Page 15 of Prognosis Bad Timing

Something that seemed patently obvious to Charlie.

‘These are kids who have huge trust issues. We have to provide an environment where they don’t feel judged, where they feel comfortable, where they feel safe. In fact, if I had my way, we’d be expanding the services we offer here. This area is crying out for a properly resourced centre.’

Carrie replaced the pool ball and pondered his statement for a moment. She felt a needle of guilt prick her conscience. He was doing what she’d wanted to do in the beginning. The reason she’d become a doctor in the first place. To help people who couldn’t afford the luxuries that a lot of people took for granted.

Like health care.

Having grown up poor, she’d always wanted to give something back. Then a child had died because of her negligence and everything had changed. Practising medicine had no longer been an option.

Charlie watched her wander around the lounge area, absently touching furniture, caressing books.

Pinstripes?Damn it.

This was his fault. He’d been sent the usual ‘please give reason’ letter by the hospital board two months ago. He should have just sent the standard reply, heavy on politics and designed to guilt the suits into backing down.

But with all the uncertainty in his life this past couple of years, he’d been indignant and defiant. He’d not only been scathing of their continual attacks but suggested that they leave him the hell alone to do what he did best.

Watching Carrie’s bottom sway in her pinstriped skirt as she ran her fingers over the jukebox buttons, he wished he hadn’t. His recalcitrance had, no doubt, earned him this surprise audit. In short, he had brought this intrusion on himself.

Had brought Carrie and her pinstripes on himself.

‘We have a small treatment room,’ he said, and turned to show her the way, opening the door, hyper-aware that she was right behind him. ‘I do a lot of stitching up in here.’

Carrie looked at the scrupulously clean white room. The rest of the centre was a bit on the dowdy side. The walls were marked, the furniture had seen better days, the lino flooring was scuffed and worn in places. But this room could have done a hospital proud.

From the military neatness of the made-up examination bed to the crisp antiseptic smell, it was a credit to the clinic. ‘Wow.’

Charlie chuckled. ‘This is Angela’s baby. She’s an ex-army nurse.’

‘Do I hear somebody talking about me?’

‘No ma’am.’ Charlie winked at Carrie. ‘Not me.’

Carrie dragged her gaze away from Charlie’s face and her mind off the unexpected tightening of her stomach muscles to look at the older woman. She was tall and built like a female Olympic hammer-thrower, with an ample bosom, greying hair and shrewd, assessing eyes. She looked like someone not to be messed with.

‘Angela, this is Carrie.’

Angela sniffed. ‘The suit?’

Charlie smiled at his ever-loyal receptionist. He nodded gravely. ‘The suit.’

‘Hey, I’m not the enemy here,’ she protested as a pair of frank assessing eyes gave her the once over.

‘Hmph!’ Angela grunted. ‘We’ll see.’

‘OK, moving right along.’ Charlie ushered Carrie down the hallway and opened the door. ‘Here’s the staffroom.’ He strode over to a row of grey lockers in the corner. ‘You can put your stuff in here.’ He tossed her a key. ‘Lock up any valuables. Some of the best petty thieves in Brisbane frequent this place.’

Carrie’s hand closed around the key. Awesome. Not.

She looked around the room. It was a little on the worn side. The kitchen area had chipped benches, the kettle was ancient and the fridge had long since stopped being white. But it was a decent size with a big table in the middle that sat twelve — perfect for her laptop.

‘Toilet through there.’

Carrie followed the direction of his pointing finger. He dropped his hand and strode towards a door in the back wall, which he opened.

‘Basketball court out the back.’

‘More recreation?’

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