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And if it also got her away from the humiliation of Bradley, and away from her mother’s next shenanigans, then wasn’t that a bonus?
Downing the last of her drink, Isla stood up and made herself smile. This wasn’t about the past; this was about the future. Or, until her ship sailed into port in a couple of days’ time, this was about living in the present and exploring as much as she could of what this part of Chile had to offer.
The sudden commotion behind her made Isla spin around to where an argument between two young men was going on in the next bar. Two six-foot, muscle-bound lads squaring—rather drunkenly—up to each other, both of whom might have looked at home in a boxing ring.
Clearly, the crowd seemed to think so. As much as they were entertained, they were evidently keeping their distance, not wanting to get caught in the middle.
That’s my cue.
Weaving through the tables, the occupants of which were mostly focused on the fact that the argument was turning into a brawl, Isla made her way to the strip of walkway between the bars and the beach and turned in the opposite direction from the fight. And the loud crash that ensued.
It wasn’t her business, and she didn’t care. She kept her head down and picked up her pace, right up to the moment when a deafening crash split the air.
Isla’s heart jolted and she whirled around despite herself—just in time to see a ship’s officer vaulting over the barrier to the sand and racing to haul one of the drunken young men—still flailing and punching—off the one who was now lying unconscious on the ground, as though the lad weighed little more than a sack of potatoes.
With one word, the newcomer had the crowd flipping from ghoulish spectators to concerned citizens, grouping around the injured party and checking him over, whilst the officer pinned the still-agitated second lad to a concrete pillar to stop him from reaching his quarry to rain down yet more punches.
The officer was at least as tall as the would-be boxer and, even though he wasn’t as obviously bulked up, there was no doubt that he was strong and skilled enough to control the bigger man, apparently quietly and smoothly talking him down before pressing a couple of the other stronger locals into taking the lad further away until he calmed down completely. Then he pulled a walkie-talkie from his waist and issued more instructions into that.
It was mesmerising how smoothly and efficiently the man had seemed to take charge of a situation which could have escalated far too easily. Her heart jolted again, and she told herself it was nothing more than an adrenalin rush due to the situation. Or perhaps it was because it highlighted, so aptly, all of her ex’s failings. Brad had liked to pretend that he was that kind of bark-a-command-and-everyone-jumps alpha male, but the truth was that he’d been more of a make-the-bullets-for-someone-else-to-fire kind of a man.
So what did it say about her that it had taken her so long to see the truth?
Enough! Isla chastised silently, shaking the guilt and shame from her thoughts. This was why she was here in Chile, waiting for the Jewel of Hestia to arrive. The ship’s junior doctor wasn’t just a new career; it was to be a new start.
Isla turned to leave, when suddenly she heard a series of shouts, mostly for emergency services, and then one shout which she couldn’t ignore.
‘Médico? Es alguien médico?’
Swinging back, her stomach lurching slightly, she surveyed the severity of the scene for a moment. Almost hoping someone else might step forward.
Nobody did.
‘Soy médica,’ she muttered at length, stumbled forward and pushed her way through the tight throng, her eyes taking in each detail as it came into focus.
Close up, she could now see that the man who had fallen had crashed through a glass-laden table and was now lying on his back on the ground, the table and shards of glass beneath him. Blood pooled somewhere around his lower back.
‘You.’ Isla pointed to some random gawking bystanders as she quickly and efficiently picked her way through the debris. ‘Can you move the tables? Mover las mesas?’
She crouched down beside the casualty, but until the glass was swept away she didn’t dare kneel.
‘And you...a sweeping brush...un cepillo para...’ her brain scrabbled for the words ‘...para barrer los...fragmentos de vidrio.’
She only paused long enough to see the bartender acknowledge her before she turned her focus to the patient. Not unconscious after all, but certainly groggy.
‘Hello, can you tell me your name? Cómo se llama?’
He groaned and weakly tried to push her hand away, possibly hearing her but not processing her words. Another observation to file away for the ambulance crew.
‘Okay—you’re okay. I’m a doctor. Soy médica.’
A quick check of his pulse suggested an erratic beat, hardly surprising after a bar fight and then demolishing a glass table. But there were no shards on his front, which meant the blood had to be coming from an injury on his back.
‘Someone has called for an ambulance? Ambulancia?’
‘Sí, sí,’ several people relayed at once, flowing into a torrent of Chilean Spanish that Isla wasn’t entirely sure she understood.
At least the barman had now swept away the worst of the broken glass and she could tend to the patient, although the guy was big and muscular and moving him was proving harder than she’d expected.
