soaked through. Jim continues with his methodical examination. He isn’t wearing a coat, and the rain has darkened his blond hair.

Finally, he sits back on his heels. “It’s only bruising.”

“I know,” Leila says, exasperated, but she’s smiling because he is, and because she knows that, in his shoes, she’d have done exactly the same. She takes the hand he holds out, and gets gingerly to her feet. Cagoule lady has retrieved Leila’s bicycle, which—apart from a dented mudguard and a bashed basket—has escaped unharmed. “Thanks for your help,” Leila says to them both.

“I’ll cancel the ambulance,” Jim says. “My car’s over there. Sling the bike in the boot and I’ll give you a lift to work.”

“Thanks, but I’m—” Leila stops herself. The ache in her shoulder has intensified, she’s soaked and freezing, and late for work. “That would be great.”

With the back seats down, there is just enough space in Jim’s Passat for Leila’s bike.

“Sorry about the mess.” He sweeps an armful of clothes from the passenger seat and dumps them behind them. The footwell is a thick soup of empty water bottles, sandwich packets and McDonald’s wrappers, and something that crunches beneath Leila’s feet. “I had to move out of my flat a couple of weeks ago and I haven’t found a new one. I’m kipping at friends’, but it means I’m kind of living out of my car, and . . . well, it’s hard to keep tidy.”

“I should lend you my mum.”

“Does she like tidying?”

“I daren’t put a mug of tea down till it’s finished—she’ll have it washed and back in the cupboard in ten seconds flat.”

Jim laughs. “She sounds like the perfect flatmate. Will you be all right here?” He pulls into the bus stop by the children’s building, gets out, and sets down Leila’s bike, bending the mudguard so it no longer fouls the wheel. “Might be worth taking it somewhere to be checked over, to be on the safe side.”

“I will. Thanks again.”



* * *





On her way to the ward, Leila stops by Neurology, poking her head round the open door of a large office lined with shelves. Her mentor, Nick Armstrong, is reading a file, leaning back on a chair balanced on two legs. He rocks forward when he sees Leila, the chair landing squarely on all four legs with a thud.

“What happened to you?”

Leila looks down at her waterproofs, which are smeared with mud. “Fell off my bike.” She sits, and roots in her rucksack for fifty milligrams of codeine; puts it on her tongue and swallows it dry. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to eat in there?”

Leila takes the two Tupperware containers from her bag and slides them across the desk. “Kotlets. My mother’s finest.”

“How is she?”

“Driving me nuts. She won’t leave the house.”

“You’ll miss her when she goes back.”

Leila looks around Nick’s office; at the shelves crammed with reference books, the walls covered with pictures of his wife and their four grown-up children. On the windowsill behind Nick is a photo of him with the queen, when he received his MBE in 2005. He has a few more lines now—his hair starts perhaps a little further back—but otherwise he hasn’t changed. His suits are permanently creased, his tie always crooked. Today he looks particularly crumpled.