Do Me No Harm Read online

  He looks at me then, his eyes a soft brown and in stark contrast to his bone structure which is all sharp angles. ‘We shared a half-litre bottle of vodka before we left the club but we’ve drunk loads more than that before.’

  ‘And in the pub?’

  ‘Two pints of lager.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. And the doctor already asked me whether we took drugs.’ His stare is fierce. ‘We didn’t.’

  ‘So if you didn’t drink too much and you didn’t take drugs, why did Robbie collapse?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He pulls his hands from mine and wipes them over his thighs. ‘I really don’t know. We were finishing our second drink and then he started acting weird.’

  ‘Weird in what way?’

  ‘Like he was seeing stuff.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘He said at first he thought the walls were moving and then he started seeing people who weren’t even there.’

  ‘Hallucinating?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘We went out to get some air and the next thing he fell down. I shouted for help and some guy called an ambulance and then everyone came out of the pub to see what was going on. Emily knew what to do. She put him in the recovery position but then his heart stopped and so she gave him mouth to mouth.’

  ‘Jesus.’ I bring my hands up to my face and try to press away the tension around my eyes.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Liv.’ Mark’s on the edge of tears. ‘I know you were out on a date and everything.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’ I give a short laugh, briefly remembering how I spent the evening. His name was Fraser and it was the first time we’d met. Organised by mutual friends, neither of us were ready to date again. He spent most of the evening bitching about his ex and I spent most of it wondering how quickly I could get home again.

  I stand up and walk towards the door. Still no sign of the doctor, but there’s a rush of urgency in the corridor. A trolley is being pushed at speed towards another one of the Resuscitation rooms. A small boy is lying on it, naked apart from his nappy. He is completely still, his lips are blue and a rash blooms on his lower limbs. The toddler’s mother is crying and hanging on to her husband’s arm. My heart goes out to them but I pull away from their anguish and look back at Mark. ‘The thing is, Mark, I’m not really understanding how this could have happened. Is there anything else you can think of that might be relevant?’

  He shakes his head, at a loss for an answer, and then a doctor walks in wearing blue scrubs and an air of importance. ‘Doug Walker.’ He holds out his hand. He’s about six feet tall, early fifties and has experience written all over him. I immediately feel that Robbie will be getting the best possible care.

  ‘Olivia Somers.’ We shake hands and he gives me a prolonged stare, as if working out whether or not he knows me. ‘How’s Robbie?’ I say.

  ‘Stable. He’s had a rough time but he’s just regained consciousness.’

  Relief relaxes my facial muscles and I’m able to smile. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Mark and I have already had a chat about the sequence of events that led to Robbie’s collapse.’ He gives Mark a significant look. ‘Have you been able to think of anything else that might help us?’

  ‘No.’

  Dr Walker folds his arms across his scrubs and doesn’t let up on the look. ‘It’s vital you tell us the truth.’

  ‘I am telling the truth!’ Mark pushes his chin out towards the doctor. ‘Why would I lie?’

  ‘To protect yourself or Robbie or whoever supplied you with drugs.’

  ‘We didn’t take any drugs!’ He’s shouting now. ‘I’m not saying we’ve never touched drugs. We’ve smoked weed a few times, but that’s about it.’

  ‘It’s okay, Mark.’ I take hold of his arm. ‘You’re not being accused of anything.’

  ‘Honestly, Liv.’ He looks me full in the face. ‘Robbie didn’t take anything.’

  ‘And he couldn’t have gone off into the toilet and taken something without you knowing?’ Dr Walker persists.

  ‘We went to pee at the same time,’ Mark replies. ‘And then we both came back and sat down.’

  ‘Okay.’ The doctor claps him on the back. ‘Why don’t you go off to the waiting room? I need to have a chat with Robbie’s mum and then we can think about getting you home.’

  Mark gives me a concerned backward glance then slopes off, the ragged hems of his jeans trailing the floor. Dr Walker closes the door behind him. ‘Have they been friends for a while?’ he asks me.

  ‘Since they were small.’

  ‘You trust him?’

  ‘Yes. His mum and I are old friends. We were at university together.’

  ‘The receptionist mentioned that you’re a doctor.’

  ‘I’m a GP.’

  ‘Your name’s familiar. I thought you might work here.’ He frowns at me – not unfriendly, just thinking. ‘I know!’ He clicks his fingers. ‘I read an article about you in the Edinburgh Courier. You’re up for one of the City Women awards.’

  ‘That’s right. I volunteer in an outreach centre in the Grassmarket.’

  ‘My wife tells me you have a good chance of scooping an award.’

  ‘That’s kind of her.’

  ‘Not so much kindness as admiration. Sounds as if you do some very good work down there.’

  ‘I’m a small part of a very committed team but yes, we’ve helped quite a few youngsters get back on track.’

  He smiles. ‘Well, best of luck with your nomination.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He gestures towards the seats and we sit down opposite each other. ‘So, Dr Somers . . .’

  ‘Please call me Olivia,’ I say.

  ‘Olivia.’ His expression grows serious. ‘Your son collapsed outside one of the pubs in town. He was helped by a friend who knew first aid and when the paramedics reached him she was administering CPR.’

  ‘Yes. Mark told me.’

  ‘When he arrived with us, his conscious level was still depressed. We ventilated him for twenty minutes, then he started breathing for himself.’

  ‘And the cut to his head?’

  ‘Superficial. We glued it together. It should heal without any problems but, of course, it’s worth looking out for a concussion.’

  ‘Will I be able to take him home tonight?’

  ‘While we don’t expect any further problems, we’d like to keep him under observation in our Toxicology Unit until lunchtime tomorrow.’

  ‘But Mark’s adamant that neither of them took anything. Or could his collapse simply be drink related?’

  ‘Olivia.’ He makes a point of holding my eyes. ‘There’s no doubt in my mind that your son has taken drugs. Most likely GHB.’

  ‘GHB?’ I know from my work in the centre that there’s a surplus of GHB on the streets of Edinburgh. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘We don’t do routine assays for drug abuse, but his recovery is consistent with a GHB overdose. As I’m sure you’re aware, a typically flat patient arrives in A & E, is given IV fluids and prepared for CT scanning when he’s suddenly pulling out the ET tube and trying to climb off the trolley.’

  ‘I can’t believe . . . Well, I mean . . .’

  ‘He’s not the first young man who’s taken too much.’

  ‘Robbie doesn’t take drugs.’

  Dr Walker raises his eyebrows at this.

  ‘I know, like Mark said, they’ve smoked the odd joint, and I know they drink too much – but this?’ I tense my jaw and try to swallow but can’t get saliva past the lump in my throat. ‘I can’t believe he’d be so stupid.’

  ‘It’s not such a big step from alcohol and marijuana to other, so-called recreational drugs.’ Dr Walker shrugs tired shoulders. ‘And I’m afraid there’s always a first time.’

  ‘He’s just not the type.’

  My body slumps back in the seat but my mind stays active as it mulls over the likeli
hood of Robbie taking GHB. I’m not an unusually protective mother, and I’m not blind to the temptations that teenagers are under, but still I’m convinced that Robbie would not endanger himself in this way. Although he felt unhappy and insecure when Phil and I separated, he’s never been reckless. He understands that every action has a consequence. I know he doesn’t tell me about everything that’s going on in his life, but neither is he secretive. I find it hard to believe that I wouldn’t have noticed warning signs that he was heading in this direction. ‘Perhaps he took it by mistake,’ I say, searching for an explanation. ‘Perhaps his drink was spiked?’

  ‘Sometimes friends spike each other’s drinks,’ Dr Walker says, moving his head from side to side as he considers it. ‘But I’m afraid it’s far more likely that the drug was self-administered.’

  My eyes fill with tears and I try to blink them away. In the nicest possible way, Dr Walker is forcing me to face the fact that I don’t know what my own son is capable of, that he has his own life and makes his own choices. As a GP, I’ve said similar things to parents myself. And when working at the centre, I treat young people who find themselves, in a matter of a few short weeks, on a downward spiral of drug abuse.

  But still I can’t believe this of Robbie. He has a solid core of common sense – doesn’t he?

  Dr Walker hands me a tissue. I scrub at my cheeks, then scrunch the soggy paper up in my hand. ‘He’s alive and he’s going to be fine,’ I say out loud, the sound of my own voice definite enough to reassure me.

  ‘Is there anyone we can phone to come and help you through this?’

  I shake my head. ‘I called Robbie’s father, my ex-husband, about an hour ago and left a message and it’s too late to get friends out of bed.’ I straighten my back and stand up. ‘I’ll be okay. It’s all a bit of a shock. That’s all.’ I find my businesslike face and clasp my hands across my middle. ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘You can see Robbie.’ He opens the door and ushers me ahead of him. ‘He’s groggy but he’s able to talk.’

  We walk along the corridor and Dr Walker pulls aside the curtain into one of the bays. Robbie is lying on his side on a trolley. He’s wearing a hospital gown and a sheet covers up to his waist. He has a gangly frame, all arms and legs, and no matter how much he eats he doesn’t put on any weight. His feet are sticking out the bottom, hanging over the end of the trolley, and I notice he’s wearing odd socks.

  Dr Walker brings a chair up behind me. I thank him and sit down. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he says, pulling the curtain closed behind him.

  Robbie’s eyes are shut and he’s breathing slowly and deeply, as if this was any other night and he was in his bed at home. ‘Robbie.’ I stroke his hair. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘My throat hurts.’

  ‘The doctor had to put a tube down it.’

  ‘I know. I tried to pull it out but it was stuck.’

  ‘The balloon has to be deflated before the tube will come out.’

  ‘Yeah. They told me.’ He opens his eyes then quickly closes them again. ‘The walls are still moving a bit.’

  ‘You’ll be back to normal in no time.’ I take hold of his hand. ‘By midday tomorrow, when the effects of the drugs have completely worn off, you’ll be as good as new.’ I wait for him to comment and when he doesn’t I say, ‘Have you any idea how you came to have drugs in your system?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Robbie.’ I stroke his hand, feel the calloused patches on the ends of his thumb and forefingers where he strums the guitar. ‘We can talk in more detail when you feel better, but I need to know – and please be truthful: did you take GHB this evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I didn’t take any drugs and all I drank in the pub was a couple of pints.’ His tone is weary, his defences down, and he sounds as though he has barely enough energy to talk, never mind think through a lie. ‘And some vodka before we left the club.’

  Exactly as Mark said.

  ‘You’re not going to tell Dad, are you?’

  ‘I already left a message on his machine.’

  He says something under his breath. It sounds like ‘such a wanker’.

  ‘He’s your dad, Robbie. He loves you.’

  ‘He’ll build it into a mega-deal. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘Robbie, it is a big deal.’ I hesitate before saying quietly, ‘You could have died.’

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t.’ He turns his body over so that he’s facing the other way, his shoulders hunched against me.

  I stand up and lean across him. ‘Would you like me to sit by your bed for a bit?’

  ‘There’s no point, Mum. I’m really tired.’ He opens one eye. ‘Thanks for coming, though.’

  ‘I’ll go home then. Let you sleep it off.’ I bend down and kiss his cheek. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow with some clean clothes.’ I kiss his cheek again. ‘I love you, remember?’

  ‘I know.’

  That’s as much as I’m going to get, but it’s enough to reassure me that he’s doing all right. He’s on the mend. Thank God. I leave the curtain open behind me and walk back towards the waiting area, letting go of the breath I seem to have been holding, and stretching out my back and neck. Tension dissipates and I start to feel like this is manageable; this is doable. There’s no point jumping ahead, even although my gut feeling tells me that both Mark and Robbie are telling the truth.

  So how, then, did the drug get into his system?

  Don’t worry about that now, I tell myself. Take it slow. The main thing is that Robbie’s recovering. He’s going to be fine. No doubt, within the next couple of days, we’ll find out what happened and then we’ll be able to put the whole sorry incident behind us.

  My self-reassurance comes to an abrupt halt when, up ahead of me, I hear a voice saying, ‘I’m not looking for special treatment but I am looking for speedy answers.’

  I round the corner and find Phil talking to Dr Walker. He’s dressed in casual trousers and an expensive-looking polo shirt with different widths and shades of grey stripes running across it. I don’t recognise the clothes because he’s changed his whole wardrobe since he left me. All part of shedding his former self. He sees me approach and looks me up and down. ‘Were you out?’

  ‘Yes.’ The dress I’m wearing is silk and feels like warm water against my skin. I think I look good in it but I turn away before I’m tempted to examine Phil’s expression to see whether he thinks so too. Even after a year of living without him, I’m still programmed to seek praise and comfort from him. It makes me angry and impatient with myself.

  ‘Who’s looking after Lauren?’

  ‘She’s at Amber’s for a sleepover.’

  ‘Have you told her about Robbie?’

  ‘I’ll tell her tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll collect her from Amber’s and tell her.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ I say forcefully. ‘And anyway, it’s not your weekend.’ I try to sound matter-of-fact but suspect that all I sound is petty. Dr Walker is watching us both, his face giving nothing away, but still I feel embarrassed behaving like this in front of him. ‘I’m going to take Mark home.’ I look at the doctor. ‘Thank you for everything.’ We shake hands. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow for Robbie.’

  2

  I walk away from both men knowing I’m leaving Dr Walker with the brunt of Phil’s questions, but I’m sure he’s coped with worse and I’m too tired to share the load. Phil is a consultant psychiatrist, and at the moment, he’ll be Rolodexing through his memory until he comes up with the best of his medical or surgical contacts. My gut instinct tells me that Dr Walker is an experienced professional but that won’t be enough for Phil. He’ll be seeking a second opinion. He’ll want one of his cronies to verify Dr Walker’s credentials. And he’ll do that in front of Dr Walker. Conventional wisdom tells us that people don’t change but Phil is rapidly becoming s
omeone else: a more uptight version of his former self. He’s increasingly pedantic and pernickety and, at times, downright insensitive. It makes me want to divorce him all over again.

  A & E reception has reached boiling point. The men who were waiting in the queue behind me are talking to the security guard, jabbing accusing fingers close in his face then pointing back at a nurse who’s standing with her arms crossed, her expression rivalling stone for immobility.

  I hover close to the reception desk and look for Mark. All the chairs are taken and at least twenty people, in various states of insobriety and ill health, are milling around. There’s heartbreak in the corner where a nurse and a doctor are trying to calm a middle-aged couple who’ve clearly just been given bad news. The husband is sobbing so much that his small frame is convulsing in on itself. ‘There but for the grace of God,’ the woman standing next to me says, and we acknowledge this with grim faces and tight lips.

  I can’t see Mark anywhere so I dodge and excuse my way through the throng of people and out on to the forecourt which is flooded with light. Edinburgh isn’t known for its generous weather but today was sunny and upbeat enough to make Milan or Barcelona proud, and the night air is unusually balmy and warm. Three ambulances are parked in front of the building and have their rear doors open. The paramedics are standing on the tarmac, drinking from Styrofoam cups and chatting to each other in humorous tones.

  Mark is about twenty yards away on a grass verge, smoking a cigarette and talking to a group of their friends – two boys and a girl – Simon, Ashe and Emily, all of whom I know from the hockey club. Mark sees me coming, stubs out his cigarette with his foot and steps forward to greet me. ‘Liv! How’s Robbie? Is he okay?’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to him. He’s groggy, but after a good sleep he’ll make a full recovery.’

  ‘Thank God!’ Mark says, and all four of them smile with relief.