A Perfect Hero (15 page)

‘Joanna Harding, I hate you!’ she muttered.

She started her car and crashed the gears, finally managing to locate reverse and turn it round before heading back to the hospital.

Tomorrow he was back at work. Tomorrow she would see him again. Tomorrow, maybe, she would get some answers.

Tomorrow.

God, how she dreaded tomorrow!

On Monday morning, Michael appeared on the ward at eight, just as Clare finished taking the report from Judith Price. He was walking with a stick, but she
sensed it was for moral support as much as anything, as his gait seemed almost perfectly normal.

‘Good morning, Staff,’ he said in a civil but slightly distant voice.

‘Good morning,’ she replied stiffly, wondering how on earth she was going to get through the next few minutes, never mind the weeks until she left. ‘It’s good to have you back.’

He met her eyes for the first time, and smiled slightly. ‘It’s good to be back. Perhaps you could take me round and fill me in?’

‘Certainly. Where would you like to start?’

He glanced at his watch. She noticed that it hung loosely on his wrist, as if he had lost weight. ‘I think I’ve got time to see them all, but perhaps I’d better see the pre-ops first to have a chat.’

‘Fine.’ She led him to the second bay, opposite the nursing station, where the pre-operative patients were being prepared for Theatre.

‘This is Mrs Green, who’s having an arthroscopy to investigate a possible meniscal tear.’

‘Yes, hello again. We met in Outpatients a few weeks ago. How’s your knee been?’

He perched on the bed and chatted to her for a few minutes, explained again what they were going to do and marked the limb with an indelible pen.

‘Don’t want to get the wrong one!’ he said with a grin, and moved on to the next patient.

He was calm, steady and efficient, moving from one patient to another without haste and yet without wasting any time on unnecessary chat, and without giving the impression that he was rationing their time. After the pre-ops, he examined the post-ops, and then went
in to see Barry Warner, who was making heavy weather of his recovery.

‘Michael—you’re back in the saddle again! Good man. How’s it going?’

Only then did she see the slightest flicker of emotion across his features, and it was so slight and gone so quickly that nobody else would have noticed.

‘Fine,’ he replied. ‘How about you? How are the legs? I gather from the X-rays that you’re progressing well.’

He examined Barry’s legs gently, and then replaced the covers. ‘Those skin grafts have taken well, Barry. I think we could start getting you up now on partial weight-bearing exercises. We don’t want you forgetting how to walk,’ he said with a grin.

As they left, he asked Clare how Danny Drew had got on.

‘Oh, he made good progress. He went home a couple of weeks ago, still on crutches and coming back for physio. He pops in every now and again to see us and visit some of the inmates.’

‘And Pete Sawyer?’

‘You should see him in Outpatients. He’s doing fine, I gather. His cast comes off this week.’

‘Good. Let’s hope he gets some mobility back in that hand soon. Right, I must go up to Theatre. Thank you, Staff.’

‘My pleasure, sir,’ she said drily to his departing back.

She went to check on the pre-ops and give them their pre-med. Mrs Green was first on the list.

‘What a lovely man he is—I’m so glad it’s him doing my knee. He’s given me such confidence.’

Clare forced herself to smile. ‘That’s what it’s all
about, Mrs Green. It’ll soon be over and you’ll be up and about again in no time.’

‘Looked as if he’d been in the wars himself with that stick—what’s he done, sprained his ankle playing squash or something?’

Clare’s smile slipped.

‘No, he lost his left leg below the knee in an accident five weeks ago. It’s his first day back.’

‘Oh, my lord! Well, the poor boy!’

Clare forced a laugh. ‘Believe me, Mrs Green, the poor boy’s fine. Now, let’s just give you this injection to make you drowsy and dry up your mouth a little. Staff Nurse Lewis, could you check for me?’

Deborah joined her at the drug trolley, checked the Omnopon and scopolamine, and hissed, ‘What happened to you on Friday? One minute you were there, and the next—pouf—you’d gone!’

Clare sighed. ‘Not now. I’ll tell you later.’

‘Too right you will. Hello, Mrs Green. How are you?’

‘Oh, all right, dear. Looking forward to having this over, actually.’

‘Soon be done,’ Deborah said cheerfully, and went on to the next patient. ‘Hello, my love. How are you today?’

Not another one who uses ‘my love’, Clare thought in despair. ‘Just a little pinprick,’ she said mechanically, and injected the drugs with practised ease.

It was a good job her ease was practised, too, she thought later, because she was definitely functioning on auto-pilot.

Mary O’Brien came on at twelve-thirty, and Clare gratefully handed over and went for lunch.

Murphy’s Law was obviously firing on all four cylinders,
she thought bitterly as she sat down with her lunch. Michael, hair damp from the Theatre showers, was sitting diagonally across the room with his back to her, sharing a table with the
femme fatale
herself.

Clare stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork.

‘Vicious!’ said a voice behind her, and she looked up to find Ross balancing a tray with one hand. ‘Mind if I join you?’

She shook her head. ‘Of course not.’

He pulled up a chair and sat down beside her, then as he looked up, he saw Michael and Jo.

He swore softly.

‘Quite,’ Clare said with dry humour. ‘They appear to be inseparable.’

‘Yes. Clare, I’m sorry. I tried talking to him, but he wouldn’t listen. Whatever he has going with Jo, I don’t think it’s serious.’

‘Probably just recreational sex,’ she said baldly, stabbing another tomato. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised—he has a high sex drive.’ Ross choked. ‘Sorry, that was unnecessary and personal. Please forget I said it.’

‘Maybe I should. Are you OK? You sound very bitter.’

‘I am, I suppose. Ross, do you think he really is trying to punish himself for the accident?’

Ross shot her a startled look. ‘What gave you that idea?’ he said quietly.

‘I heard,’ she told him. ‘I went to see him yesterday—I don’t know why, I don’t know what I hoped to achieve. Some answers, maybe. Anyway, as I reached the cottage you came out on to the drive and I overheard you talking.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Behind the hedge.’

‘And what did you hear?’

She sighed. ‘Enough to confuse me. If he loves me, Ross, if he really was upset, then why is he having lunch with that bloody piranha?’

‘He’s only having lunch, Clare.’

‘He wasn’t on Friday!’

‘No.’ Ross cleared his plate, then pushed it away. ‘I don’t know what the answer is, Clare. Why don’t you ask him?’

She shook her head emphatically. ‘No. No, I couldn’t, Ross. I’ve given him ample opportunity to climb down—I’m not going to grovel to him to take me back. If he wants to run around with that whore, then let him.’

‘Hey, Clare, that’s a bit much. Jo’s a decent woman——’

‘She doesn’t look it!’

Ross smiled. ‘Neither do you, but it doesn’t stop you having a brain and a complex set of morals. Don’t judge her by her appearance, Clare. She’s all right.’

‘She’s also single, lonely, and on the look-out for a mate.’

Ross sighed. ‘I can’t argue, but I think you’re jumping to conclusions, Clare.’

Just then Michael stood up, leant over the table and brushed Jo’s lips with his before leaving.

‘You really think so?’ she said drily. ‘That looked pretty conclusive to me. Do you want a coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’ Ross pushed back his chair and followed Michael out, his long stride easily closing the gap between them.

Clare sighed. She didn’t really want the rest of her salad. She watched in despair as Jo Harding stood and walked over to the coffee jug. Tall, sinuous, she moved
with an easy grace unusual in a woman of her height. As Clare watched, Jo turned towards her and met her eyes. She thought she saw sympathy there—sympathy, and something else that could have been envy.

God knows what Jo could see in her own. She was hesitating now, and Clare had an awful feeling that she was going to come over and talk to her. Unable to bear it, she shot back her chair and all but ran out of the canteen.

Michael came round the ward later that afternoon, and after seeing his patients came into the sister’s office where Clare and Deborah Lewis were discussing the duty rota with Mary O’Brien.

‘That’s your last day, isn’t it?’ Deborah said, and Clare heard Michael’s sharply indrawn breath.

‘Clare?’ he said questioningly.

She glanced up and forced herself to meet his eyes. They looked hurt—hurt and confused. She looked away.

‘I’m leaving,’ she told him quietly.

‘Oh, God—because of me?’

Dimly she was aware of Mary and Deborah fading discreetly out of the office.

‘I didn’t think I could work with you—in the circumstances. I didn’t think it would help either of us.’

‘But—leaving! Clare, that’s—oh, hell. I never meant this to happen.’ He sounded genuinely unhappy, and Clare had to quell an absurd impulse to comfort him.

‘I’ll be OK. I’ll go to Cambridge, I think, and stay with my parents for a while. Perhaps I’ll get a job at Addenbrookes.’

‘I feel as if I’ve driven you out.’

She stared at him helplessly for a minute. ‘Don’t
blame yourself. It isn’t your fault you don’t love me——’

Her voice broke and she turned away. ‘Anyway, there’s nothing to be achieved by discussing it. I leave at the end of next week.’

He stood behind her in silence for several seconds, and then he sighed heavily. ‘I’m sorry—for what it’s worth. I wish there were some way I could turn back the clock.’

‘That would be too easy,’ she said quietly.

‘Yes. Perhaps you’re right.’

She heard the door open and close behind her, and sagged against the desk. Only nine more days to go. It seemed like a life sentence.

Four o’clock came slowly, and Clare gathered her things and walked through the hospital. She went to the main entrance to buy a paper from the stand in Reception, and saw Michael sitting by the main door, waiting.

She took a deep breath and walked over to him.

‘Hi. Do you want me to give you a lift home?’

He looked up and his eyes seemed slightly guarded.

‘It’s OK, thanks, I’ve got a lift——’

‘Taxi!’ a voice hailed cheerfully from the door, and Clare looked round, a sinking feeling in her heart.

Jo Harding was standing in the doorway.

S
OMEHOW
she got through the rest of the week. Michael seemed as happy to avoid her as she was to avoid him, and their contact remained strictly limited to necessary professional exchanges.

She didn’t see him with Jo Harding again, but that could have been as much because she avoided all the public places where they might be seen together as because they hadn’t been together—however, her hyperactive imagination filled in the missing blanks with Technicolor images that rose up to taunt her in unexpected moments.

She pictured them sailing, swimming, going out for drives, eating cosy little dinners
à deux
, and, worst of all, she pictured them tangled in intimate embraces, and heard him murmuring erotic and tender words of love as he caressed her. She didn’t hate him—she couldn’t, but she hated Jo, and above all she hated herself for the bitter jealousy which was destroying her memories.

And then on Thursday she found him slumped in Sister’s office at six o’clock, his face grey with exhaustion and lined with pain, and all her anger drained away.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked gently.

He lifted his head and met her eyes steadily. ‘I hurt like hell,’ he told her wearily. ‘My leg aches—both the bit that’s there and the bit that isn’t—and my back’s been giving me stick recently. I think it’s because I’m
not walking properly yet, and certainly when I stand in Theatre I favour my left leg a lot. Whatever, I hurt like the dickens and I want to crawl into a corner and sleep for a week. I just hope nothing comes up that David can’t deal with.’

She smiled sympathetically. ‘I can’t offer you a corner, but how about a cup of tea before you go home? You look all in. And I can probably find you some supper—we’re one patient down on yesterday’s bed state, so we’ll have a spare meal you could have.’

‘Sounds great. Thanks.’

She went out and found the meal, a plate of chicken supreme and rice with fresh vegetables, and took it through to him with a pot of tea and two cups. ‘Save me some tea,’ she said, ‘I’ve got to go and do the drugs.’

Half an hour later she was back, to find the plate empty, and Michael slouched in the chair, his left leg propped on the desk, fast asleep.

She poured herself a cup of tea and sat watching him. Poor man, he was clearly exhausted. She knew he had rushed his return to work in order to get back in gradually before Tim Mayhew went away, but he was obviously not ready for it yet.

Suddenly his bleep sounded and she snatched it out of his coat pocket and turned it off, reaching for the phone as she did so.

‘You bleeped Mr Barrington,’ she said quietly.

‘Oh, yes, he’s wanted in A & E—hold on, I’ll put you through.’

Damn, she thought. It seemed a crying shame to wake him. She touched his hand. ‘Michael? Wake up, love. You’re wanted on the phone—A & E.’

He straightened, blinked and reached for the phone. ‘Hello, Barrington here. Can I help?’

She watched his shoulders slump for a second, and then with a Herculean effort he straightened up and took a deep breath. ‘Right, I’ll come down and see her. Alert ITU in case she needs to go in there, otherwise we have room on the ward—yes, I’m there now, I’ll arrange it. Thanks.’

He put down the phone and stood up, wincing slightly as he took the weight on his left leg. ‘Young woman with multiple leg injuries. Looks like a possible double amputation. Just what I need. I’ll report back when I’ve seen her. Can you alert my Theatre team? And perhaps you could ring Tim Mayhew at home. I’m not sure I’m up to this—it’ll be a long job.’

But Tim Mayhew was in Cambridge at a clinic, and wasn’t expected back until after ten.

She greeted Michael with the news when he came up a short time later. His mouth tightened into a grim line and he nodded. ‘OK. Get hold of David Blake for me—he can assist.’

‘How is she?’

‘Bloody awful—shocking mess. Both legs are smashed below the knee, loss of circulation certainly to the right foot and possibly to the left, her chest was compressed by the steering-wheel—apparently a Range Rover went over the top of her car. Tore a wheel off and the only injury the driver sustained was a cut on his head from his mobile phone! I understand he was so drunk they didn’t have to use a local to stitch the bastard!’

He was furious. Clare wondered how he’d get through the surgery, in terms of emotional resources.

‘Will you be able to save her legs?’

‘Or die in the attempt,’ he said grimly. ‘Get a bed ready for her—I expect she’ll go to ITU but she may be stable enough to come straight down here.’

He turned towards the door, and she called him back.

‘How about some painkillers? You’ve got a long night ahead of you.’

He sighed. ‘It mightn’t be a bad idea. OK, but quick—I need to get up there.’

She handed him four co-proxamol. ‘Two for now, two for later.’

‘Thanks, Clare.’ He stared at her for a second, then, bending forwards, he brushed his lips lightly against hers.

Ten minutes later the phone rang. ‘Can you hand over to anyone? My scrub nurse took one look at this lot and keeled over, and I’d like you to assist if you could.’

Clare’s heart hammered in her chest. In truth, she hated orthopaedic surgery—all the chiselling and sawing and hammering seemed so barbaric—but needs must, and she had done her stint not so very long ago.

‘OK. Deborah Lewis is here—she can give the report to Judith Price. I’ll be up in a minute—which theatre?’

‘Four.’

‘OK. She dropped the phone back on the hook, almost running out of the office to find Deborah. Quickly explaining the situation, she made her way rapidly to the Theatre suite above. An orderly was waiting for her with sterile rubber boots and green trousers and top. She scrubbed and dressed as quickly as she could, and slipped into the theatre beside Michael just as he was ready to begin. David Blake was already busy in A & E applying a plaster, and
would join them as soon as possible. Her role, therefore, was even more vital, and she just hoped she was up to it.

Glancing down at the exposed limb, she could see why the scrub nurse had fainted. She looked up and met Michael’s eyes over the mask.

‘Come over here beside me, Staff,’ he instructed. ‘I’m tired and I ache. Ignore me if I snap at you, and if you don’t understand what I want, ask. OK?’

‘Yessir!’ She clicked her heels together smartly, and his eyes crinkled.

‘Attagirl. Right, let’s start with the right leg first, that’s the worst. At least it’s reasonably clean.’ Using tweezers, he picked up a couple of shreds of what could have been tights, and then, using saline solution, he swabbed repeatedly until he was satisfied the area was free of debris.

‘Right, now we can see what we’re up against. The first thing we have to do is restore circulation to that foot, or she’s going to lose it.’

Working rapidly, giving clear and precise requests for instruments, he carefully found and reconnected the mangled arteries and veins. When the tourniquet was released, although some of the minor vessels oozed a bit, there were no major leaks and after a few agonising seconds her foot turned slightly pink.

There was a collective release of breath, and a noticeable easing of tension in the quiet theatre.

‘Well done,’ Clare murmured quietly, and he gave a soft, rueful laugh under his breath.

‘Thanks.’

Amazingly, the nerve damage was minimal, and he was able to repair the small amount of damage with the aid of a microscope.

After one particularly long spell crouched over the instrument, he closed his eyes and straightened with a groan, and Clare signalled to the circulating nurse to find a high stool. She pushed it in behind him, and with a surprised mutter of thanks, he sank back against it and carried on his delicate work.

Having restored the circulation to her right foot to his satisfaction, he then began work on the bones, realigning the shattered fragments with a locking intramedullary nail, and filling in the gaps with chips of cancellous bone taken from higher up her leg. Because of the extensive swelling, he was unable to close the wound completely, instead bringing the sides of the skin together as far as possible and running sutures through fine rubber tubing to give some support to the tissues.

At last he straightened and sighed. ‘OK, that’s all I can do on this side for now. When the swelling’s subsided, I’ll close the wound properly and resuture it, probably in a few days, at which time we’ll put a cast on to immobilise it more completely—always assuming she hasn’t lost it by then. Now, how about the other one—how’s she doing at your end, Peter?’

Clare looked up in surprise. The anaesthetist was Peter Graham, the man who had been with them at the time of Michael’s accident, and who had assisted at his amputation. She hadn’t seen him since, and wondered what he thought of her after her hysteria. Well, at least she wasn’t being hysterical now.

He nodded his satisfaction. ‘She’s doing fine. You’ve got as long as you need.’

‘Thanks.’ Michael limped stiffly round to the other side of the table, and Clare followed him. The circulating
nurse brought the stool round and positioned it behind him.

He muttered his thanks, hitched it closer with his foot and eased himself on to it with a sigh.

‘Bloody leg,’ he muttered. ‘Right, young lady, what gives on this side?’

They repeated the procedure, this time using a plate and screws to fix the tibial shaft, and realigning the fibula without fixing it.

‘I don’t want to put any unnecessary hardware in,’ he explained. ‘She’s getting like the Bionic Woman as it is. Right, I think that’s all I can do. I’ll just close her up and we’ll get her into Recovery and start praying. Swab count, please.’

Clare and the theatre nurse checked the swabs and instruments, confirmed the count and Michael closed her leg.

‘Excellent—thank you all very much.’

He stood up and stretched, then supervised her removal into Recovery. ‘Careful with her as she comes round—remember she’s got three fractured ribs that will be giving her hell. I’d better write her up for some pretty substantial pain relief for the first twenty-four hours, I think.’

He turned to Clare. ‘I’m going to have a quick shower—will you wait for me?’

‘Of course.’

He smiled tiredly and limped into the men’s changing-room. Clare made her way to the ladies’, and changed back into her uniform, shoving her cap into her pocket. Her feet ached, not surprisingly. She was amazed to discover that it was almost one o’clock in the morning—they had been operating for over five hours. Poor Michael. Her heart went out to him. He
must be shattered—he had been tired enough to start with. Gathering her things together, she made her way out into the lobby to wait.

He appeared a few minutes later, his limp exaggerated by tiredness and pain, and the smile he gave her didn’t reach his eyes.

‘Where are you spending the rest of the night?’ she asked him.

‘God knows—I hadn’t got that far. Why?’

‘Come back to my flat. I’ll make you a hot drink, shovel some painkillers into you and put you to bed. How does that sound?’

‘Fantastic—you have no idea.’

‘I think I have—come on, soldier, let’s get you home.’

They were halfway down the corridor when they met David Blake coming the other way.

‘Better late than never,’ Michael said drily.

He laughed tiredly. ‘Sorry. I got held up in A & E with another RTA—spinal injury. He didn’t make it. How’s your patient?’

Michael shrugged. ‘It’ll be touch and go on the right leg. If she doesn’t lose it it’s an ideal candidate for non-union—I think the left one will be all right. We’ll have to wait and see. I’m going to bed.’

‘Lucky you. Well, if you don’t need me, I’ve got another fracture to reduce. See you tomorrow.’

David headed back towards A & E, Michael and Clare towards the residence. She opened the door of her flat and Michael stumbled in behind her, swearing softly under his breath.

‘For heaven’s sake get the weight off that stump before you damage the thing!’ she scolded, and led him through to the bedroom. ‘There, take your clothes off
and lie down—I’ll give you a back massage while the kettle boils.’

She left him for a moment while she put the kettle on, and when she came back he was naked, face down on the quilt, asleep. With the competence of years of practice, she rolled him over, got the quilt out from under him and covered him up. The hot drink and painkillers could wait. What he needed most of all was rest.

She changed and made herself a drink, and sat in the easy chair in front of the television. It was on quietly, to deaden the contrast between the silence of the night and the hushed bustle of a hospital during the graveyard shift—the ringing phones, the doors banging, hurried footsteps. After the cottage it must seem unbearably noisy. She knew it had to her.

She must have dozed, because she awoke with a start some time later. Michael was muttering, shifting restlessly on the bed. She waited for the dream but it didn’t come, at least not in its most terrifying form, evidently. After a while he grew quiet again, and then she heard his voice softly in the half-darkness.

‘Clare? Are you awake?’

Yes.’ She stood up stiffly and went through to the bedroom. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Lonely—how about you?’ He sounded sad, and very much alone.

‘Me, too.’

She knew it was madness—knew she would regret it in the morning, but she had to have one last chance to hold him, to be close to him without rows or jealousy or routine coming between them. Slipping off her robe, she lifted the quilt and slid into the narrow bed beside him.

His arms closed around her and he sighed with satisfaction. That’s better,’ he murmured. ‘God, Clare, I’ve missed you.’

She pressed her lips against his chest and hugged him gently. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘Mmm.’ Seconds later, his steady, even breathing told her that he had done exactly that.

When the alarm woke her in the morning, he was gone. She jumped out of bed and ran into the sitting-room, but she knew from the quality of the silence that the flat was empty. There was a note propped against the kettle.