Most walk-in clinics have a two-hour wait. Three at worst. We’ve been at this one nearly four hours and our name has only just been called.
Four hours for a five-minute appointment.
‘So, what seems to be the problem?’ The nurse is cuddly, with feathered, bleached-blonde hair, grey at the roots. There are sandwich crumbs around her mouth. Three empty coffee cups tell me she’s working overtime, probably unplanned.
We’re not seeing a doctor because there aren’t any – the walk-in clinic is run by nurses at night-time.
‘I think Tom had a nosebleed,’ I tell her. ‘There was a lot of blood. See?’ I show her the dressing gown, which I’d bundled into a bag-for-life.
The nurse frowns, rectangular glasses sliding down her nose. ‘It’s okay. I don’t need to see. You can put that away.’
‘He had a seizure not long ago,’ I say, re-bagging the dressing gown. ‘We’re still waiting for the outcome of some reports. If you could just check his medical records—’
‘We don’t keep medical records here,’ says the nurse. ‘The whole system needs updating. I can only treat what I see. Has he had a nosebleed in the last four hours?’
‘I think so. You really can’t see any of his medical records? He had a seizure. This may be related.’
‘I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.’ The nurse leans forward, smiling at Tom. ‘Hello, young man. What’s your name?’
‘Tom,’ he answers dutifully.
‘So you had a nosebleed, Tom?’ she asks. ‘Is that right? It must be quite a scary thing to happen at your age. All that blood.’
‘A bit,’ says Tom, eyes welling with tears.
I put my arms around him, pulling him onto my lap. ‘It’s okay, Tom. You don’t need to get upset. Unless … is there anything else you want to talk about?’
Tom gives a brisk shake of his head.
‘Well, I’ll just give him a little once-over,’ says the nurse, fingers racing around her keyboard, ‘and then send you on your way. Tom seems fine in himself, and if he hasn’t had a bleed in the last few hours … well, you were right to bring him in, anyway. Better safe than sorry.’
I like the ones who say ‘better safe than sorry’.
The nurse holds up a blood-pressure cuff. ‘Okay, Tom. So, you’ve probably seen one of these before.’
‘Yes,’ says Tom.
‘He had his blood pressure taken in hospital,’ I say. ‘When he had the seizure.’
‘I like it done on my left arm,’ says Tom robotically.
The nurse nods, not really listening, and lifts Tom’s right arm.
She rolls soft cotton up to Tom’s elbow, then hesitates.
We both stare.
I hear myself gasp.
Three tiny, bloody holes mark the inside of Tom’s forearm, two of them circled with grey bruises.
Each one sits perfectly above a wavy green vein.
The room becomes eerily still.
‘Has he had blood taken in the last few days?’ the nurse asks, her voice cautious.
‘No. Oh my God.’ I put a hand to my mouth. For a moment, I think I’m going to be sick. But after a few thick swallows, I manage to say, ‘Tom. There are marks here. How did you get them?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Tom, eyes wide and frightened.
‘Are you his primary carer?’ the nurse asks.
‘Yes.’ I nod my head. ‘Tom. How on earth did you get those marks?’
Tom shakes his head, tears coming. ‘I don’t know.’
I turn to the nurse. ‘His school. It’s the only place he’s away from me … There was an incident today. A fight.’
‘Tom,’ says the nurse, words falsely bright. ‘Can you tell me where you got these little marks?’
She glances at me then, an appraising glance she didn’t have time to make when I first came into the office.
I feel exposed, wishing I’d worn something smarter. Put on a bit of makeup.
‘I don’t know what they are,’ says Tom.
‘You don’t know?’ the nurse asks. ‘Nobody has put a needle into your arm recently?’ She rolls back on her wheelie chair, opens a drawer and holds up a plastic-wrapped syringe. ‘Like this one?’
Tom shakes his head.
‘Have you had any knocks or bumps recently, Tom?’ the nurse asks. ‘Played with anything sharp?’
Tom looks between the two of us. ‘I haven’t done anything. It wasn’t me.’
‘You’re not in trouble, Tom,’ I say. ‘We just want to know how you got these marks.’
‘Would you rather the two of us talked alone?’ says the nurse. ‘Without Mum? Sometimes that can be easier.’
Ice water pours into my stomach. ‘What are you implying?’
‘I’m not saying—’
‘Yes you are. Believe me, I know what an accusation looks like. I’ve met with social services enough times to discuss Tom’s father.’
‘Tom, what can you tell us about these marks?’ the nurse asks again, her voice soft. ‘They’re rather unusual. Surely you can remember something?’ She surreptitiously glances at the clock, probably remembering the fifty patients waiting outside and knowing that if she doesn’t finish with us soon she’ll have to stay past midnight.
‘I don’t know,’ says Tom again.
‘Did an adult do this to you?’ the nurse asks.
Tom quickly shakes his head.
‘Did someone do this to you at school?’ I ask.
Tom looks at his lap.
‘Listen,’ says the nurse, glancing at the clock again. ‘I need to make a report about this.’
‘Yes. Please do. Can we book in to see another doctor? Tomorrow maybe?’
The nurse changes instantly from kind, cuddly nurse to tired, overworked nurse.
‘Not just a medical report,’ the nurse says, her voice hard. ‘Social services will need to be informed.’
‘I suppose … yes, that makes sense.’ I feel sick. ‘Could you make a note about Tom’s school? Ask someone to talk to the headmaster … his teacher. As I said, there was an incident today.’
‘His school? I don’t think—’
‘Where else could it have happened?’ I ask. ‘It’s the only place he’s away from me.’
The nurse doesn’t say anything. But I can almost read her thoughts.
Impossible.