Chapter 15
Rick was in the kitchen making coffee when he heard a car door slam. A flare of alarm shot through his chest like a nuclear warhead, setting his pulse racing. He peered out at the drive from behind half-closed curtains, sagging against the windowsill with relief when he saw the noise had come from next door.
A child skipped from a small blue car into the house. The driver stayed behind the wheel, slumped over, unmoving. Rick scratched his head. Perhaps he ought to check on them. Reena had said Beth was struggling.
He limped across the gravel and tapped on the driver’s side window. ‘Are you alright?’
The car door was thrust open, forcing him to jump back or be knocked over.
Beth leapt out, her eyes flashing sparks. ‘What?’
‘Umm…’
‘Seriously. What do you want?’
Rick raised both palms in surrender. ‘Hey, hey, calm down. I—’
‘Don’t “Hey, hey” me, buster. Who the hell do you think you are, telling me to calm down?’ She punctuated every word by ramming a pointy finger into Rick’s chest. Her breath was coming in great heaves that rocked her tiny frame.
Retreating from the jabbing finger, Rick stumbled, his left thigh muscle going into spasm and throwing him off balance.
‘Are you drunk?’ she demanded.
‘No.’ Outraged at the suggestion, Rick drew himself up to his full height. ‘It’s barely lunchtime.’
‘Oh, so it’s okay to be drunk by supper, is it?’
‘What? No, I… Look—’
‘No, you look. I’ve had it up to here, see?’ She jerked her hand up, pointing to the top of her head. ‘With men. Men like you. Men like Paul, taking stuff from me.’
‘Paul?’
‘Taking money I don’t have. Wanting things I can’t give. There’s nothing left, see? It’s all gone. So, whatever it is you want from me, you can’t have it.’
‘I don’t want anything.’ That wasn’t true. For some strange reason, Rick wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her close. To tell her that everything would be alright. That whatever she needed, he would find it for her, no matter what it was, what it cost or how far he had to go.
A flurry of agitated barks heralded an elderly terrier, who lumbered out of the farmhouse door towards them. The young woman he’d upset the day before called the dog to heel. She stalked up to Rick, hands on hips, her eyes bouncing from him to Beth.
‘What’s going on?’ she demanded. The dog wheezed and sneezed, before parking his bum on the girl’s foot and leaning against her, panting hard. ‘Beth? What did he do to you?’
‘Rose, I—’
Rick stepped back again. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
Rose rounded on him. ‘You must have done something.’
The dog growled in agreement.
‘I only asked her if she was alright.’ To his horror, he heard Beth sob and turned to see her face crumple.
‘Nothing’s bloody alright. It’s all a big, fat mess,’ she whispered, dashing a sleeve across her face before glaring at Rick. ‘And you should be ashamed of yourself… putting people at risk. He’s only young. I can’t believe that you’d be so… so… thoughtless.’
Rick blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘So you should be. He could have died. You don’t seem to care. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen what you’re capable of. That video… You’re reckless and… and… Oh!’ Beth turned on her heels and ran into the house.
Rose followed Beth. The terrier gave him a menacing stare before padding after them.
Rick rocked back on his heels. She’d said, ‘He could have died.’
She must mean Dean.
So much for Gita’s brilliant “escape to the country and lie low” plan. And so much for Barbara Trenchard telling him the locals wouldn’t give him any trouble. And as for Reena telling him to look out for Beth – fat chance of that happening.
Reena was wrong about something else, too. The things you run from in life are as bad as you fear. Given how hostile Beth and Rose were, how long would it be before they sold him out to the paparazzi and this little idyllic hideout of his was overrun? Images of swarming journalists crowded into his mind faster than he could push them out. He raced back to the barn, frantically working though his options.
Should I go somewhere else? But where? And would it make any difference?
If people in a remote community like this knew who he was, everyone would know, everywhere. It was only a matter of time before this happened again. He hurried to the window to double check no one was lurking on the driveway and yanked the curtains closed. With a few unsteady paces to the sofa, he sank into the saggy cushions next to Boo, his limbs trembling.
Think, damn it. Think.
A strange calm descended. It was pointless running. There was nowhere to go. He’d cope. He’d have to. If the paps were on the way, he needed to be as resilient as possible. To do that, he needed to look after himself. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d spent his whole life telling other people how to look after themselves. And all that time, he had worked too many hours, hadn’t taken any holidays and had eaten whatever junk food he could grab on the way home after a late-night surgery.
Ha! No wonder I’m a mess.
He’d have to start with the basics. Try to relax, eat some decent food, get some sleep and do some exercise. If he did, perhaps he could survive whatever was coming.
Rick dug the pieces of his phone from the kitchen drawer and reassembled them. He sent a text to Barbara requesting a list of healthy groceries, then browsed through a few budget clothing websites. He only had a couple of outfits; he could do with some more some walking boots at the very least. Plus, he needed a razor. No point looking like the wild man of the woods if he was going to have his photo splashed everywhere again. If he looked like he’d lost the plot, it wouldn’t help his credibility in court. He placed an online order of non-food essentials and requested that they be delivered to the village store. As he did this, his phone beeped with multiple incoming messages. He ignored them all and then dismantled the phone again. No point making it too easy for the bastards to find him.
Right. Next step. Read that GMC report. All of it.
He needed to understand. He paused and rubbed the back of his neck. He should probably send an email to David, too. It wasn’t fair not to let his son know what was going on. He wasn’t going to dump all his problems on him, just let him know that he was taking a break from work and that he was fine. Problem was, what to say? Sighing, he reached for his laptop.
Read the report first. Worry about David later.
Rick downloaded the report and started reading. Half an hour later, he got up to switch on the kettle and stare out of the kitchen window. Then, he took a strong cup of coffee back to the sofa, where he scrolled through the whole document again to re-read the final section.
In conclusion, this investigation finds that Dr Mahon acted in good faith when prescribing anti-anxiety medication to Dean Markwell. The recommended course of treatment was appropriate to the history presented.
Vindication of a sort.
He’d known the medication was correct.
But it wasn’t enough for exoneration.
He thought back to the lengthy grilling he’d had from the harassed GMC examiner. That was soon after the initial investigation had been launched, but before the wider story connecting Rick to Dean had gone viral. Before Cora Diamond, Sal and Ade, and #DrDeath.
Remembering the GMC inquiry process made him flinch. He’d been interrogated down to minutiae and, medicine aside, the process had revealed that Rick had made one mistake. Not a huge one in the grand scheme, but still a mistake. And his only defence was unprecedented circumstances.
Pathetic.
In his mind’s eye, he could see the GMC examiner sat in his consulting room in the same chair Dean had used. He remembered the man’s white handkerchief that he had mopped his brow with and then tucked back into his inside pocket. It was as if it were playing out in front of him right now.
*
‘You’re saying that as a result of an unexpected power cut, you were forced to take handwritten notes of the consultation. Is that right?’ the examiner lisped.
‘Yes,’ replied Rick.
‘Dr Mahon, why didn’t you transfer these notes onto the computer the instant power was restored?’
‘By the time the system was back up and running, all of the paper records I had for Dean were missing,’ said Rick. ‘Both the temporary resident form and the notes I’d made.’
‘Missing how?’
‘Right at the end of the consultation, we were interrupted by Sam Maddoc—’
‘Your head of reception?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘A patient, Mr Shah, had collapsed in the waiting room. I grabbed the defib and ran to help. When I got back, the power was back on, but my notes were gone.’
‘You’re saying confidential patient information just disappeared?’
Rick shrugged. ‘That’s what happened.’ He shifted in his seat and lowered his voice. ‘I can only assume Dean took them.’
The examiner frowned and made a note on his clipboard. ‘That’s quite an accusation.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t realise they were supposed to stay with me.’
‘What you’re saying is that you allowed a patient unsupervised time in your consulting room, aren’t you?’
‘But I—’
‘You gave a patient free access to a printer tray full of blank scripts, which goes against all best practice guidelines.’
‘I was dealing with an emergency. And, anyway, he didn’t take any blank scripts. They have all been accounted for.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s your responsibility to keep your consultation space secure.’
Beads of sweat formed on Rick’s brow. ‘I know, but I thought he was right behind me. And if I’d taken the time to see him out of the room ahead of me and Mr Shah had died as a result of the delay – which he genuinely might have, and in full view of a waiting room full of patients – that would be wrong, too, wouldn’t it?’
‘I don’t make the rules.’
Rick slumped back in his chair. ‘I couldn’t win, either way.’
‘It’s not about winning. It’s about finding the truth.’
‘The truth is, I did my best. I’ve always done my best for my patients, but it isn’t enough.’
The examiner sucked his teeth and made more notes. ‘Were you aware at the time of the consultation that Dean Markwell had a well-known history of drug dependency?’
‘I had no idea. I made my judgement call based on the facts as they were presented to me. And I stand by that decision. Dean denied taking drugs. I specifically warned him about the dangers of mixing that particular prescription medication with anything. I even asked him to initial where I’d written in my notes to confirm that he understood the warning.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Because it rams the message home to patients that I’m not kidding around about side effects. I always did it before everything went digital. It was second nature to fall back into old habits on a paper record.’
The examiner sniffed. ‘What did you do after you realised the paperwork was missing?’
‘There wasn’t much I could do. Without Dean’s personal details – his address, date of birth, etc. – I had no way of looking him up on the system. I couldn’t be certain I had the right person. It turns out there are a lot of Dean Markwells about the same age out there.’
The examiner whipped out his hanky again, blotted more shine from his pate and stayed silent.
‘I told our reception team that a Dean Markwell was supposed to come back for a full assessment of his condition and that we needed to make sure we registered him properly.’ Rick’s shoulders slumped. ‘But he never came. A week later, I saw his picture in the papers and found out that he’d overdosed.’
‘The problem is, Dr Mahon, without a proper record of the consultation, we can’t know for sure what did or didn’t happen.’ The examiner pursed his lips and wrote furiously on his clipboard. ‘And, of course, in his current condition, we can’t ask Dean.’
*
Coming back to the present, Rick groaned at the memory. Pushing it and the accompanying nausea aside, he forced himself to read the rest of the report’s concluding paragraphs.
It is reasonable to assume that, as he claims, Dr Mahon did follow NICE guidelines and warn his patient about the lethal complications that might result if the medication prescribed was mixed with other drugs. However, as the consultation documentation is not available, this cannot be proved. We recommend Dr Mahon receives a warning and undertakes additional training with regard to documentation and confidentiality.
Rick gave a bitter laugh.
It sounded innocuous. It wasn’t. He would willingly undertake whatever retraining they recommended. Yet the unfairness of the whole situation stuck in his craw. Talk about a rock and a hard place. He was damned either way. Yes, he shouldn’t have rushed ahead of Dean, should have taken the time to escort him out of the consultation room, but then Mr Shah…
Head pounding with suppressed rage, Rick pushed the laptop aside and struggled to his feet. He had to find something else to think about. His gaze lit on Charlie’s belongings dotted around the room. Clearing stuff out would be a good distraction. Much better than sitting around obsessing about things he couldn’t change, mooning over the woman next door and wondering when the paps would arrive.
He opened the unit under the television set and immediately wished he hadn’t. A tower of dusty VHS tapes tumbled onto the carpet.
Great! Obsolete technology from the eighties.
Stifling a sneeze, he grabbed a black sack from the kitchen and started chucking things in. Then, something caught his eye and he paused.
Surely not?
He hauled the box from the back of the cupboard out into the light. A surge of nostalgia warmed his belly. A Sinclair ZX Spectrum. Who’d have thought? The exact same model his dad had brought on all those weekend access visits. Games, too. Not discs; original reel to reel tapes – “Jetpac”, “Horace Goes Skiing”, “Manic Miner”. I had all of these when I was a kid. Talk about a blast from the past. Hang on a minute. No way. Rick grabbed “Horace Goes Skiing” and looked at the back. That pen mark… The scratch on the case. He picked up the console, turning it this way and that. Yes. That dent, too. From when he’d dropped it that time, when he was about thirteen, trying to set it up. Bloody hell, this is Dad’s old machine. What the hell is it doing here? Even the cassette player that plugged into the console, with the scrappy bit of masking tape on the cable, was there.
So many things about the barn that didn’t make sense collided together in his head. Why was that picture of Rick with his parents here in Charlie’s house? Why had Reena talked about “Charlie and Alan” as if they were a pair. She’d said Alan was the quieter of the two and… Rick got to his feet. Ouch! Pins and needles. He hobbled over to the bookcase where there was another framed photo. This one was of Dad and Charlie, each with an arm around the other’s shoulders, beaming at the camera. A pair. A happy pair. Partners.
Rick wiped the dust from the glass with his sleeve. He’d been too busy feeling sorry for himself to see what was under his nose. It explained so much. The divorce. Mum’s bitterness.
I wish he had told me.
Rick had always thought of his dad as alone, lonely even, but it wasn’t true. With infinite care, he placed the frame back down and smiled. The barn didn’t feel like a stranger’s home anymore.
He returned to the console. After all these years, would it still work? He plugged the wires into the back of Charlie’s… no… Dad and Charlie’s ancient telly. Then, he inserted a game into the tape deck. A blast of opening music made him grin so wide his cheeks ached.
What are the chances of that?
Dad had always said life was full of surprises. Pulling some cushions off the sofa, Rick settled down to some virtual skiing – with Horace.