by Scott, RJ
"…just the fucking pad…prescriptions is currency… thass'all I bloody need…"
The first man? He said he was a doctor? Didn't sound gruff enough to be the older Doctor Lester. Maybe it was the younger, the son, new to the surgery. Daniel had seen him from a distance. Tall, blond, unattainable and aloof, and a bit on the slim side to count as an asset. The second man, the threat. The environment. Closed area, only two doors in, one of which he was leaning against. There was more talking, raised voices. Was the second guy armed? Adrenaline rushed his system.
He crouched lower. Changing the expectation was the name of the game. Anyone who attacked the situation would be expected at shoulder level, not in a crouch. His knee protested, but as he had done on the battle field, it was easy to push pain away as the impetus for action coiled in his spine.
There was a lull in the talking, and he strained to hear. He heard other noises, like a chair being dragged across the floor, and then, suddenly, hoarse shouting. The soldier in him came to the fore, and coiled energy underlay his motions.
He assessed the situation in the half second required to shove open the door. A man in a suit, a white shirt, his hands raised, placating. The victim. Another, a smaller figure, hooded, his back to Daniel. He caught the glimpse of a knife, wicked, sharp and silver, glinting in the streetlight illumination from outside. The man in the suit startled as he spotted Daniel. Daniel knew he had seconds as the hooded figure turned on his heel, all the while waving the knife. Daniel sidestepped the blade, feinting left and bringing his arm up to block the return sweep, ducking and using his foot to catch the guy at the back of his leading knee, the most vulnerable point Daniel could use to overbalance the intruder. In between one breath and another, he twisted the guy onto his front, dropped his weaker knee against the other man's lower back, and yanked back the intruder's hood. Long, dark hair slipped free, and he clutched it tight.
"Drop the knife," he snarled, smashing the guy's face into the carpeted floor, pushing it harder when the hand holding the knife refused to let go. The intruder tried to struggle and twist, but it was a pathetic attempt, nothing that worried Daniel. Easily dominating the moment, he moved his hard body and made the person under him whimper in distress.
"Let—up!" The voice intruded into Daniel's concentration. He glanced up at the other man, then down again, pressing his thumb into the pulse point of his opponent's wrist. The other man released the knife because his fingers refused to hold it. Using his foot Daniel pushed the knife away.
"Let. Go." Jesus, the guy in the suit was insistent. Thing is, finishing a takedown when spectators jeered and threw stones was nothing. He could push through this. In a movement as smooth as he could manage, he clambered to his feet, pulling at the intruder and shoving him at the reception desk, tense, watching for retaliation, alert to the possibility of another weapon.
What he saw was a boy, no older than seventeen or eighteen, eyes dark and huge in his face, the hood fallen and twisted around his neck. He was shaking, sobbing, and—what the fuck—the other man moved between them, holding out his hands and talking softly.
"He didn't mean to hurt you, Connor. Let's get you out of here. It's okay, we'll sort this…"
Nonsense slipped from the man's mouth, a mumble of placating claptrap, politic-speak. Suddenly Daniel felt fury spiral up his spine. He'd risked his own very stressed and fragile body to save the doc, and the doc was acting like Daniel had committed a crime.
"He had a fucking knife," Daniel snapped, leaning on to his other knee, the burn in his bad leg causing him to favour it.
"He wasn't going to hurt me," the man snapped back, his tone as hard as Daniel's. Daniel couldn't understand the annoyance in the other's eyes. His anger was directed at Daniel, not at the boy who stood shaking in the corner. Daniel watched as the doc's gaze slid to the side of his face, but he damn well refused to move his hair to cover it.
"D-Doc, please… Doctor Lester." The boy was pleading with him, his voice shaky and slurred, then suddenly he slumped into the doc's arms. Lester didn't even seem surprised. He quickly pulled out his cell, dialling and speaking in short, clipped tones.
"Ambulance, Steeple Westford surgery, overdose."
Daniel listened to the man who the unconscious guy had positively identified as the younger Doctor Lester. What the bloody hell kind of Wonderland had he dropped into where he was the bad guy? He watched Lester place the boy in recovery position; the patient seemed to be breathing, but was limp and unconscious. The doc traced the lad's face where Daniel had pushed him into the carpet. He looked up at Daniel, who gazed back at him steadily, just waiting for the doc to try something.
"What the hell did you do?" he finally barked at Daniel, his handsome face creased into an angry frown.
Daniel took a deep breath. The adrenaline pumping through his body had been giving him an edge, but now it was starting to recede, and the pain in his damned leg was back.
"What did I do?" What the hell? Why am I the one being handed the anger? "He's the one with the bloody knife."
"He's high, for God's sake. I was talking him down." Doc was vocal in that clipped, closely cropped, precise way that Daniel had previously only heard in the young army officers who had avoided grunt work by virtue of education. Born with silver spoons in their mouths, the lot of them, including the doctor glaring at him.
"Yeah, looked like it was working." Daniel injected sarcasm into his voice then winced. I sound like a bloody kid, not an experienced soldier with a valid point. Doctor Lester pointedly ignored him, hunching over the prone figure of the boy. Daniel edged towards the door. He was not waiting around for any more shit. He had enough of his own to deal with.
Daniel left the young doctor to do whatever he needed to do, limping away before people started asking questions. He wasn't going to stand and watch the accusation in Lester's face, even as he lost himself in the depth of the man's bloody green eyes sparking with indictment. Now was not the time to be attracted to anyone, least of all someone so unlike the cool, calm level-headedness he'd seen from the numerous army medicos he'd talked to and been seen by. Young Dr Lester's level of passion and heat in crisis was disconcerting.
Daniel needed to go, had to leave, and action followed thought immediately.
Within a few minutes he had half walked, half tumbled back to his house. The one-story rambling white cottage with its tangled autumn country garden and high wall was his family home. His parents were long since gone, and Daniel had no siblings, so the house had become his retreat. When he'd been injured, he wanted to be at home, his home, where there was peace and memories that made him smile. He had waited while the broken bones healed, waited to hear that he was cleared to return to his role in the Army. If he couldn't be on the front line, he wanted to serve in some kind of capacity, advisory, something.
When the medical officer turned up in his room, his expression stern and serious, Daniel knew. There had been some placating words, words like pension and support and counselling. And then it was over. Just over.
The front door shut behind him, and he was finally alone. The adrenaline left his body, dropping steadily until only he and what he'd done remained. He hadn't overreacted. He hadn't. The intruder had a bloody knife. Never leave an opponent armed no matter who might say otherwise. The last time he'd done that, the last time he'd second-guessed himself, and trusted another, people had died for God's sake.
He wasn't some stupid, soft idiot who allowed shit to happen to him. He was a brave man, a strong man, and he made things happen to other people. Daniel repeated those two sentences over and again as he made his way through the house, turning on lamps until the rooms were flooded with light. He closed all the curtains. Finally nothing of the dark outside remained inside his house. On unsteady legs, he went first to the bathroom and then to his bedroom. He tipped out his tablets into his hand and counted them: two of the white ones, three of the pale cream, one red one. In a single second, he threw them in the bin. He didn't need al
l this shit to take the edge off the pain. He was a soldier, and he had a high pain threshold. He could manage on his own. Pain proved to him that he was alive.
He had been strong and certain, and he knew what he'd done at the surgery was right. There was no way he was going to doubt himself because he was looking at his life through a drug-induced haze. Hell, that made him no better than the kid he'd thrown to the ground. Still half dressed, Daniel fell into bed and pulled the covers over himself. With a grunt, he rolled onto his stomach. His hand naturally slipped under the pillow, and his fingers closed firmly around the hilt of a knife. Cold, hard metal within reach. It comforted him, more so than the Browning pistol. Far more than his uniform that had attracted fire in foreign lands from people resentful of his presence. The knife signified stealth and strength, and he knew how to use it. He closed his eyes and stretched out each cramped muscle in turn, forcing the ache in his knee away to the dark parts of his mind. Those dark depths were the only part left of him that could handle the memories and the pain.
Chapter Two
Sean had just about reached the end of his tether. Stress knotted in him, and his normal politeness was pushed aside in lieu of barely hidden irritation. The police had made another visit in the morning, alerted by the hospital as a matter of course. They just wanted to tick all the boxes on what they termed the "Connor Simmons situation," and Sean really had tried very hard to assume his best doctor persona to deal with all the questions. Yes, he knew Connor Simmons, the boy that had threatened him. Yes, he knew Connor's medical history and all of its implications. Yes, Connor was his patient and not his father's. No, he didn't want to press charges. Yes, that was a decision based on clinical evidence and not just because he knew the boy and the boy's family. Sergeant Andrews, all spit-shine and officious, tutted and hovered, his face showing his displeasure. Given he was one of Sean's patients, Sean did wonder if the other man's irritable countenance was more to do with the recent recurrence of his piles than frustration with Sean's decision.
He had far more important things to consider. He had his best friend's sister in hospital, her newborn son fighting for his life. He tuned out the monotonous questions and thought about how he was going to visit the hospital before dinner tonight. He wondered if Phil would be there. The poor Fitzwarren family spent so much time in hospitals one way or another. Damn curse and all it meant for his friends.
"We would recommend the records show—" Andrews tried one last time, but Sean wanted this finished.
"There's no need for that," Sean interrupted. "The patient has been discharged by this surgery into hospital care." He remained adamant, and after some disapproving final comments, the policeman closed his notebook and left. Sean was tired, and the last thing he needed were people like the cop and that idiot wannabe hero type from last night, interfering in the care and understanding of one of his patients.
"You know my opinion on this." His dad's voice was tight with the same disapproval as Andrews', and Sean groaned inwardly. They were at loggerheads over most things. His dad was a doctor true to the old ways, stubbornly attached to methods that made Sean shudder with his own form of disapproval. He glanced around the empty waiting room, seeing only Edna behind the desk filing records, and she had been privy to many of their heated disagreements in her time.
"He's my patient, Dad; it's clearly not up for discussion." His dad made a sound halfway between a sigh and a snort and turned on his heel. Sean thought he made out muttered words like idiot and boy, but at the age of twenty-nine, it wasn't the first time he'd been called either, nor would it be the last. Surgery was due to start in ten minutes, and the door opened revealing a harried mother with small baby in her arms.
"Doctor Lester—" Sean was immediately in doctor mode as the baby squalled and sobbed, the mother not far behind. All thoughts of his dad or cops or dark-haired ninja aspirants pushed to the back of his mind as he triaged the situation by sight alone then scooped the baby confidently and expertly from the hysterical mother.
It was the start of a very long work day, patient after patient, with ills from the baby's milk rash and ear infection to the current rush on non-seasonal flu. If the day was long enough, then the evening spent with his parents for dinner with no escape was even longer. It wasn't that he particularly disliked having dinner with the family, but he was tired and irritable, and his dad had this way of getting under his skin. He managed to excuse himself by ten, walking back the mile between his parents' Georgian-style house and the surgery. His home was a small cottage and had been part of the original farmhouse. It had been converted along with the main house, which housed the surgery complete with two consulting rooms and a small dispensary. It was linked to the surgery by a corridor but blocked by two connected doors that he hadn't had to open since he began working here. He guessed it had been originally designed for the resident doctor to be on site, but the cottage, a quaint mismatched level of rooms and tilted ceiling, hadn't been properly inhabited by a doctor since his dad left after marriage. Marrying his mum had been financially a good move for Doctor Lester Senior, and the large, six-bedroom house that came as her dowry, for want of a better word, had been the ideal home for the socially upwardly mobile village doctor. It helped that his mum and dad were wildly and completely in love. Whatever his problems with his dad in professional terms, his home life was an excellent and very stable one.
He normally found comfort in the warm cosy home, walls solid and whitewashed inside and out. He closed curtains and poured a small whisky. Hesitating a moment he sighed heavily and then tipped every drop back in the bottle. Tonight wasn't the night to take the edge of his frustration with alcohol. He was officially on call, although he was backed up by out-of-hours surgery support. He settled in the old chair by the fire, half wishing he could be bothered to lay a fire and then dismissing it when thinking of the smoke that pushed back in the room whenever he did that. He really needed to think about getting the chimney swept, and he added it to his mental list for another day when he had less pressing matters to think of, including Connor Simmons.
Soon, Connor's notes lay spread across Sean's lap and sofa. They were tangled and mostly still paper driven, the paper records stopping only at the point two years earlier when Sean had managed to drag the surgery into the twenty-first century. Some observations were from the Salisbury District Hospital, others from counselling sessions, and a few annotations were in his dad's hand. Curiously he read his dad's messy cursive. Connor Simmons was a local boy, had been a patient of the surgery since birth, and there were the usual notes of immunisations and childhood illness. It was clear from what he read that he started showing signs of depression around age fourteen, and Sean blinked at the words "needs more exercise" written under a prescription for depression meds. At fourteen.
It went downhill for him from then on, but to be fair to his dad, it happened out of his control, at school. Connor succumbed to an addiction to drugs, cocaine, and speed, getting in with the wrong crowd. It didn't say that last part in the notes, but Sean had first-hand knowledge of Connor. He'd been at school in the village, and he knew the family. He'd heard the village talking, heard more than people realised. He opened his laptop and logged into the surgery network, running through the rest of his notes in their electronic form, updating the actions from last night in minute detail. But he kept getting distracted. Something was digging away at his thoughts, but for once it wasn't worrying or thinking of a patient of his. Sighing, he tracked back through his dad's appointments yesterday.
The last appointment? No, actually the second from last, the only one that fit the details of the display Sean had seen. Daniel Francis, twenty-six, and the only records he could see were the automated records. Ex-army, bomb disposal, time in Afghanistan, injured badly by shrapnel in an explosion, his left side damaged, left knee, thigh, arm, face and neck, his ID number tracking a move to the veterans ward in Birmingham on arrival back in the UK. The man was evidently some freaking war hero, combat-ready, injure
d, but clearly still in defence mode. Hence the separating of Connor from his knife in such a brutally quick and efficient way.
Daniel checked through the prescribed meds passed by the hospital and rubber-stamped by his dad. Jesus, how the hell did the man make such dramatic moves on the perceived threat when the drugs in his body were so damned disabling? Daniel Francis was a walking medicine cabinet—meds to keep the man sane, meds for highs, meds for lows, meds for the pain, muscle relaxants. He must feel like a zombie. There were no black and white records of post traumatic stress. Daniel's psyche evaluations were only that which would be expected. His plastic surgeon had recommended more work on his face and neck, but there were notes to indicate the patient had withdrawn from the programme of medical intervention. Having seen the scarring on Daniel's face, Sean wondered if surgical intervention would have made any difference to what was there. It wasn't awful scarring—Sean had seen worse on patients caught in fires—but he wondered if Daniel was self-conscious of the marks. Sean made another mental note to maybe book an appointment for some face-to-face time, but he would have to manage it without his dad getting wind of it. The elder doctor didn't take kindly to interference in his patients by his son. Maybe an informal chat? There were inconsistencies in his prescriptions, modern schools of thought that would never have prescribed the happy pills and the muscle relaxants on the same script.
By the time midnight came, he was ready for bed, but by two in the morning, tossing and turning in his bed, he just knew he wasn't going to get any sleep. Solutions to this inability to sleep were easy. He handed them out every day to his patients without conscious thought. He should attempt relaxing, maybe aided by finishing a lukewarm drink, but not caffeine, warm milk perhaps. Then maybe he should be asking himself what might be worrying him. All he needed to do was to find the root of the issue, and sleep would normally follow. Simple. He just couldn't seem to apply any of these wonderful fix-it-all solutions to himself. He wasn't stupid. He had ideas why he was so restless and irritable. Connor was one. He knew he couldn't turn his brain off, which made him not able to sleep, which made him tired and even more unable to relax. On nights like this, when the village was in darkness and his thoughts refused to allow him to sleep, there was only one thing to do.
