Zach’s on the late shift. This means he gets the feverish babies who can’t fall asleep, the ailments that have suddenly got worse with the onset of dark, and the jaded working population who have to wait until after hours for a doctor’s appointment.
He picks up the phone and punches in Sandy’s extension. ‘I’d like a second opinion on something, if you can manage the time.’
Sandy can’t manage the time. It’s evident from her reluctant tone and the queues in the waiting room. ‘Give me a few minutes.’
Zach’s patient is a man in his thirties who has been feeling ‘under the weather’ for a few days. ‘Hey, mate, should I be worried about something?’
‘Your symptoms are a little inconsistent. Sandy has more clinical experience than me ... it’s worth her having a look.’
The man has dark skin, which is not helping in terms of identifying the rash across his torso.
‘Are the lights bothering you?’ Zach asks for the second time.
The man squints at the downlights inset in the ceiling. ‘Nope.’
‘Do you feel confused?’
‘No more than normal, mate.’
They both laugh.
‘Sleepy? Nauseous?’
‘Not specifically ... Just unwell.’
If it wasn’t for the rash, Zach would be writing him a medical certificate and recommending that he spend the next few days in bed, shaking off the virus.
Sandy comes in ten minutes later, stethoscope draped around her neck. Her eyes are as weary as his own.
Zach gives her the run-down. ‘Patient has been feeling unwell since Wednesday. Temperature 40.8, stiff neck, bad headache, and this rash ... But no photophobia, confusion or drowsiness.’
Sandy presses her fingers against the rash, and then a glass, which is exactly the process Zach followed. The rash does not appear to fade with the pressure.
‘I don’t like this rash. Even though the other symptoms all appear to be within the range of a normal virus.’
‘That’s what’s making me hesitate, too.’
‘No point in hesitating if the question is there.’
‘Yes, agreed ... Thank you.’
Zach shoots Sandy an appreciative smile as she slips out of the room. He doesn’t know why he’s second-guessing himself tonight.
He turns his attention back to his patient. ‘I’m going to organise an ambulance. Meningitis can be a very serious illness and we—’
‘Meningitis? Fucking hell! Are you serious?’
Zach summons a tone of calm authority, the best antidote for panic. ‘This is precautionary because of your inconsistent symptoms. Let me make the call, and then we’ll inform your family—’
‘The wife’s at home putting the kids to bed. She thinks I have a bad case of man flu.’
It’s after 10 p.m. when Zach finishes up, an hour behind schedule. He hasn’t called Izzy. She’s a doctor herself, she knows what can happen. Gloria and Sandy have already left and it’s Zach’s job to lock up. Unplug the sterilisers, instrument dryers and the television in reception. Lock all the windows and doors. Set the security system. Everything seems to take longer than it usually does.
The surgery has half a dozen car spaces at the rear that the doctors don’t reserve: they’re all fit, healthy and perfectly capable of a short walk, unlike many of their patients. Zach always enjoys the walk, finds it rejuvenating, especially tonight as he is out of sorts for some reason.
He texts Izzy as he walks.
On my way.
He can see her in his mind, pillows propped behind her back as she reads and yawns, reads and yawns. She’s an early-to-bed and early-riser type, but she tries to wait up until he comes in. It’s one of her mainstays – being there to greet him, no matter how sleepily – and he loves her for the sentiment.
Zach unlocks his car as soon as it comes into sight. He steps on to the road, waits for a car to pass. He’s inside the vehicle, the engine running, before he notices the paper wedged under the wiper. And then he knows. He knows this – the prospect of a follow-up note – has been the cause of his disquiet. He knows this time he will have to tell Izzy the truth.
He sits back inside the car. Takes a shaky breath. Unfolds the paper.
For the last twenty years, I’ve thought of nothing else but killing you. I’ve fantasised about circling your throat with my hands. Blocking the air to your windpipe. Seeing you gasp for words. I’ve fantasised about plunging a knife into your skin. Blood spurting like a fountain. I’ve seen myself shoot you, heard the bang and smelt gunpowder in the air. I’ve seen myself push you in front of a bus, an articulated truck, a train, anything that would obliterate you from this world.
Bottom line is that you don’t deserve to live. And she deserves someone much better than you.
Are you going to tell her what a scumbag you are, or will I?
Jesus Christ. Zach looks around wildly. Is the person who left this note lurking somewhere, watching his reaction? He presses the central-lock button of the car, then swings around to make sure there is no one in the back seat. Jesus Christ. His heart is thumping, hands shaking so much they’re hopping off the steering wheel. Is he okay to drive?
Who is doing this? This is serious. All pretence of joking is gone.
It’s Robbie. It has to be Robbie. Who else could hate him this much?