An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War by Patrick Taylor Page B

now.”
    â€œWhen?”
    Rory made a brrrrr noise, shivered, and said, “The regiment’d been back from thon peacekeeping in Cyprus for about two months, that’s about ten months ago. The doc said it was flu. I was like this for four or five days. I’d sweat something ferocious at night—”
    O’Reilly made a mental note of that.
    â€œâ€”then about six months ago I’d another go for about a week, just like the one before. We’d a new MO then, young fellah just out of Queens and basic army training. He said it was flu too.” Rory shivered again. “And this attack’s come on like the first two.”
    â€œEverything all right, Fingal?” Barry asked.
    â€œNo. Rory has a fever. I’m trying to sort him out. Just be a minute.” That he was doing it in a pub was irrelevant. A sick patient needed care on the spot, be it in a familiar pub or outside a blazing bomb crater on a stricken battleship. “We may have to take him back to Number One, so hang on a tic, please.” O’Reilly concentrated on the job in hand. Two recent attacks of flu? This would be a third bout in less than a year. That wasn’t right. “You were in Cyprus for how long?” he asked.
    â€œA year, sir.”
    â€œBeen stationed anywhere else abroad?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    If Rory had been, O’Reilly would have suspected malaria, whose victims kept on having relapses, but to his knowledge there was no malaria in Cyprus. Still, three bouts of flu? He shook his head. He supposed a poker player could fill three full houses in three consecutive deals, but he’d not bet on it. “As I see it,” O’Reilly said, “you may have flu, but it could be something else.” Recurrent fever, rapid pulse and chills, and night sweats over a short time frame after returning from the Mediterranean? O’Reilly had a fair idea of what was wrong. “You need to be examined properly.”
    â€œYou’re the doctor, sir.” Rory shuddered.
    â€œI can nip home, get my car, run you up to the barracks, let your MO take care of you, or, and it’s closer, head for my surgery, get a good look at you and see if we can work out what ails you.”
    â€œI’d like that, sir.” He took a deep breath and said, “And if you’d have an aspirin, sir? My head’s pounding fit to beat Bannagher.”
    â€œI have in the surgery,” said O’Reilly. “Can you stand up?”
    â€œAye.” Rory staggered to his feet and O’Reilly put an arm round the man’s waist. He was heavy and O’Reilly recognised that he was going to need help getting Rory to Number One. He lowered Rory back into his seat. “Donal, Barry, Rory’s not well and I want to get him to the surgery. Donal, fetch the van and come right up to the front door.”
    â€œRight, sir.” Donal, presumably believing in waste not, want not, sank the remains of his pint and trotted off.
    â€œWe’ll give Donal a few minutes, Barry, then you help me oxtercog Rory out to the van.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œI’ll explain what I’m thinking once we get him home.”
    â€œFair enough,” Barry said, clearly stifling his professional curiosity.
    â€œWillie. Gentlemen,” O’Reilly roared in his best force-ten-gale voice, “your attention please.” He was not going to submit Rory to the spectacle of being half-dragged out of the Mucky Duck without an explanation. Otherwise it might be all over town the next day that Rory had been stocious. And the poor man hadn’t even had a sip of his beer. The conversations died. Every eye was on O’Reilly.
    â€œRory here’s not very well—”
    A chorus of “och” and “oh dear” and “poor lad” sounded throughout the pub.
    â€œHe’s not infectious so you’ve nothing to worry about and Doctor Laverty and I can manage,