David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good by Andrew Grant Read Free Book Online

who’d admitted me, was standing in my room
when I got back. I opened the door and the initial look of panic on her face
turned to anger when she saw it was me .
            “And where do you think
you’ve been?” she said. “Do you think I’ve got time to hang around patients’
rooms, waiting for them to decide whether to show up?”
            “Sorry,” I said. “I
didn’t realise you were coming back, tonight.”
            “I told you I was.”
            “Really? I don’t
remember. And the truth is, I’ve got a bit of a problem.”
            “I’m sure you do.”
            I took two halting, half
steps backwards then sat down heavily on the bed, my right hand settling
against my temple for a couple of seconds before I let it fall back to my side.
            “Are you OK?” she said.
            “Not really,” I said.
            “How are you feeling?
Can you describe it to me?”
            “Tired. Absolutely
exhausted. It just came over me. I feel like I need to sleep for a week.”
            The nurse’s hands didn’t
move from her hips but her head tipped slightly to the side, she let out a
long, slow, breath, and the harsh expression on her face began to gradually
soften.
            “Heightened fatigue is
perfectly normal in these situations, Mr Trevellyan . Your body’s trying to repair itself. That takes
a lot of energy. So try not to fret. Everything will sort itself out, in time.
And for now, we’ll keep a really good eye on you. At least you’re back in the right
place.”
            “Thank you. I do
appreciate the care you’re taking of me. But now, I really need to get off to
sleep.”
            “You’re probably right.
But let’s have a look at you, first. Best to be sure, you know.”
            “Couldn’t we leave that till
morning? I’m honestly fit to drop.”
            “No,” she said, reaching
for the chart which was hanging from the foot rail of
the bed. “I’ve got to do your obs’ now. Those are the
rules. Now come on. Play along, and I’ll be as quick as I can.”
            Nurse Smith was true to
her word. She wasted no time with her poking, prodding, and scribbling. But
fast as she was with her observations, I was faster to grab my phone from the
bedside table drawer the second the door closed behind her.

 
    There was a knock on my door at 9.35 the next morning, but it wasn’t
one of the nurses coming to check on me. It was the MI5 agent. She was back in
her wheelchair. Her blonde hair was straighter than before, making it appear
slightly longer. The blue of her eyes seemed a little more pronounced. A hint
of lavender and bergamot washed over me as she opened the door. And
surprisingly after last night, I saw she was smiling.
            “Question for you,” she
said, from just inside the doorway. “Destiny. Do you know what determines it?”
            “That’s profound for
this time of the morning,” I said. “Do they serve coffee early, on your floor?”
            “Coffee, no. And it’s
not so profound, either. The answer, apparently, is ‘the choices we make, and
the chances we take.’”
            “Oh, OK. I’m with you.
And I’m getting a vision. An old rowing boat, painted white, tied up on a
deserted sandy beach. Crystal clear water lapping against its
picturesquely weathered sides. Some kind of weird big rock in the
background...”
            “In a cheap, cheesy
frame, hanging over a visitors’ table.”
            “Exactly. So, you’ve had
the pleasure of an audience with Mr name-on-the-door
Jackson as well?”
            “I have,” she said,
resting her hands in her lap. “First thing this morning. I got the job of
smoothing over the rumpus about that spontaneously self-collapsing chair, since
its suicide occurred in my room. That wasn’t the kind of low-profile insertion
my