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Did he want her to feel sorry for him? A job he’d had a week to do? ‘That would be most helpful. Thank you.’
‘Doc!’
The voice was so loud, so unexpected that Carrie visibly startled. She turned to the source of the noise and watched a young man stride into the clinic, carrying another man like a sack of potatoes over one shoulder and a bawling toddler on the opposite hip.
Charlie was up and out of his chair and brushing past a still startled Carrie in a matter of seconds. ‘What is it, Donny?’ he asked, opening the door of the treatment room. ‘He’s not a regular. Do you know him?’
Donny nodded. ‘His name’s Rick. He uses smack. He had a needle hanging out of his arm when I found him.’ Donny laid the unconscious man on the examination table.
‘Carrie, take the baby,’ Charlie said, raising his voice to be heard over the distressed child as he pulled on some gloves and placed an oxygen saturation probe on Rick’s finger.
‘Whose is it?’ she asked. Please, please, please, don’t let this poor frightened child belong to the person lying still and cyanotic on the bed.
‘She’s my niece,’ Donny said, and handed her over gratefully, looking more at home with a nearly dead drug user than the pretty little girl with pink ribbons in her hair. ‘I’d just taken her to the park when we came across him. I couldn’t just leave him.’
Carrie automatically rocked the child. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Tilly.’
‘It’s OK, Tilly, you’re safe now, it’s OK,’ Carrie whispered, cradling her close and talking gently as she watched the emergency unfold.
‘He’s barely breathing. He’s got a pulse. I’ll try oxygenating him first but he might need Narcan.’ Charlie grabbed the bag-mask apparatus that was permanently set up, turned on the wall oxygen supply and placed the mask over the man’s face.
Carrie felt sick and her heart thundered as she stared at the dusky colour of the stranger’s lips visible through the clear plastic of the mask. Large raw sores, bleeding and cracked, blemished the corners.
Rick was frighteningly still. He looked malnourished and unkempt, his hair dirty, his skin pasty. Faint yellowy bruises followed the bluey-green tracks of his knotted, abused veins. He looked like death.
Carrie felt her adrenaline surge as the desperate urgency of a life in the balance played out before her. She recognised Charlie’s professional jaw hold as he assisted the struggling respirations of his patient but the direness of the situation was freaking her out. She’d been here before. Seen lips that colour before. She shut out the image and drew in a shaky breath, she had to get out. ‘I’ll take her outside.’
But the little girl protested more loudly and cried out hysterically for her uncle so Carrie stayed where she was, rooted to the spot, not wanting to watch but unable to look away. The child settled again. ‘Poor darling, it’s OK. I’m not going to take you away from your Uncle Donny.’
The little one whimpered and hung onto Carrie’s neck for dear life. Her hiccoughy breaths were warm against Carrie’s neck and she squeezed the little girl closer.
Charlie could hear Carrie’s soothing assurances as he assessed Rick’s condition. He recognised the tremulous husk in it from last night. Was she spinning out over there, like last night? Would she vomit? Faint? Damn it, he needed to concentrate on this, not her!
Rick wasn’t coming round. His lips had pinked up. His saturations were good. He was breathing a little more but still not adequately enough. Charlie grabbed a Narcan minijet from the IV trolley, flipped off the plastic lids and quickly assembled it. Time was of the essence.
He plunged the needle into Rick, administering the narcotic antagonist to reverse the effects of the drug. Rick wasn’t going to like it but he was too drugged that oxygen alone would eventually bring him round.
Moments later Rick took a huge gulping breath and then another. He shook his head from side to side and tried to push Charlie’s hands and the mask away. He started to cough, then gag. Charlie and Donny rolled him on to his side and he stilled momentarily. Moments later he started flailing around again and succeeded in ripping the oxygen mask away.
He sat up abruptly and swore a lot.
‘Easy,’ Charlie said gently.
Rick lurched off the bench. ‘God damn it! My hit, man, you wasted my hit.’
Tilly started crying again.
‘Shut that kid up,’ the man bellowed, and staggered out of the room, knocking over a few chairs on his way out of the clinic.
Donny started after him.
‘Let him go,’ Charlie said, taking Rick’s abuse on the chin. He knew it was hopeless to point out that he’d just saved his life. He’d been saving drug addicts from their overdoses for five years, sometimes as much as one a day, and very few of them were ever grateful. In fact, Rick’s behaviour was typical. God knew what he’d had to do to score the money for his hit and he had gone and ruined it by injecting a drug that not only sucked up the respiratory depressant effects but also sucked up the euphoric effects.
