Trust Me, I'm a Vet (25 page)

‘Maz doesn’t mind . . .’

‘I expect you’re like us, Maz. You can rarely get away,’ Edie says. ‘And when you do, you have people like my husband going on about their dogs. He’s obsessed with old Robbie. In fact, I’m convinced he loves him more than he loves me.’

‘Is it surprising?’ Clive teases. ‘Robbie doesn’t boss me about.’

Edie grows serious. ‘Robbie’s been messing himself – I don’t suppose Clive’s mentioned that.’

‘I clear up after him,’ Clive says, his voice defensive. ‘Everyone has the odd accident when they get to that age, but you don’t put them down because they’re an embarrassment.’

‘I’m thinking of Robbie, how he feels losing his dignity,’ Edie says quietly. ‘What do you think, Maz?’ she adds, putting me on the spot as I sense the tension between husband and wife. What would I do if Robbie was my dog? At what point does a life become not worth living?

I look towards Robbie, who’s picked up a toy and is holding it hopefully in his mouth, waiting for someone to play.

‘I wouldn’t say he’s suffering yet,’ I say tactfully, ‘but you both know Robbie better than I do. You’ll know when it’s time.’

‘Thanks, Maz.’ I can almost hear Clive’s sigh of relief, although I’m a little afraid that I’ve offended Edie by taking his side when she’s probably really fed up with the mess, especially when they’re running a busy pub. A smelly old dog – I’m sorry, Robbie – is the last thing they need.

‘I can hear bells – the morris men are here.’ Edie throws Clive a towel. ‘I’ll have to get back to the kitchen. You’d better get on and change that barrel.’

I return outside to rejoin Miff, who’s delighted to see me, jumping up and squeaking and wagging her tail. If no one else has, at least she’s forgiven me at last for not being Emma.

I sit down with my drink at the table on the lawned area which sweeps down to the river, and watch the morris dancers, male and female, wandering about and exchanging rowdy greetings while what seem like hundreds of kids play on the climbing frame.

The morris band tunes up their fiddles to an ancient accordion and Clive emerges from the pub with a tray of pint glasses slopping over with bitter. With a tapping of sticks and tinkling of bells, the dancing kicks off. Nigel gives me a little wave when he sees me, skipping back and forth as if there’s nothing wrong with his knee, and twirling a handkerchief in each hand.

Is this really how people in Talyton like to spend their Sunday nights? I wonder.

I miss being able to pop out with friends – admittedly, most of them were staff from Crossways – for a meal. I miss being a student too. Emma used to be a real party animal. She’d throw a party at the drop of a hat. I gaze into the depths of my glass, recalling the time when the guests found knots of catgut in the punch. We’d been at home practising our suturing techniques on oranges the day before, and Emma had chucked them in without checking them first.

I feel rather exposed, sat on my own, knowing I’ve not had the best start here. Occasionally, a stranger casts a glance in my direction, and I wonder how many of them have seen Cheryl’s posters, how many of them doubt my professionalism.

My phone rings. I grab it from my bag and check the caller display. It’s Izzy and before she even has time to explain I can tell from the tone of her voice that there’s something very wrong.

‘I’m sorry, Miff,’ I say, untying her from the table leg. ‘We have to go.’

Izzy has everything ready, including a consent form which Stewart has signed, giving permission for any necessary procedure. Stewart himself is pacing up and down Reception, his lower jaw jutting forward, his mouth set in a grim straight line and his fists clenched at his sides.

‘Er, hi,’ I say, sick with nerves.

Stewart doesn’t speak.

‘Maz.’ Izzy holds the door into the corridor open for me. ‘This way! Now!’

The light is out and it feels as if I’m following her down a long, dark tunnel.

‘The bulb’s gone,’ Izzy says. ‘I haven’t had a chance to change it. Quickly – we haven’t got much time . . .’

She shoves open the door into theatre. The light sears the backs of my eyes and it takes a moment for me to recover my sight. When it returns, everything is all too clear. Cadbury lies on the table with an IV drip already up and running.

‘He isn’t going anywhere,’ Izzy says quietly. ‘It took me a couple of minutes to find a pulse. I assume you’re going straight in.’ This is an order, not a statement of fact.

I give Cadbury the lightest touch of anaesthetic, a quick scrub and open him up. The diagnosis is simple: peritonitis and septic shock.

‘I’ll need more fluids.’

‘They’re warming in the sink,’ Izzy says curtly.

‘And some soluble antibiotic.’

‘All ready – here on the crash trolley.’

‘Come on, Cads,’ I murmur. ‘You’re going to make it. You have to.’

‘He’s stopped breathing,’ Izzy says urgently.

I watch his ribcage. No movement.

‘Bag him,’ I say.

‘There’s no pulse.’

‘Start massage.’

‘I’ll have to put him on his side.’ Izzy rolls him over and immediately starts cardiac massage, pressing rhythmically on his chest. She pauses, gives him a breath of oxygen with the black rubber bag on the anaesthetic machine. Pump-pump-pump-pump-pump. Breath. Pump-pump-pump-pump-pump. Breath.

Izzy’s face grows scarlet with effort, but I can see that it’s no use . . . It’s too late.

Nothing else concentrates the mind more than being up to your elbows inside a dead dog, particularly a puppy who should have had twelve to fourteen years of life ahead of him.

I stop fishing and watch the tears streaming down Izzy’s face as she squeezes the bag, sending oxygen into lungs which will never take another breath.

‘Izzy, you can stop now.’ I take off my gloves. Izzy keeps on. Cadbury’s chest lifts and falls repeatedly as she empties and fills the bag. I walk round the table and put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Izz, stop. He’s gone.’ I give her a rough shake. ‘Izzy! You have to stop.’

She stops. Uttering a sob, she tears off her apron, turns on her heels and walks out, her apron trailing to the floor behind her. When I look down, I find I have one of Cadbury’s soft, velvety ears between my fingers. My eyes burn, my throat tightens and all I want to do is curl up into a ball and howl, but I have to speak to Stewart first. How on earth am I going to face him?

It’s a very long way back down that dark corridor. When I step into Reception, Stewart spins round to face me.

‘Well?’ he mutters.

I hang my head. ‘He’s gone,’ I whisper.

‘He’s dead?’

I nod.

‘Fucking hell.’ Stewart runs his hands over his bald patch. ‘I knew I should have taken him straight up to the Manor.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I don’t think saying sorry is the same as making an admission of fault and even if it is, at the moment I don’t care.

‘Don’t tell me it was one of those things. Don’t put the blame on me for missing that appointment. This is your bloody fault.’ Stewart glances around Reception. ‘Old Fox-Gifford’s right – what’s the point of having all this fancy equipment when you can’t even use it properly? Look at you – it’s all about the money to people like you.’

Keep calm, I tell myself.

‘First of all,’ I say, ‘we need to find out exactly why he died.’

Stewart looms towards me, his face crimson with fury. ‘He died because of your bloody negligence.’

‘I’d like to carry out a post-mortem,’ I say, refusing to back off.

‘I bet you would, but I’m not going to give you the chance to cover up your mistakes.’ Stewart pulls his mobile from his pocket. ‘I’m going to get Alex to do it.’

I wait until he’s arranged for Alex to meet him here at the practice as soon as he can. I offer him tea.

‘No way,’ Stewart says. ‘It’d make me throw up.’

‘Would you like to see him?’ My heart knocks against my ribs with the hollow sound of a metronome.

Stewart fixes me with an icy stare. ‘What would I want to see him for? He’s dead, isn’t he? You fucking well killed him.’

I’d already been dreading seeing Alex again, but these circumstances couldn’t have been worse. I’m mortified.

‘I came straight away because I wanted to get it over with.’ Alex looks up from the cadaver on the bench in the prep room, a mask over his nose and mouth. ‘I’ve got a horse to vet for my mother tomorrow morning, a couple of farm calls and a jumping clinic in the afternoon.’

It was gone eleven by the time Alex arrived. He had a brief conversation with Stewart before Stewart left to go back to the farm to take over from his mother-in-law, who he’d left looking after the boys.

‘Is there anything else you need?’ I ask curtly. I sent Izzy home as soon as I found her – she was hiding out in the dark on the old swing which hangs from the tree at the end of the garden.

Alex shakes his head.

‘I’ll leave you to it then . . .’ I back away, unfurling my hands and discovering the crescents of my nails imprinted in the flesh.

‘You must stay,’ Alex says. ‘I don’t want anyone accusing me of planting evidence.’

‘I’d never do that!’ I exclaim, assuming he’s referring to me in particular. Our eyes lock and I wish that it wasn’t like this. I wish I could rewind the past month and start again. No, make that the whole of my miserable life . . .

‘You don’t trust me,’ Alex says gruffly, and he returns to the task of removing the length of Cadbury’s intestines from his body and spreading them across the bench. It isn’t like
Silent Witness
: it’s far more messy.

Alex points at a section of gut. ‘There’s no problem here where you made your original incision – it’s healed well.’

‘I removed a plastic Spiderman toy and a pair of pants,’ I say, as he keeps searching.

‘Ah, here we are.’ I recognise the lift in Alex’s voice at finding the answer – I don’t blame him. I do the same myself. ‘There’s a reaction in the gut wall here and here, and it’s completely disintegrated here,’ he goes on. ‘That’s allowed the gut contents to leak out and set up a peritonitis. Once the infection got into the bloodstream, that was that.’

‘He must have died in agony.’ I can’t even bring myself to look at Alex. Why didn’t I see how ill Cadbury was? I try to dismiss a picture of Cadbury bouncing into the consulting room on my first day at Otter House, how happy he was, how full of life . . . I can still feel the warmth in the skin he was supposed to grow into, and see the bright shine in his eyes.

‘My theory is that Spiderman is our murderer, so to speak,’ Alex says. ‘The plastic must have pierced the gut as he passed through.’ He drops his scalpel and forceps onto the bench. ‘I’d better make a record of what I’ve found, in case this goes any further.’

‘You mean, when Stewart sues me.’

‘I don’t see why he should – there was nothing wrong with your surgery.’

‘I’d better call Stewart to give him the news,’ I say flatly.

‘Let me handle it.’

‘I can do it.’

‘No, let me. He’s a close friend of mine. I’ve known him since we were at school in Talyton. We went to the primary school round the corner until my parents packed me off to boarding school.’ Alex glances towards the door. ‘I left my camera in Reception, along with my notebook. Would you fetch it, please?’

I return with his gear and stand back while he photographs Cadbury’s remains, wincing as the flash from the camera lights the room, like a scene from a black-and-white horror movie.

‘He shouldn’t have died’ – my voice wavers as it catches in my throat – ‘I knew he wasn’t well, but I didn’t pursue it.’

Alex slips his camera back in its case. ‘You can’t blame yourself, Maz.’

‘But I do. When I sent him home, I was supposed to talk to Lynsey about taking some blood, but the baby came, and I completely forgot, and then Stewart was supposed to bring him back for a check-up . . . Oh, it’s no use trying to find someone else to blame. It was my fault. I should have taken more care.’

‘Nobody’s perfect. You can’t get it right all of the time.’ Alex fishes about inside the empty cavity of the dog’s belly – checking for missed swabs, I presume. ‘Stewart said you were out and about when he called this evening?’ It’s a question, not a statement.

‘I went to see the morris dancing at the Talymill Inn, but I came straight back.’ I don’t know why I feel I have to justify myself. ‘It took me no more than fifteen minutes, and Izzy was here before me to give first aid.’

‘Well, I can’t find anything else here,’ Alex says. ‘Does Stewart want the body back?’

‘I don’t know. It was all so frantic, I didn’t ask.’ I shrug. ‘Anyway, he wasn’t in the mood to give me an answer.’

‘I’ll tidy him up then, just in case.’

I’m very grateful to him. I don’t think I could bear it. I fetch a needle and some nylon so he can close up.

‘I heard about the skimpy knickers, and that Frances practically delivered Lynsey’s baby,’ Alex says.

‘Almost. The paramedics arrived just in time.’ I try threading the needle to save Alex time but I can’t get the nylon through the eye.