Читать книгу A Nurse to Tame the Playboy - Maggie Kingsley - Страница 8

Tuesday, 10:07 p.m.

‘I DON’T care how you do it, or who you have to upset, but I am not going out with Brontë O’Brian again!’

‘Eli, we went through all this yesterday,’ George Leslie protested. ‘There is no one else I can put her with, and if I pull out one of the other guys just to accommodate you, there will be hell to pay.’

‘Why can’t she work days?’ Eli argued. ‘She could work days with Luke. He’s a trauma magnet, can’t leave the station without falling over multiple pile-ups, and I’m sure that would keep Ms O’Brian’s employers happy.’

‘I suggested she work days when I first heard she was coming,’ his boss replied, ‘but her employers were insistent she did nights.’

‘And we all know what that means,’ Eli said irritably. ‘They think the worthy Edinburgh folk will be all tucked up tight in their beds at night, so we’ll have minimal callouts, and they can use that as an excuse to make some of us redundant.’

‘That’s my guess.’ George nodded.

‘Charlie Woods,’ Eli said. ‘He owes me a favour. I’m sure he’d be prepared to swap—’

‘Except his wife is due to give birth any day now,’ George interrupted. ‘Eli, can’t you just live with it? Ye gods, you’ve already done one night, you only have another six to go.’

‘You don’t know what she’s like,’ Eli declared. ‘She’s pig-headed, opinionated, always thinks she’s right—’

‘Sounds a bit like you.’ George grinned.

‘I am nothing like her,’ Eli snapped. ‘George, I want out. There has to be a way for you to get me out of this, or I swear…’

‘You’ll do what?’ his boss demanded with clear exasperation. ‘Walk out on me? Throw your career down the toilet? For heaven’s sake, man, I am not asking you to bond with her, be her best friend forever. All I’m asking is for you to be civil, pleasant, and do the job you’re paid for.’

‘But—’

‘And can I point out it’s not just your job on the line if we get a lousy report,’ George continued, his normally placid face bright red. ‘It’s everyone’s job, so get a grip of yourself, a smile on your face, and be nice.’

Which was easy for George to say, Eli thought as his boss strode away. He didn’t have to work with the damn woman. He didn’t have to sit beside an interfering know-it-all who was constantly sticking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted, and making snide comments about his dating habits.

And that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? a small voice whispered in his head. It’s got nothing to do with her as a person. It’s because of what she said about her flatmates, implying you were some sort of low-life.

With a muttered oath he kicked out at one of his ambulance wheels angrily. Hell’s teeth, but what right did she have to judge his dating habits? It wasn’t as though he had ever deceived anyone. It wasn’t as though he had ever lied. He had always been upfront, made it clear he wouldn’t be sticking around forever, so what was her problem?

She still had it, he thought, as he heard the sound of slow footsteps crossing the forecourt, and turned to see Brontë walking towards him, her face set and tight. Well, I’m not any happier with the situation than you are, sweetheart, he thought, except…

George was right. No matter what his private feelings were, it wasn’t just his neck on the line here. If Brontë O’Brian gave ED7 a damning report, a lot of heads would roll. Heads belonging to people he knew. People who had families, commitments, mortgages, so somehow he had to placate this woman, get her onside, and he squared his chin.

‘Brontë, can we talk?’ he said when she drew level with him.

‘It’s a free country,’ she replied.

Which wasn’t exactly the most encouraging of answers and he gritted his teeth. He didn’t ‘do’ apologies—had never in his life felt the need to apologise for anything he’d done—but he was going to apologise now if it killed him.

‘About this morning…What I said…’ He gritted his teeth even harder. ‘I probably seemed a bit arrogant to you, a bit of a prat.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ she said, and he clenched his fists until the knuckles gleamed white.

She was enjoying this. He would bet money she was enjoying it, and if it hadn’t been for George he would have told her to take a hike.

‘What I said this morning,’ he continued determinedly, ‘I shouldn’t have said it.’

‘No, you shouldn’t.’

‘Look, I’m apologising here,’ he exclaimed, ‘so couldn’t you at least give me a break, and meet me halfway?’

She tilted her head thoughtfully to one side.

‘You’ve said you were arrogant, and you’ve said you were a prat,’ she observed, ‘but I’m not hearing any apology.’

‘Okay, all right,’ he snapped. ‘I’m sorry. I was wrong, okay? I shouldn’t have said what I did, and I’m sorry.’

For a second she said nothing, then, to his surprise, the corners of her mouth tilted slightly upwards.

‘Why do I get the feeling you’d rather have your fingernails pulled out one by one than apologise to anyone about anything?’ she said.

A reluctant answering smile was drawn from him. Damn, she was smart, though not for the world would he ever have said so.

‘Can we call a truce and start again?’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t open my big mouth if—’

‘I don’t refer to your ex-girlfriends,’ she finished for him, and he nodded.

‘So, do we have a deal?’ he asked, holding out his hand.

Oh, shoot, she thought, as she took his hand and felt a jolt of electricity run right up her arm. She’d come into work tonight still angry with him, still furious, and yet now she was all too aware that a lean, muscular, highly desirable man was holding her hand, and it felt so good, much too good. How had he done that? How had he managed to turn her emotions upside down in an instant?

Practice, Brontë. Years and years of practice, so watch your step, or you’ll end up like all the other girls he’s dumped.

‘You’re frowning at me,’ Eli continued, irritation replacing the smile on his face. ‘Does that mean you’re planning on making me apologise some more, or…?’

‘We have a deal,’ she agreed, releasing his hand quickly. ‘Except…’

His dark eyebrows snapped together. ‘Except what?’

‘Can I ask you something?’ she replied. ‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,’ she added quickly as his eyebrows lowered still further, ‘but do you ever plan on settling down with just one woman?’

‘Heck, no,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never been married, or engaged, and I don’t intend to be. No ties, no responsibilities, that’s my idea of perfection.’

‘Sounds to me like someone hurt you pretty badly at some point,’ she observed, and he rolled his eyes impatiently.

‘Why does there have to be some deep-seated psychological reason for the fact I don’t want to be tied down, trapped?’

‘There doesn’t, I suppose,’ she replied, ‘but I’m just curious as to what makes a serial dater like you tick.’

One corner of his mouth turned up. ‘Sex.’

‘And that’s it?’ she protested.

He grinned. ‘Pretty much.’

It was her turn to roll her eyes. ‘You’re impossible.’

‘Look, what you call “serial dating,” I call fun,’ he declared. ‘If more people would only realise—accept—nothing lasts, and you should just enjoy the moment, the happier everyone would be.’

Her grey eyes searched his face curiously. ‘And are you happy?’

Of all the dumb questions she could have asked, that had to be the dumbest, he decided.

‘Of course I’m happy,’ he declared. ‘I have a job I love, a nice flat, a good circle of friends—why wouldn’t I be happy?’

‘I’m pleased for you. No, I mean it,’ she added as he raised a right eyebrow, clearly challenging her remark. ‘To be content with your life, to want nothing more, feel you need nothing more…You’re very lucky.’

It wasn’t luck, he thought, as they both heard their MDT bleep, and Brontë hurried to read the message. It was being realistic, seeing the world for what it was. And he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was happy. Of course he was happy. Okay, so his three months’ self-imposed celibacy was beginning to irk big time, and his flat felt empty, lonely, with just himself rattling around it, but the celibacy had been essential after what happened with Zoe. That was a mistake he most definitely didn’t want to make again.

‘Middle-aged man collapsed in supermarket,’ Brontë announced. ‘Seems to be unconscious, no family with him, but the supermarket first-aider is in attendance.’

‘Could be anything,’ Eli replied. ‘Heart attack, drunk, or faker.’

The first-aider clearly didn’t think the middle-aged man was faking. She was flapping around in panic when they arrived, and her relief at seeing them was palpable.

‘He was standing at the checkout, and just keeled over,’ she declared. ‘I’ve put him in the recovery position, but I’m not qualified to do anything else. The first-aid course I went on—it only lasted four weekends—and—’

‘You’ve done exactly the right thing,’ Eli interrupted, smiling widely at her. ‘We’ll take over now.’

Brontë shook her head as the young first-aider turned bright red and walked away in a clear daze.

‘Not fair. That poor girl was in a big enough spin before, but now you’ve got her practically hyperventilating.’

‘Can I help it if I’m charming?’ Eli protested, his blue eyes dancing, and Brontë only just restrained herself from sticking out her tongue at him.

Except he was probably right, she thought as she watched him begin the standard Glasgow coma scale assessment tests to check the man’s overall physical condition. Being charming was undoubtedly as natural to Eli as breathing. So, unfortunately, was the fact he was as unreliable as the weather forecast.

But you like him.

Oh, I could, she thought, as she stared at his long, slender fingers, and, unbidden, and unwanted, an image came into her mind of those fingers touching her, caressing her. I could so easily like him very much indeed, but never in a million years would she allow herself to get involved with him. At least with the other men she’d dated she’d been completely unaware of what lay ahead, but with Eli Munroe she knew only too well.

‘I’m not sure about this one,’ Eli observed, sitting back on his heels. ‘What do you think, Ms O’Brian?’

His expression was solemn but his eyes, Brontë noticed, were gleaming, and she knew why. He might only have performed two of the GCS tests on their patient so far but the man having achieved the lowest possible result both on the ability to open and close his eyes on command, and on responding verbally to questions, indicated he must be nearly at death’s door but he had to be the healthiest-looking sick person she had ever seen.

‘I’d recommend the reflexes test next, Mr Munroe,’ she replied, and a suspicion of a smile appeared on Eli’s lips.

Gently, he lifted the man’s hand, positioned in directly over the man’s nose, then let it drop. Magically, it didn’t hit the man on his nose as it should have done if he really was unconscious, but landed neatly at his side, and Eli let out a deep, heartfelt sigh.

‘I’m afraid it looks a lot more serious than I thought,’ he declared, and Brontë had to bite down hard on her lip to quell the chuckle she could feel bubbling inside her.

She’d come across cases like this before in A and E. Sometimes the patients were mentally ill, or drunk, but most often they faked unconsciousness to get themselves out of a sticky situation and, judging by the amount of alcohol the man had in his shopping trolley, she strongly suspected he was trying to get away without paying for it.

‘Eye socket test?’ she suggested, and Eli winked across at her.

If the man truly was deeply unconscious he would scarcely react, but if he wasn’t…Pushing hard against the upper part of his eye socket with your finger wouldn’t damage his sight but, by heavens, he would certainly feel it.

He did. At the first push, the man’s eyes flew open, and he sat up angrily, only to put his hand to his head with an unconvincing groan when he saw Brontë and Eli.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ he murmured in a faltering voice. ‘One minute I was about to pay for my groceries, and the next…I just came over all queer.’

‘It can happen,’ Eli agreed as he solicitously helped the man to his feet, ‘which is why I think you should go straight home to bed. Forget all about your shopping, you can do it tomorrow.’

‘But—’

‘No, please, don’t thank us,’ Eli continued, steering the man towards the supermarket door. ‘It’s all in a day’s—or should I say night’s—work for us.’

That the man wanted to do anything but thank them was clear, but that he also didn’t want to take on six feet two of muscular male was also apparent and, with a face like thunder, he walked out of the supermarket door and disappeared into the night.

‘You know, it never ceases to amaze me how far some people will go to fake illness,’ Brontë declared as she followed Eli back to their ambulance. ‘I mean, if it was me, the last thing I’d want is someone performing a whole battery of tests on me if I knew I was perfectly okay.’

‘Yeah, well, when you’ve been in this game as long as I have, nothing seems strange any more,’ Eli replied. ‘I’m just surprised you’re surprised after seven years of A and E.’

She glanced across at him sharply. ‘If this is your not very subtle way of wanting to know why I left, forget it.’

‘Can’t blame a bloke for trying,’ he said with a broad smile, and she shook her head at him.

‘You know, I don’t think you actually do dump all your ex-girlfriends,’ she observed. ‘I think they dump you because you keep on asking the same old questions, and eventually they can’t stand it any more.’

‘Oh, very witty, very droll,’ he said drily. ‘And will you stop saying I dump women. I do not dump women. We just mutually decide when it’s over.’

‘Yeah, right,’ she said, not even bothering to try to look as though she believed him. ‘Do you want to know my theory as to why you’re taking a three-month dating sabbatical?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘I think you got careless,’ Brontë declared, ignoring the irritation in his voice. ‘I think your last girlfriend got too close, and started bringing home wedding magazines, and stopping outside jewellers’ windows to point out engagement rings, and that freaked you good and proper, and now you’re trying to figure out where you went wrong.’

Eli’s lips twitched into not quite a smile.

‘That’s not a bad guess.’

‘And have you figured out where you went wrong?’ she asked, and his smile became rueful.

‘Not exactly. How long have you given up dating for?’

‘Permanently.’

‘Permanently?’ he exclaimed. ‘Hell, but someone sure did a number on you, didn’t they?’

She was saved from answering by the bleep of their radio, but when she lifted the receiver, the caller sounded uncharacteristically nervous.

‘I have a message for Eli,’ the anonymous voice announced. ‘Could you tell him Peg would like to see him asap.’

Brontë sighed with resignation as she switched off the receiver.

‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, turning to Eli. ‘Peg is yet another of your ex-girlfriends.’

He cleared his throat.

‘Actually, she’s a heroin addict. Turns tricks for a living. Male—female—doesn’t matter to her so long as the punter will pay enough to fund her habit.’

Brontë blinked.

‘And how do you know her?’ she asked without thinking, then flushed scarlet when she realised how that might sound. ‘Sorry—forget it—none of my business.’

‘No, it’s not,’ he agreed. ‘But Peg…’ He chewed his lip, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘She caught pneumonia two winters back. My partner, Frank, and I saw her lying in the street so we picked her up and took her to hospital. Ever since then…’ Eli shrugged. ‘She seems to feel she owes me something, so if a youngster tries to tag along with her, and her friends, she let’s me know, and sometimes I’m able to help, to turn them around before it’s too late.’

And I feel like the lowest form of pond life, Brontë thought as she stared at him awkwardly. She wished she hadn’t jumped to conclusions. She wished even more she could figure out the man sitting next to her. One minute he was a completely shameless flirt, a serial dumper of women, then he unexpectedly turned into the Good Samaritan. It didn’t make any sense. He didn’t make any sense.

‘Do you want to go and see her now?’ she asked hesitantly.

‘It’s not a logged case, Brontë,’ he replied. ‘We’re only supposed to answer logged calls, not personal ones.’

‘And I didn’t hear that,’ she said. ‘Where does Peg live?’

‘Are you serious?’ he said, and Brontë huffed impatiently.

‘Just give me the address, Eli.’

‘She…’ He rubbed his chin awkwardly. ‘She doesn’t exactly “live” anywhere. She—and her friends—camp out most nights by Greyfriars Church.’

Greyfriars Church. It was hardly the most hospitable of places in the daytime but, on a freezing-cold November night, Brontë couldn’t think of a more miserable place to be, and her opinion didn’t change when they reached the church and she saw the black, locked gates.

‘Where’s your friend?’ she asked as she and Eli got out of the ambulance.

‘Inside.’

‘Inside?’ she repeated as he retrieved a medi-bag. ‘You mean, she sleeps amongst the tombstones?’

‘Yup.’ Eli nodded, then his teeth gleamed white in the darkness. ‘Not afraid of ghosts, I hope?’

Only my own, Brontë thought, but she didn’t say it.

‘I’ve always liked that statue of Greyfriars Bobby,’ she said instead, pointing at the life-size figure of the little dog on a plinth in front of the church. ‘My parents used to bring my brother, sister and I to see it when we were small, and tell us how Bobby came back every night for fourteen years to sleep on his owner’s grave until he eventually died.’

‘Yeah, well, putting up a statue to anyone—be it a person or a dog—is a lot easier than trying to help real, living people.’

Eli’s voice sounded uncharacteristically hard, and bitter, and she glanced across at him curiously, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were scanning the graveyard, and then he nodded.

‘There she is,’ he said.

Following the direction of his gaze, Brontë saw a slim form flitting amongst the tombstones.

‘How do we get in?’ she asked. ‘Do we have to climb over the railings, or…?’

‘I know another way in.’

He did, and Brontë very soon wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t just the way the church seemed so much bigger and more ominous in the dark, nor the way the tombstones leant towards her like grasping, clutching fingers. It wasn’t even the mort-safe coverings which had been installed over some of the graves by her Edinburgh forebears to prevent grave-robbers. It was the smell.

Sharp, acrid, and overpowering, it didn’t matter how much she tried to hold her breath she couldn’t escape the smell of unwashed bodies, and stale alcohol. It’s just a smell, she told herself. Smells can’t harm you, they can’t hurt you, but, unbidden and unwanted, she felt her heart beginning to beat faster, could feel the all too familiar wave of panic rising within her, and she wrapped her arms around herself tightly.

‘Must be well below zero tonight,’ Eli observed, clearly misunderstanding her gesture.

She nodded.

‘How many…’ She swallowed hard. ‘How many people sleep here every night?’

‘It depends,’ Eli replied. ‘Sometimes ten—sometimes twenty.’

‘How do they survive?’ she exclaimed. ‘How can they keep alive on nights like this? I would have thought—’ She came to a sudden halt. Something warm, wet, and slimy was seeping through her left boot, encircling her toes, and she let out a small yelp. ‘Oh, yuck! What have I just stood in?’

‘Do you really want me to tell you?’ Eli asked, and she shook her head quickly.

She didn’t, especially as she already had a very strong suspicion what it was.

‘Take my advice—’

‘Buy some boots from Harper & Stolins in Cockburn Street,’ she finished for him. ‘I know, you said.’

‘Yes, but this time listen,’ he declared. ‘We don’t refuse to wear the regulation boots because we’re picky. We don’t wear them because they’re rubbish, so get yourself a decent pair.’

She would, she thought, as she flexed her wet toes and grimaced. She would go to the shop at the end of this shift, but not until she’d had a very long, and very hot, shower.

‘Okay, wait here,’ Eli ordered. ‘Peg and her friends…they know me, but you’re a stranger, so it’s best if I explain who you are.’

He was gone before she could argue, could tell him she didn’t want to wait in this place on her own. Figures were emerging from behind the tombstones now, some of them coughing, all of them staggering, and though they looked merely curious, puzzled, she didn’t know how long that would last, nor did she want to find out.

Anxiously, she searched the moonlit cemetery for Eli, but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the newcomer had taken off, which would mean they could leave, too. She fervently hoped so. It was so cold here, so very cold. Dark, too, despite the moon. Dark and creepy, and she almost jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand clasp her shoulder.

‘I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ Eli murmured, as she swore under her breath.

‘Yeah, well, next time warn me, okay?’ she said, trying to calm her thudding heart. ‘What’s the situation?’

‘According to Peg, the newcomer’s just a boy. He left his home in Aberdeenshire about a year ago—won’t say why, but Peg reckons something bad happened. He got robbed of what little savings he had on his first night in Edinburgh, and with no money he couldn’t pay for anywhere to live, and with no home address he couldn’t get any benefits, so he’s been living rough ever since.’

‘What does Peg want us to do?’

‘When did “I” become “us”?’ Eli asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

‘When I broke every rule in the EMDC manual by allowing this visit,’ she replied, ‘so quit stalling.’

‘Basically she wants us to get him out of here. She thinks he has a bad cold, which is not good news. Pneumonia, or a severe chest infection, would mean we could take him to the Pentland which would get him off the streets for a while, but a cold…’ He sighed. ‘Peg’s gone to ask if he’ll let me examine him.’

The boy must have agreed because, out of the gloom, Brontë could see a white hand beckoning to them, and quickly she followed Eli as he picked his way through the tombstones, keeping as close to him as she could, so she almost collided into his back when he came to a sudden halt by one of the bigger mausoleums.

‘Is this him?’ she whispered, only to instantly feel stupid because, of course, it had to be, and yet…

She had expected to see a young man but the person sitting hunched on the ground in front of them, dressed in threadbare trainers, thin denim trousers, and a tattered wine-coloured jacket, didn’t even look old enough to have left school. How on earth had he survived if he’d been sleeping rough for a year?

‘What’s your name, son?’ Eli murmured as he crouched down in front of the boy, seemingly heedless of the broken glass, and discarded syringes, glinting in the moonlight.

With an effort, the boy raised his head. His skin was stretched tightly across his cheekbones, and there were dark shadows under his eyes, but though those eyes looked tired and scared, Brontë didn’t think he was taking drugs. At least, not yet.