It was another hour before the doctor came. An hour of sipping at the sugarless tea under Beryl's watchful gaze, though how she could be so attentive to both his ongoing battle with the evil brew and still concentrate on her celebrity gossip magazine was beyond him. A woman's ability to multitask was something to be envied.
Doctor Chupra was someone he recognised from his occasional forays to A&E, usually with a suspect in tow who had become overeager in his attempts to escape the fine right hand of justice and Peters, for all his slight frame, had one hell of a right hook. “Al, Detective-inspector. Your turn to fall down the stairs was it?” He picked up the chart and without even looking up asked a series of questions about comfort and pain levels. “How is your chest feeling now?”
He wanted to say it was irritated for the lack of sugar in his tea but with Beryl ever-observant he just downplayed his actual level of discomfort. “A bit tight, I suppose, like a bullet-proof vest when they've issued you with one a size too small. I'm wary of taking deep breaths, too.”
“Ah, your bruised ribs?” Doctor Chupra glanced up. “I'll give you a prescription for some painkillers. Are you allergic to anything?”
“Green leaf salads and chief superintendents.” White chortled but a glare from Beryl soon sobered him. “No, nothing I'm aware of.”
“Excellent. “I'll give you a weeks co-proximal. You should be fine by then.” He signed several pieces of paper and handed them to Beryl. “Right. Absolute bed rest for three days and then light duties only, okay? No chasing off after bank robbers and pornographers.”
“Three days?” White caught Beryl's look. “Thank you, Doctor.”