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“I’m fine. You can’t stop me.”
His body swayed as he let go of the cabinet, and I steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Jesus, this man was stubborn. I tried again.
“Matt. Don’t be ridiculous. You have quite a severe concussion. Look, you can scarcely stand, let alone walk anywhere. At least wait until the surgeons have been to check on you. And you need more antibiotics, otherwise you’ll get an infection. Why are you in such a hurry to leave?”
“I don’t like hospitals. Get out of my way. I’ll be fine.”
It didn’t take twenty-plus years of practising medicine and all those tedious exams to work out that he most definitely would not be fine. He was on the brink of keeling over.
“Listen. Wait until the surgeons have been—they should be here any minute. Listen to their advice. See how you feel in an hour or so. And then, if you still want to leave, I’ll find you a wheelchair.”
With a promise the surgeons weren’t far away, I managed to cajole him back onto the bed, where he perched on the very edge, his gaze darting around the room, set to bolt. With a bit of luck, the surgeons would be firm with him and he’d fall asleep again. Not sure what to do with myself, I settled once more in the armchair. I had imagined a thousand different scenarios should our paths ever cross again; needless to say, this hadn’t been one of them.
There was a welcome knock at the door, and Alistair, the maxillofacial surgeon, poked his head around, doing a double take before nodding in greeting as he recognised me as the visitor in the chair.
“Hello, Val. Mr Leeson, how are you this morning?”
Thankfully, Matt co-operated with being questioned and examined, even shuffling back onto the bed a fraction so Alistair could check the wounds inside his mouth with a pen torch. His answers were polite but monosyllabic.
“Everything looks fine, Mr Leeson. The surgery went well.”
Matt attempted to rise. “So I can go then.”
Taken aback, Alistair sent me a questioning look.
“Matt…Mr Leeson is a…an old friend of mine.” At that, Alistair raised an eyebrow and I tried to convey with an anxious frown everything I couldn’t voice out loud. “He…um…he really wants to go home. I told him he should stay, but he’s um…not keen. He’s not a fan of hospitals.”
“Mr Leeson, you should listen to Val,” declared Alistair. “Hospitals aren’t prisons, so I can’t make you stay. But it’s my duty to tell you what’s best, and what’s best is you remain here for another couple of days. You need more antibiotics, and steroids for the swelling. And I’m sure your head hurts and would benefit from some strong painkillers. Who have you got at home to look after you?”
Matt shrugged and fixed his gaze out of the window. “No one.”
Alistair nodded with satisfaction, pleased with the answer. “Exactly. Even if I changed you to oral medication, someone needs to keep an eye on your wounds, and the orthopaedic doctors haven’t seen you yet to check on that arm. Not to mention your concussion. I doubt you can think straight, let alone wash and dress yourself after that clout you took to the head. And what about food?”
I relaxed a little. A decent enough list to make anyone see sense, surely. And Alistair had hit the right tone; kindly but authoritative.
“I’m going,” repeated Matt. “Dr Valentine said I can stay with him. He’ll look after me.”
What the hell? When had I missed that vital part of the conversation?
“That’s why he’s here. He’s come to pick me up.”
A pause stretched out as Alistair studied me, as if for the first time. I knew what he saw, as I sat in the plastic armchair in my beige chinos and casual navy shirt. He saw staid, trustworthy, and reliable. The human equivalent of magnolia paint. From his puzzled expression, he couldn’t for the life of him fathom how me, and an abrasive character like Matt, were close enough friends that I’d agree to take him home and care for him. Especially against all medical advice.
“He really dislikes hospitals,” I heard myself saying.
Alistair wavered, torn between going into battle with an obstructive patient or winding up his ward round and being on time for his morning outpatient clinic.
“Dr Valentine will make sure I take the antibiotics and the steroid,” Matt promised as clearly as he could enunciate. “I know he’s an extremely conscientious doctor.”
I had a feeling Matt would have let Harold Shipman escort him out of the hospital if it provided a means of escape. My sweary, obstreperous patient of a few minutes ago sounded almost sweet, although it must have taken a monumental effort, given the pain. If his eyes hadn’t been so swollen, he’d have been batting his lashes at poor Alistair.
Next thing I knew, I’d collected Matt’s meds from the hospital pharmacy and sourced a wheelchair. Matt’s charm offensive vanished as soon as the door closed behind Alistair, replaced by his grim determination to escape the hospital, even if he had to crawl on his hands and knees. As it was, he barely maintained consciousness even with me half-carrying him.
“For the record, I still think this is an incredibly bad idea,” I stated, as I helped him into the car. “And you’re a very smooth liar.”
“I’ve got a senior doctor escorting me from the hospital,” he gargled through puffy lips. “What’s your problem?”
“Um, the fact Iama doctor? And as a medical professional, I think you should be back in that hospital bed!”
