Distraction

Chapter Thirty-Nine

'I think everyone except you did.'

Patrick shook his head. 'Seriously, this is going to be okay?'

She nodded and headed outside.

In a blur of activity, Grace comforted a sobbing Lynda with reassuring words, while Patrick opened the back door. Boadicea lay whimpering, blood seeping from a gash across her side. Her two front legs were clearly broken and her face an unrecognisable mush. Patrick glanced at Grace, an unspoken communication she'd understand. The dog needed to be put down. Together, they carried Boadicea into the surgery, gently laying her on the table.

Once he'd sedated Boadicea, Patrick did a gentle but thorough examination.

'It's not like her, but she just ran out into the road. Brenda from Inglenook couldn't stop in time.' Lynda sobbed. 'Will she be okay?'

He hated this part of his job. 'Lynda, she's broken both her legs, and from the sounds of her chest, has a punctured lung.'

'But you can operate?'

Patrick gripped the table. 'Yes, but-'

'Then do it. Please, just make her better.'

'Lynda, I'm really sorry, but she's sustained a nasty head injury. I'm not sure-'

'Please?'

Grace put her arm around Lynda. 'You're talking about expensive-'

'She's my baby. I don't care about the money.'

'...and invasive surgery,' Grace went on. 'You have to think what's best for Boadicea.'

'It's not in her best interests, Lynda.'

Lynda looked up at him, her eyes pleading, tears tumbling down her cheeks. 'She's all I have, Patrick. I've already lost my mother this year. I can't lose her too.'

When did he become a soft-touch? 'I'll treat her today, see what we can do, but by six o'clock tonight, if I think we're prolonging her suffering, I will tell you. I won't have her in pain, if it's not going to make her better.'

'Thank you.'

'Lynda,' he said, his voice grave. 'I'm serious. I don't agree with this. And at six o'clock, if I think... you either take my advice, or you take her elsewhere.'

'He's right, Lynda.' Grace led her away. 'Why don't you go home, have a cuppa? There's nothing you can do here. I'll ring you when we know more.'

With a sobbing Lynda gone, Patrick set to work. He wouldn't be talking to Libby anytime soon.

Grace glanced out of the window. 'Ah, that didn't take long.'

Patrick scowled as Paolo jogged across the square and knocked on Libby's door. Later, he'd sort this all out later.

*

Libby sat on the edge of Zoe's bed. There was nothing more effective at distracting her from her own misery as the misery of others. On Christmas Day, her and Zoe had got utterly hammered, eventually pulling on little black dresses and heading to the Alfred. Libby had played Christmas classics on the piano and half the pub sang along. Zoe had flirted so much they didn't buy a single drink all night. Okay, several times, Libby might've wailed on Zoe's shoulder, drunkenly vowing to talk to Patrick the minute he got home - thank god, Zoe had confiscated her phone - but despite that, they'd had fun.

A raging headache attacked Libby's brain and she promised her lungs she'd never, ever smoke again, but no matter how bad she felt, Libby had climbed out of bed, she'd had a shower, she'd had breakfast. Zoe hadn't. She'd been Libby's rock the day before, but now, Zoe lay staring at the wall with tears pouring down her cheeks.