Two tribes, p.18
Two Tribes, page 18
My hands shook as I lifted the obs chart closer and read it again. God, could it be possible? Bournemouth Hospital was a three to four-hour drive from Stourbridge. I hadn’t been back there in years. What the hell could Matt Leeson be doing down here?
“Hurts,” the man mumbled under the mask. He shifted again, as if trying to find a comfortable position. “Fucking pissing hurts.”
The muffled, slurred voice could have belonged to anyone. The swearing, however, sent a fresh wave of dizziness through me. Christ, I needed to get a grip.
“Time to take you through to recovery now, sir,” I declared in a brisk tone. Nausea swirled in my empty belly. I could barely string the words together, but I needed to get him out of here. Get Josie out of here too, so I could collapse in private.
Managing to stand, I dared a proper look. How tall had Matt been? Not particularly, the top of his head had come up to my neck—perfect for tucking him under my arm. Oh God. This guy was perhaps of average height too, but lying supine made it hard to tell. He was thin though, hardly tenting the sheets. Matt had also been slender, all arms and legs and nervous energy, forever jiggling his knee, biting his nails, causing mischief. This guy could scarcely move, let alone hide all my favourite pens. And his poor battered face; he could have been anybody under all that bruising and bandaging. Poking out of the dressing, a tuft of silky black hair taunted me, it took all my willpower not to reach out and stroke it. Oh God. Matt Leeson. My precious, sweet Matt.
If Josie hadn’t chosen that moment to push open the swing doors and holler to the porters, I might have burst into tears. As it was, a lump tugged at my throat and I averted my gaze.
“I’ll take this one through, Dr Valentine,” she said cheerfully. “You take a quick five-minute break and get yourself another cup of tea. Put plenty of sugar in it!”
With a grateful nod, I let her go. The responsibility to discharge patients over to the recovery staff rested with me, not her, but right now I couldn’t guarantee my legs were on board with that plan.
Somehow, I made it through the remainder of the afternoon. Ramil brought me a chicken sandwich, which surprisingly did make me feel a little better, and Josie continued to be her usual attentive self. I anaesthetised Mrs Fortescue in a daze. I dispensed advice regarding her frail physiology to the surgeons, I chatted with enthusiasm to Josie about her impending trip to Greece, and to Ramil about his advanced nurse practitioner studies. But if anyone had quizzed me about those conversations, I wouldn’t have had a clue. Not when Matt Leeson, a boy who had utterly captured, then so comprehensibly crushed my fragile teenage heart lay in a hospital bed just across the corridor.
Afterwards, when Mrs Fortescue had been safely handed over to staff in the high-dependency area and I’d changed back into my normal clothes, I headed for the surgical ward. A routine patient visit, right? Like I performed after all my challenging cases, making sure they were comfortable, and their obs were stable before I headed home. Except Matt hadn’t been challenging. The surgery had been fiddly and long—that was the nature of complex maxillofacial surgery—but from my end of the operating table, he’d been terribly straightforward. So why were my hands trembling and my heart hammering as I searched for his name on the whiteboard?
To my intense relief, he’d been allocated a single room. Whatever happened, I didn’t require an audience. I just needed to see him, to check it really was Matt. Even if he didn’t want to see me, even if the full-grown man was unrecognisable from the funny, smart boy who had enthralled me so completely all those years ago. Christ, would he even remember me?
“Matt?”
I called his name, in little more than a whisper. No response from the bed. Closing the door softly behind me, I stepped farther into the room. The plastic-covered armchair next to his bed had a hospital-issue, threadbare towel draped across it, and I pushed it aside and sat.
Matt didn’t move. He lay on his back with his head propped up on a couple of pillows, his body shrouded in a piece of blue sacking the hospital grandly referred to as a blanket. The blue of the bed linen complemented the varied hues of his bruising—the delicate skin of his face a Jackson Pollock of mottled purples, greens, and violets. He snored, unsurprising given his facial injuries, little puffs of air escaping through swollen lips. An ill-fitting hospital gown gaped at his neck, and below the delicate notch of his collar bones, a smattering of black hair dotted his upper chest. Both arms rested limply by his sides, one swathed in a clean white cast.
On impulse, I reached out and very gently linked his fingers in mine, staring at the sprinkling of fine dark hairs at his wrist, as though I’d never seen a man’s wrist before. I remembered these hands; the long, knobbly fingers and ragged, bitten nails. Hands smaller than mine—I remembered that, too. The feel of them wrapped between mine when no one else was around. Cool and soft. A sob of despair left my throat, startlingly loud in the hush of the room. My beloved Matt after all this time.
I’m not sure how long I sat there, holding his hand, listening to him breathe, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Long enough for the day shift to finish and the night staff to take over. A nurse came in to check Matt’s temperature, pulse, and blood pressure, padding around the bed in rubber-soled shoes. We knew each other by sight, and I stayed silent as she went about her work. He barely stirred.
“He’s a friend of yours?” she queried in a pleasant voice.
Not letting go, I nodded. “Yes. Yes, he is. A…a very old friend.”
“Poor guy.” She washed her hands at the small sink. “He’s been in the wars, hasn’t he? Nothing a good rest won’t fix, though.”
I recognised that as my polite cue to leave, and stood, relinquishing Matt’s hand. Now I’d found him, parting again scared me. A ridiculous emotion, given that he wasn’t exactly in a fit state to walk out of the hospital, so he’d still be here in the morning. The nurse sensed my hesitation.
“We’ll take care of him for you. Looks like you need a rest and some sleep yourself, Dr Valentine.”
SAY SOMETHING
(JAMES)
The well-meaning nurse on the surgical ward had been right; I reached home emotionally drained and running on fumes. Yet sleep eluded me, regardless, as it had done since the day Samantha had packed her stylish bags and tottered out on her six-inch heels, taking our son with her. He came back pretty sharpish—at fifteen, Ryan had been old enough to make up his own mind. He now flitted between the two of us, depending on whichever fridge held the most food and whether he needed a breather from Mike. That made our divorce sound incredibly amicable, and it was, but only because Ryan’s wellbeing served as a constant reminder that Samantha, Mike, and I were supposed to be the grown-ups. If it weren’t for Ryan, I’d have punched Mike’s ugly mug years ago.
To put it bluntly, I’d become stuck in a rut. My career trundled along fine; anaesthesia suited my temperament. I still took pride in caring for patients, and I enjoyed good relations with my colleagues, with one glaring exception. Becoming a future president of the Royal College of Anaesthetists held no interest for me, nor even heading our small department.
No longer young enough to compete without feeling half-dead for a week afterwards, I coached rugby at the local club on Sundays, which helped maintain common ground with my teenage son. I had held onto a full head of hair, even if it had greyed at the temples, and my teeth were all my own. The run-around at rugby kept me in moderate shape; my golf handicap hovered around a respectable twelve. My parents, sister and I were on good terms, and thanks to deceased but prudent grandparents and their tax-efficient will, I owned a rather lovely home with sea views.
During long nights spent staring at a small crack on the periphery of an otherwise unremarkable white bedroom ceiling, I had reached the dreary conclusion that what I didn’t have, or who I knew, or even what I did, couldn’t be held responsible for my general unhappiness. That stemmed from pure loneliness and a sneaking suspicion that I’d always been dull. Was flicking through the Husqvarna brochure an acceptable way to spend Saturday evenings? I thought so, although I’d failed to convince Samantha.
Living on my own for the last two years, save for Ryan’s overnight visits, had made me afraid I had forgotten how to talk to anyone that wasn’t me. By that, I meant talking properly, not superficial work gossip or banter over a beer about last night’s match. And not the unpredictable conversations I had with my teenage son, whose hormonal moods swung from joyful hysteria to wallowing in the depths of despair, in the time it took me to prepare him a bowl of pasta.
Resistance to joining the middle-aged divorcé dating scene hadn’t helped my cause. Never would I become that desperate older man in a trendy wine bar, kidding myself that the young lady tittering at my jokes genuinely found them amusing. And that she wasn’t merely tolerating my company because she’d clocked the smart watch on my wrist, or the even smarter Audi in the car park.
So yes, lonely and dull. Oh, and bisexual. Arguably, the most interesting thing about me, and I kept it to myself. In fact, the human punchbag languishing in a hospital bed not five miles away, was the only living person party to my best-kept secret. God, how I’d mourned Matt over the years. I’d come to terms with it, obviously—a hell of a lot of water had passed under the bridge since then. So why were the giddy heights of passion I’d felt for him, and my crushing desolation after he’d vanished, forever the yardstick against which I compared my attraction to anybody else since?
I wondered if he remembered our adolescent love affair in the same, rosy-tinted light.
The following day was my day off, but I went through my usual morning routine anyway, then drove into the hospital, which meant I arrived on the surgical ward just after eight o’clock. Feelings of apprehension and dread competed for precedence; dread led the way as I knocked, then pushed open the door to Matt’s room.
Safe to say, my patient was wide awake. Horribly wide awake, and in the throes of a full-blown argument with a cowering junior doctor, almost young enough to have been on the school bus with Ryan. Yep, no question. This was my Matt, and he was attempting to self-discharge. The harassed young doctor tried to persuade him to stay, while an equally youthful nurse made frantic attempts to coax him back into bed. Two people in the room were thrilled at the timely arrival of a senior doctor on the scene, the third looked set to pass out from the shock.
“Hi,” I said with a weak wave, because that was exactly the classy opener I’d rehearsed if I were to ever meet the love of my life again after a twenty-five-year gap.
Stunned and reeling, Matt offered no resistance as the nurse seized her opportunity to persuade him back onto the bed.
“Mr Leeson thinks he’s going home,” she said in a tart voice.
“I told him he ought to wait until the surgeons review him,” added the junior doctor. “And he needs another dose of iv antibiotics.”
Matt’s eyes were not a warm, guileless, chestnut like Ramil’s. They were sharp, like polished black diamonds, and they tracked me through two puffy, purple slits. Dark, fathomless, watchful. Still dressed in the thin hospital gown, Matt had managed to pull a grey hoodie over the top. A pair of scuffed black boots, the sort workmen wore, covered his sockless feet. His body radiated tension as he sat, coiled and ready to pounce, on the edge of the bed. Sensing her victory not entirely secured, the nurse kept her hand on his shoulder.
“And you’re not that steady on your feet, Mr Leeson.” This time she chided him more lightly. “We don’t want you to fall over and end up back in hospital for another operation, do we?”
“The surgeons will be here around nine,” pleaded the doctor. “At least wait until then.”
Matt ignored them both, his eyes never leaving mine. “Why the fuck are you here?”
His voice sounded thick from sleep, and the swelling from his surgery prevented him opening his mouth fully. Even so, it was hard to mistake the underlying, harsh Midlands accent.
“This is Dr Valentine.” The nurse threw me an apologetic look. “He’s one of our consultant anaesthetists.”
Matt shook her hand away roughly . “I know who he is.”
“I anaesthetised you yesterday,” I began. “I took over from my colleague. I’ve…I’m here to see how you’re getting on.”
I’d had twelve hours to come to terms with the shock of stumbling across Matt again; he’d had little more than thirty seconds. Nevertheless, he seemed more in control than me. I wiped my clammy hands down the sides of my trousers and he eyed me accusingly.
“I dreamed about you last night,”
The nurse chuckled and patted him on the arm again. Matt flinched.
“I dreamed you were here. With me. I never dream about you anymore.”
She laughed again. “I think Dr Valentine must have given you some of the good stuff yesterday!”
“Er, do you mind if I go?” the junior doctor interrupted. I’d almost forgotten she was there. “I’ve another patient to see in room six before the ward round starts.”
I never dream about you anymore.
Oh God.
“Yes, it’s fine, you go.”
My vision blurred a little. Matt wasn’t the only one who should be sitting down. The room had become stiflingly hot.
“You can go too, if you like,” I managed, turning to the nurse. “I’ll call you
if I need anything. I’m sure you must be busy.”
The junior doctor fled, but the nurse fiddled around, plumping pillows, and tidying Matt’s untouched, unappetising yoghurt breakfast. A plastic beaker with a straw sticking out of what looked like cold tea stood next to it. By the time she left, with a cheery smile and promising to check on him in fifteen minutes, I’d contemplated throwing her out.
Exhausted, I sank into the plastic-coated armchair. “You weren’t dreaming. I was here.”
“I know that now.”
Where to start? I had so many questions I wanted to ask, needed to ask, but already he tried to stand again, grimacing in pain. With one hand, he grasped the bedside cabinet. “I’m getting out of here.”
I blocked his path. “Don’t be silly, Matt. You’re not well.”
“I’m fine. You can’t stop me.”
His body swayed as he let go of the cabinet, and I steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Jesus, this man was stubborn. I tried again.
“Matt. Don’t be ridiculous. You have quite a severe concussion. Look, you can scarcely stand, let alone walk anywhere. At least wait until the surgeons have been to check on you. And you need more antibiotics, otherwise you’ll get an infection. Why are you in such a hurry to leave?”
“I don’t like hospitals. Get out of my way. I’ll be fine.”
It didn’t take twenty-plus years of practising medicine and all those tedious exams to work out that he most definitely would not be fine. He was on the brink of keeling over.
“Listen. Wait until the surgeons have been—they should be here any minute. Listen to their advice. See how you feel in an hour or so. And then, if you still want to leave, I’ll find you a wheelchair.”
With a promise the surgeons weren’t far away, I managed to cajole him back onto the bed, where he perched on the very edge, his gaze darting around the room, set to bolt. With a bit of luck, the surgeons would be firm with him and he’d fall asleep again. Not sure what to do with myself, I settled once more in the armchair. I had imagined a thousand different scenarios should our paths ever cross again; needless to say, this hadn’t been one of them.
There was a welcome knock at the door, and Alistair, the maxillofacial surgeon, poked his head around, doing a double take before nodding in greeting as he recognised me as the visitor in the chair.
“Hello, Val. Mr Leeson, how are you this morning?”
Thankfully, Matt co-operated with being questioned and examined, even shuffling back onto the bed a fraction so Alistair could check the wounds inside his mouth with a pen torch. His answers were polite but monosyllabic.
“Everything looks fine, Mr Leeson. The surgery went well.”
Matt attempted to rise. “So I can go then.”
Taken aback, Alistair sent me a questioning look.
“Matt…Mr Leeson is a…an old friend of mine.” At that, Alistair raised an eyebrow and I tried to convey with an anxious frown everything I couldn’t voice out loud. “He…um…he really wants to go home. I told him he should stay, but he’s um…not keen. He’s not a fan of hospitals.”
“Mr Leeson, you should listen to Val,” declared Alistair. “Hospitals aren’t prisons, so I can’t make you stay. But it’s my duty to tell you what’s best, and what’s best is you remain here for another couple of days. You need more antibiotics, and steroids for the swelling. And I’m sure your head hurts and would benefit from some strong painkillers. Who have you got at home to look after you?”
Matt shrugged and fixed his gaze out of the window. “No one.”
Alistair nodded with satisfaction, pleased with the answer. “Exactly. Even if I changed you to oral medication, someone needs to keep an eye on your wounds, and the orthopaedic doctors haven’t seen you yet to check on that arm. Not to mention your concussion. I doubt you can think straight, let alone wash and dress yourself after that clout you took to the head. And what about food?”
I relaxed a little. A decent enough list to make anyone see sense, surely. And Alistair had hit the right tone; kindly but authoritative.
“I’m going,” repeated Matt. “Dr Valentine said I can stay with him. He’ll look after me.”
What the hell? When had I missed that vital part of the conversation?
“That’s why he’s here. He’s come to pick me up.”
A pause stretched out as Alistair studied me, as if for the first time. I knew what he saw, as I sat in the plastic armchair in my beige chinos and casual navy shirt. He saw staid, trustworthy, and reliable. The human equivalent of magnolia paint. From his puzzled expression, he couldn’t for the life of him fathom how me, and an abrasive character like Matt, were close enough friends that I’d agree to take him home and care for him. Especially against all medical advice.
