In a curtained corner of the hospital, Billie eyed up the red headed doctor who was sewing up the gash in his shoulder.
“You’re lucky Mr Turner, the cut is five millimetres away from damaging the nerves around your shoulder bone.”
“I’m lucky you’re my doctor.”
She smiled as she cut the thread. Marc snickered on a chair next to him. He moved closer to look at the stiches.
“What’s the damage?”
She placed her tools on a metal tray.
“Twelve inches and a permanent scar.”
Billie pulled his arm gently into his shirt’s sleeve.
“That’s not too bad, Billie. It could’ve been much worse.”
He nodded and made a note of the doctor’s name badge.
“Doctor Thorne, is that your real name?”
“It certainly is.”
“Will you join me for a coffee?”
“Get yourself another doctor and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
He held his hand out. They shook hands. Billie pulled her closer smelling lavender on her wrist.
“What’s your name?”
“Scarlet, Mr Turner.”
“Call me Billie.”
Four floors above, an alarm brought nurses and a police officer who was standing guard at the door running into the room searching for the gunshot patient who was there only an hour earlier. The bed was bare and the covers pushed aside. Several wires were tangled between the sheets and the bed railings. The window was open letting in a fresh breeze over the chaos in the room. A trail of blood stained the sheets, the floor and dripped from the window sill. The curtains billowed around a brightening sky which glinted at a pair of silver scissors in an evidence bag.
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