Part Nineteen
It was Friday morning, and by eight thirty the hospital had sprung to life, with various early morning disasters cluttering up the emergency department. As Connie and Zubin accompanied a patient up to theatre, Connie called to Tom who was strolling ahead of them down the corridor. "Tom, we could use your help here," She said, without the merest hint of a greeting. "Where's Will Curtis this morning?" Tom asked turning to face them and taking another bite from his breakfast. "He's been on duty all night, so I've sent him home," Connie replied curtly. "We've got a knife through the chest, a victim of a road rage attack on the way to work, hardly surprising with this traffic, so I could do with another pair of hands." "Jesus," Tom replied, glancing down at the patient on the trolley. "That's just what you need on top of a bacon sandwich." "That is a truly disgusting habit," Connie told him sternly. "Eating on the job." "And what about the old adage of breakfast being the most important meal of the day?" Tom threw back as he walked along beside them still munching. "Try a coffee and a croissant at home before you come in to work, Tom," Zubin told him conversationally. "It allows you to start the day far more gently." "Are you getting too old to hit the ground running, Zubin?" Tom teased him. "In your dreams," Zubin quipped back, pushing the trolley ahead of him through the swing doors into the theatre. As he and Connie walked into the scrub room, Tom finished his bacon sandwich and brushed the crumbs from his fingers, unwilling to sacrifice his breakfast for anyone's high minded principles.
They'd been at it for nearly an hour, painstakingly trying to remove the six-inch blade without endangering this man's life even more. "What on earth possesses anyone to drive round with a knife like this in their car?" Connie asked into the silence, her gloved hands immersed inside the man's chest cavity. "A wish for revenge or self-preservation, I suppose," Tom replied, carefully trying to cut round the knife whilst Connie held the blood vessels in place. When the phone rang, Zubin took his eye off the monitors to answer it. "It's Chrissie, for you," He said, looking over at Connie. "Put her on speaker phone," Connie told him, unable to remove her hands from inside the man's chest. "Connie," Chrissie began. "There's been a call for you from a Brian Cantwell. He wants to know if you can meet with him later today?" "Is he still on hold?" Connie asked. "Yes." "Tell him I'll see him at five this afternoon, and also tell him never to disturb me in theatre again. Is that clear?" "Crystal," Chrissie replied firmly. "Thanks, Chrissie," Connie called to her, just before she ended the call. "Secretaries should be banned from going off sick," She added, as if the woman who usually did her bidding was nothing more than a robot. "Who's Brian Cantwell?" Zubin asked, getting a feeling that he really didn't like. "Oh, only the barrister who will be prosecuting Barbara Mills," Connie replied far too casually. "I knew it," Zubin said furiously. "You just had to get involved, didn't you?" "Professor Khan, she killed him, what more is there to it?" "If you believe that," Zubin told her exasperatedly. "You must be even more bitter and twisted than I already thought you to be." "Oh, it's started," Connie replied, sounding utterly bored. "I knew you'd be like this, protesting her innocence from the word go." "That's probably because she is innocent," Zubin said disgustedly, as if spelling out some simplicity to a witless child. "Rubbish," Connie said curtly, determined to make her point sink home. "Barbara Mills killed her husband, and nothing, I repeat nothing, will convince me otherwise. You do know it isn't the first time she's done it, don't you?" "Where on earth did you hear that?" Zubin asked, not having thought this was common knowledge to the prosecuting team. "Prosecuting counsel filled me in, the last time I spoke to him," Connie said smugly. "She helped the last one to die so that she could get her hands on his money, and she presumably helped this one to die because he was becoming too much of an inconvenience." "Just because you're so flippant about your marriage," Zubin threw back hotly. "Doesn't mean everyone else is about theirs."
"Cut it out, the pair of you!" Tom finally exploded, slamming the scalpel down and straightening up to look disapprovingly between them. "I have had quite enough of this. Theatre is neither the time nor the place for such an argument. You're both obviously convinced you're right, and to be honest, I really couldn't care less who is right. We are here to try and save this man's life, not so that you two can persist in scoring points off each other. Will the pair of you for god's sake drop it until after this operation? We've got very little chance of saving this man's life as it is, so let's try and give him our full attention, shall we." There was a stunned, slightly awkward silence, only punctuated by the beeps of the cardiac monitor and the regular rush of air from the ventilator. "Thank you," Tom added, almost in relief. "But Tom..." Zubin tried to get another word in. "I don't want to hear it, Zubin, so leave it." "One would be excused for thinking that you have assumed your previous role as headmaster of this joint," Connie said conversationally, refusing to admit that Tom had successfully made her shut up. "At least I don't take the mistress part of the other variable to heart," Tom said as an aside. "Just because you're jealous," Connie taunted him, now switching her argumentativeness to him. "Jealous of Mubbs Hussain getting his rocks off? You must be joking," He said in disgusted reproach, immediately annoyed by Connie's low, husky laugh. "Oh, Tom," She almost crooned. "You'll have to get up a lot earlier to get me going with that old bit of gossip." "Why, who's in the picture at the moment?" Tom asked, feigning disinterest. "Well, now, I'd say that was probably none of your business, wouldn't you agree?" Connie replied silkily, as Tom was finally able to remove the knife that had pierced this man's left ventricle. "Just taking a passing interest in my colleague's personal life, that's all, just in case she should ever be indiscreet enough to bring bad publicity down on her own and the hospital's head." "No chance," Zubin said with a mirthless laugh. "Connie's far too adept at that particular pastime to allow it to influence her working environment." "Just for once, Professor Khan, you are absolutely right. Though, whilst we're on the subject of my professional reputation," She added a little icily, her voice dropping to that seductive level that a snake may use to lure some unsuspecting prey to its den. "If, when I take the stand in due course, I should hear one, single word of either my professional or personal inadequacies, I shall have both you, and the defence team you appear to be supporting, back in court for slander. Do we have a deal?" "Only if you also keep to the bargain, Mrs. Beauchamp," Zubin replied, seeing that she really was deadly serious. "Because I wouldn't want professional rivalry of any kind to be a deciding factor in Barbara Mills' fate." "Very well," Connie said stonily, realising that he had her over a barrel but being entirely unwilling to admit it. "But I would warn you not to take my threat at all lightly."
After the patient had been stitched up and moved to intensive care, Connie left to do a ward round, and Tom remained to see the patient settled in. "Tell me some more about this legal battle of yours," He casually invited, as he and Zubin set up the various drips and monitors the patient required. "Henry Mills was fifty-eight, and was examined by Connie, who told him that he had inoperable lung cancer, which also wouldn't have benefited from chemotherapy. So, all we could really do was to provide palliative care and pain relief." "Which is where you came in?" Tom clarified. "Yes. He wanted to be cared for at home, something his wife, Barbara, was perfectly happy to do. So, I taught her the usual, how to give an injection, and how to manage the morphine, and I visited him on a regular basis to keep his pain relief at a satisfactory level. He died less than a couple of weeks ago. The postmortem report claims he was murdered, and Barbara claims that he killed himself. Either way, he died from an overdose of morphine. Having got to know both of them pretty well over the last couple of months, I believe Barbara. But Connie, in her infinitely bloody-minded wisdom, thinks otherwise. I'm not certain, but I'm guessing that the prosecution have taken her on, because they want to avoid the defence claiming that he died from natural causes." "Do you think he could have done?" Tom asked. "Anything's possible with cancer patients, you know that as well as I do," Zubin said ruefully. "The overdose might not have been intentional for all I know. There might simply have been a build up of morphine metabolites in his liver. He wasn't exactly moving around very much, so his body would have gone in to a temporary stasis, but Connie thinks that this idea is also ridiculous." "Is the defence team looking for a cardio thoracic expert of its own?" Tom asked, the slight gleam of the fight in his eyes. "Yes, they are, if only to cover their backs," Zubin replied, seeing just where this was going. "I would be willing to get involved," Tom said carefully. "If my expertise could be put to some use." "I was categorically warned not to use this case to settle any scores," Zubin told him honestly. "Well, it looks like that went out of the window this morning," Tom replied with a laugh. "So, does this barrister have a name?" "There's two of them," Zubin told him happily. "George Channing and Jo Mills, both of whom could probably win this case on female beauty alone. They both knew Barbara before all this happened, which is why she has two QC's working for her." "Well then, we'd better give them something to fight with, hadn't we," Tom said a little jubilantly, rubbing his hands in anticipation. He was all too aware that he was probably signing his professional death warrant by getting involved in a fight with Connie, but he simply couldn't resist. He didn't usually agree with Zubin Khan on anything whatsoever, but this time he did. He wasn't entirely convinced of Barbara Mills' innocence, because he hadn't yet heard all the facts, but anything to make Connie Beauchamp admit she was wrong. That was worth all the serenity of a quiet life any day.
At lunchtime on the same Friday, George was sitting at her desk, picking from a bag of grapes as she worked. She didn't want to have any work left that needed doing over the weekend. She hadn't seen John since the weekend before, and she wanted to check on him, to make sure he was all right. But she was unexpectedly save the trouble. When the knock came on her office door, she called come in, assuming it to be one of her colleagues. But when John put his head round the door and enquired whether or not she was busy, she got up from her desk with a smile. "No, at least not with anything that can't wait," She said as he came in and closed the door. He looked somehow lost, adrift, as though what he really needed was some sensible reassurance. When his arms went about her, he felt as though he was coming home. He hadn't felt quite himself ever since last Saturday, but far less so since the therapy session on Tuesday. He almost wanted to tell her about it, to explain to her why he was doing this, but he managed to restrain himself in time. If anyone knew about him having therapy, he knew he would feel under pressure to make it work. But here he was, stood in George's office, holding her close to him. She smelled familiar, the combination of cigarette smoke, perfume and shampoo incredibly comforting to him. "Are you all right?" She asked, after kissing him gently, having missed his company over the last few days just as much as he had hers. "Not really," He admitted miserably. "Are you still fretting about last weekend?" She asked, knowing he probably would be. "Wouldn't you be?" He demanded belligerently. "Oh, darling," She said in sympathy. "I don't really know what to say, except that worrying about it will probably make it worse." "Oh, great," He said in disgust. "John," She said calmly. "I am aware that you've been looking for a fight in court all week, so please don't do it with me." "Is that what Jo told you?" He asked, feeling slightly admonished. "She only said that you were taking out your mood on everyone in sight." Walking over to a chair, John sat down, and drew her down onto his knee. "Are you trying to completely shatter my professional reputation?" "Well, isn't it about time yours was as bad as mine?" He replied, raising a slight smile for the first time since he'd arrived. She reflected that there really was something to be said for taking a little time out in the middle of the day like this, to sit as close to him as she was now, with his face against her neck. She could feel the uncertainty in him, the need to return to something normal, something he used to think he could count on. "I love you," She told him softly, thinking that he probably needed to hear it. "Even though I'm going through a midlife crisis?" "Yes," She told him firmly. "Because you will get over this. You didn't stop loving me when I lurched from one crisis to the next, at least I don't think you did, so I expect that it's allowed to work in your favour for once." "What if it doesn't sort itself out?" He asked, his main fear now coming out into the open. "John," She said with a fond smile. "The things you are capable of doing to me in bed, or anywhere else for that matter, is not the sole reason why I love you." "I was lying in bed last night," He told her a little shame facedly. "Thinking about you, and Jo, separately and together, and nothing." "John," She said, trying to hide a smirk. "I think you're trying too hard. I know it's difficult, but you really do need to try to forget about it. The more you stress about it, the less co-operative your body is likely to be." "Perhaps," He agreed noncommittally. "I'm supposed to be seeing Jo this evening. I've barely talked to her since I returned from the conference." "Ah," George said in understanding. "The light begins to dawn." "How do I tell her, that I don't want to make love to her?" He asked, the full force of his insecurity showing in his face. "Just tell her," George tried to persuade him. "She won't mind." "But it's not something I've ever said to Jo before." "There is a first time for everything, darling." Then, she tentatively added, "You could always tell her why you don't want to make love to her." "No way," He said without any hesitation whatsoever. "Absolutely no way." "Okay, calm down, it was just a suggestion," George said placatingly. "But if you won't talk to Jo about this, I want you to make me a promise, not to dwell on this as much as you clearly have been this week. Going without sex for a little while won't do any of us any harm, and the sooner you stop worrying about it, the sooner it will come back." "Okay," He agreed reluctantly, seeing that she really did mean what she'd said. "But it doesn't mean I have to like it." George laughed. He always did have to have the last word on a subject, even if what she was asking him to do was for his own good. "If I didn't have to work this afternoon," George added with a smirk. "I would want to know everything you fantasised about last night. There's nothing I like better than knowing that someone has been thinking about me in such a manner." "You're just bad, that's your trouble," He said with a laugh, kissing her to make himself feel better. He knew she was right, but it didn't make the prospect of his night with Jo any easier to contemplate.