now Josef’s investigator had given Marc the low-down on Borrawong as well. ‘Population six hundred. Bush nursing hospital, currently staffed with one doctor and four nurses, servicing an extended farming district.’
To be the only doctor in such a remote community, to have returned to Borrawong... What was Ellie doing?
Had her mother died? Why had he never asked?
Because he had no right to know?
He landed in Sydney, then drove for five hours, heading across vast fog-shrouded fields obviously used for cropping. It was mid-afternoon when he arrived, and midwinter. The time difference made him feel weird. The main street of Borrawong—such as it was—seemed deserted. The general store had a sign: ‘Closed’ pinned to the door. The town seemed deserted.
Then he turned off the main street towards the hospital—and this was where everybody was.
The tiny brick hospital was surrounded by a sea of cars. There were people milling by the entrance. People were hugging each other, sobbing. Two groups were involved in a yelling match, screaming abuse.
What the...?
He pulled up in the far reaches of the car park and made his way through the mass of people. By the time he reached the hospital entrance, he had the gist. A train had crashed into two carloads of kids.
How many casualties?
The reception area was packed. Here, though, people were quieter. This would be mum and dad territory, the place where the closest relatives waited for news.
He made his way towards the desk and a burly farming type guy blocked his path.
‘Can’t go any further, mate,’ the man told him. ‘Doc Ellie says no one goes past this point.’
Ellie. So she was here. Coping with this alone?
‘I’m a doctor,’ he told him.
The man’s shoulders sagged. ‘You’re kidding me, right? Mate, you’re welcome.’ He turned back to his huddled wife. ‘See, Claire, I told you help’d come.’
He was the help?
There was no one at the reception desk, but double doors led to the room beyond.
A child was sitting across the doors. He was small, maybe nine or ten years old.
He was in a wheelchair but he didn’t look like a patient. He was seated as if he was a guard. He had his back to the doors and he held a pair of crutches across his chest. Anyone wanting to get past clearly had to negotiate the crutches, and the kid was holding them as if he knew how to use them.
Right now he seemed the only person with any official role.
‘I’m here to see Dr Carson,’ Marc told him. The kid’s expression was mulish, belligerent. The crutches were raised to chest height, held widthways across the doors. ‘I understand there’s been an accident,’ Marc said hurriedly. ‘I might be able to help.’
‘No one goes in,’ the kid told him. ‘Unless you’re Doc Brandon from Cowrang, or from the air ambulance. But you’re not.’
‘I’m a doctor.’
‘You’re not a relative? They all want to go in.’
‘I’m not family. I’m a doctor,’ he repeated. ‘And I might be able to help.’
‘A real doctor?’
‘Yes. I’m a surgeon.’
‘You have a funny accent.’
‘I’m a surgeon with a funny accent, yes, but I do know how to treat people after car accidents. I knew Dr Carson back when we were both training. When she was at university. Believe me, if she needs help then she’ll be pleased to see me.’
Pleased? That was stretching it, he thought grimly, but right now didn’t seem the time for niceties.
The crutches were still raised. The kid was taking a couple of moments to think about it. He eyed him up and down, assessing, and for a moment Marc took the time to assess back.
And then...
Then he almost forgot to breathe.
The kid was small and skinny, freckled, with dark hair that spiked into an odd little cowlick. He was dressed in jogging pants and an oversized red and black football jumper. One foot was encased in a worn and filthy trainer. The other foot was hidden by a cast, starting at the thigh.
He could be anyone’s kid.
His hair was jet-black, his brows were thick and black as well, and his eyes...they were almost black too.
And those freckles! He’d seen those freckles before, and the boy’s chin jutted upward in a way Marc remembered.
He looked like Ellie. But Ellie had glossy auburn hair that curled into a riot. Ellie had green eyes.
The kid had Marc’s hair and Marc’s eyes.
Surely not.
And then, from the other side of the door, someone screamed. It was a scream Marc recognised from years of working as a trauma surgeon. It spoke of unbearable pain. It spoke of a medical team without the resources to prevent such pain.
Shock or not, now wasn’t the time to be looking at a kid with dark eyes and asking questions.
‘You need to let me in,’ he told the boy, urgently now, as he pulled himself together. ‘Ask Dr Carson if she needs help.’
‘You really are a proper doctor?’ The boy’s voice was incredulous.
‘I am.’
‘Then go on in.’ There was suddenly no hesitation. He peeped a grin at Marc and there was that jolt again. He knew that grin! ‘But you’re either in or out,’ he warned. ‘If another doctor ever walks into this town Mum says we’ll set up roadblocks to stop them leaving. That’s me. I’m the roadblock. No one gets past these crutches.’
* * *
‘Ellie!’
Chris was Ellie’s best trained nurse. While Ellie was treating the kid with a suspected pneumothorax she’d put Chris in charge of the girl with the smashed elbow. Lisa Harley had smashed a few other things as well, but it was her elbow that was Ellie’s greatest concern. The fracture was compound. She’d found a pulse on the other side of the break but it was faint. The blood supply was compromised.
But the kid with the pneumothorax had taken priority.
‘I’ve lost the pulse,’ Chris called urgently. ‘And I’m worrying about her blood pressure. Ellie...’
She couldn’t go. She had to release pressure in the chest of the kid under her hands. One lung had collapsed—she was sure of it. Any more pressure and she’d lose him.
A
