What Matters Most Read online

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  If she hadn’t been little more than a child, then possibly none of this would have happened. But the truth is, she was only a child — in mind, if not in body. And even though some would later say that she could have stopped it if she had wanted it to stop, such a view does not heed the perilously fine line that exists between the choices we make and what fate has in store for us.

  Jack Carmichael passionately believed that, despite what fate deals us, and regardless of our age, it is up to each of us to draw on the capabilities we are given, plus some, to produce the grit and determination it takes to turn bad luck into good. Day after day Jack earned his living by ministering to the broken bodies and the crushed souls of those pulled from crumpled cars, burning buildings or other catastrophic happenings. Helping others in crisis was his bread and butter. He had heard, smelled, seen and done things most of us could not conjure up even in our most vivid imaginings. Even so, he remained persistently stoic in the view that although each of us needs help sometimes, we must all be the masters of our own destiny — in life and in love.

  Jack woke that day with no idea that his destiny would have taken a new direction by the time he returned to his bed.

  When the 000 call came through it was close to midnight. The house where it happened seemed to shrink into the shadows and would have been invisible if it hadn’t been for the glow from the front windows, and the LED tube flashing its light along the length of the gutter. The moment Jack cut the engine and jumped from the ambulance he felt his hackles rise.

  ‘You’d think they would have turned the bloody music down,’ he said to his partner, grabbing his med kit before they moved hurriedly across the freshly mown lawn. Neither of them voiced the disquiet they each felt at the distinct lack of a human presence. A black and white border collie limped arthritically towards them and sniffed their legs as they ran up the steps and strode across the timber deck to push through the front door and hurry along a bare, timber passage.

  Inside, the tight knot of party-goers who hugged the bathroom door like ghoulish groupies at a concert, wordlessly turned their horrified faces towards him. ‘Someone cut the music. It’s only respectful,’ Jack said, pushing through.

  There she lay. Her small shape sprawled across the unforgiving bathroom tiles. For a moment he was struck speechless. It wasn’t the grim silence that he knew from experience heralded death and now filled the small space to drown out the persistent thump of the music outside. It wasn’t even the fact that she was still little more than a child. It was because it was Rachel Hooper lying close to death at his feet and she was the last person on this earth Jack would have expected to find in such a state.

  He and his partner both knew there was no time to spare. While Jack speedily and expertly administered life-saving fluids, his partner fetched a stretcher, and within moments the stunned party-goers, most from the small town of Ackland Point or the coastal hamlet of Ackland Bay, had gathered on the front lawn to watch as Jack and his partner loaded Rachel onto a gurney and into the ambulance for their journey to the Children’s Hospital in the city, 80 kilometres away.

  In the back of the ambulance Jack leaned across the white blanket covering her and stretched up to adjust the flow of the drip. Finally, his steel-capped boots planted either side of the paramedic chair like small boats, the familiar onerous sense of responsibility gripped him as the ambulance lurched into motion. The hospital was 45 minutes away. With his hand covering hers, he gazed through the window where the silver moon played across the dark sea, the shadowy coastline of the Fleurieu Peninsula slipping past them like an old silent movie, the deep and unforgiving Southern Ocean invisibly present beyond. The vehicle gathered speed and the siren broke into its warning shrieks. Scarlet and blue flashed across black skies like missiles. And Jack Carmichael’s sense of responsibility was boosted by the surge of adrenaline he always felt at this time.

  He glanced at the monitor, its beeps and flickering screen confirming what he already knew. The same blue and scarlet that lit the skies melded inside the ambulance to form a cadaverous shade of purple. With unshakable hope and determination Jack squeezed her hand and watched this morbid facsimile of death’s hue slide unfettered over her dark hair, her wan face and across the blanket.

  From the time she was born, Jack had seen Rachel grow into a bright teen, a warrior on her horse, and the star player on the local girls’ soccer team of which he was the proud and diligent coach. In the street, on the beach or at the local footy games, Rachel would never fail to stop for a chat with Jack and his wife, Sharon — despite the view of some that she was withdrawn, even stuck up. He was grateful Sharon was not sitting here now. If she had been, she would be beside herself with concern, poking at his arm and hissing in his ear, If Rachel Hooper dies, Jack Carmichael, I will throw your skin to the ants.

  Rachel was Sharon’s favourite student, not that Sharon would ever say that in so many words. A consistent A-grader, way above average intelligence, and with the courage to confront any bully no matter the size, is how Sharon describes Rachel. But she also talks about the girl’s dark side. A tight, festering nub of turmoil, is what Sharon says in her dramatic moments. It rankled him that, on occasion, his wife seemed to care more for her students than for him, but he understood what she meant when she talked about the deep knot of something inside Rachel that made her quiet some days and sullen on others, that set her apart from her peers in an indefinable way. One day that girl is going to confront her demons and then everyone will know about it, Sharon said to him, more than once.

  ‘Perhaps that day has come,’ Jack murmured with his jaw clenched, suddenly blinded by headlights from behind. ‘Get back, Tim. Not too close, mate,’ he said, squinting and waving as though warding off flies. Rachel’s older brother, Tim, had been the one who had first discovered her during the party, unconscious in her own vomit and piss on the bathroom floor. From the moment Jack arrived at the scene, Tim had been like a third arm at his side, muttering over and over that it was his fault. That he had let his little sister down.

  Peering at Rachel’s expressionless face, listening for her infrequent and shallow breaths, Jack thought back on the countless discussions he and Sharon had shared over the years. In spite of the Hoopers seeming to be like any normal family, Sharon was of a mind to question their home life based purely on gossip that was more than 40 years old and that stemmed from a world away on the opposite side of the Peninsula. Jack, on the other hand, was not one to take any type of g
ossip seriously. In his opinion, Rachel’s father Peter provided well for his family and Jack had seen no evidence to the contrary. The air of mystery created by Peter’s introversion was not unlike that of many locals — people who spoke little and kept their secrets and desires close to their chests. But unlike many, Peter was a hard worker who ploughed on regardless of the global market trends and falling prices that were screwing most cattle farmers into the ground.

  And he knew Annie, Peter’s wife, almost as well as he knew Sharon, because more than a lifetime ago Annie had been his very first love. Jack was certain beyond doubt that Annie, a fiery redhead who had matured into the epitome of Mother Earth, would rather pierce her eye with a needle than allow anyone but the best of men to father her children and to share in their care. Hence, Jack confidently adhered to the view that Annie and Peter were good parents to their children — Tim, Rachel and Ben — and that Sharon would be better off brooding over more needy causes, such as the numerous kids in town who frequently fronted up at school dirty, or those to whom she regularly handed out food or lunch money because their parents had no idea how to look after them, or worse, simply did not care. He wondered as he had wondered many times before, whether his wife’s fussing was a consequence of their childlessness.

  Jack snorted softly and turned back to his patient. Support and monitor: that’s all he could do until they got her to the hospital. They would arrive at the Children’s in 15 minutes. It would then be up to the doctors. He tucked his hands under his thighs and watched pinpricks of rain land soundlessly on the windows before glancing further into the darkness to see the headlights of Tim’s big black ute now at a sensible distance behind.

  Time seemed to stand still, but the kilometres whizzed by. Knowing there was nothing more he could do, Jack closed his eyes and focussed on the regular blips of the cardio-monitor. Forced a few deep intakes of breath. Felt his muscles relax, his mind let go.

  It was the heart monitor’s frantic squeals that jolted him back to reality. ‘Jeez, Rachel.’ He flicked off his seatbelt and in a single movement charged the defibrillator with one hand and ripped her blanket off with the other. Without hesitating, he sliced her shirt open, then her tiny bra, and within seconds had secured the adhesive pad that would shock her heart back into rhythm.

  ‘Stand clear,’ ordered the faceless voice from the defibrillation machine. ‘Deliver shock,’ it said in the same monotone.

  Jack slammed the button with a thud. Rachel jerked like a rag doll.

  ‘Shock delivered. Start CPR,’ the voice intoned.

  Jack’s gloved hands compressed Rachel’s sternum. For what seemed an eternity he pushed on the outside and counted rhythmically on the inside. But there was no change.

  ‘Stand clear,’ the defib machine eventually warned again.

  Jack hit the button a second time. ‘C’mon, Rachel. Don’t die on me now.’

  Rachel spasmed again, her still face at odds with the violent jerk of her body. ‘Shock delivered. Commence CPR,’ the voice repeated.

  Again, Jack’s flattened palms took up their work, his face straining with concentration, his breathing laboured. Again, there was no response.

  He refused to give up. His mind raced for elusive answers. Then he found a pulse … faint at first, but with every passing second the life-giving beat in her neck became more visible.

  And at last, from the faceless voice, the words he had been waiting for: ‘No shock advised.’

  ‘Good girl,’ he muttered taking a long deep breath. He straightened his shoulders, fully aware that she was not out of the woods yet. But she was breathing on her own. She was young. And she was fit. They were all good signs.

  It seemed an eternity before they cruised past the neon Ambulance Entrance sign and into the driveway of the monolithic structure that was the Children’s Hospital. The sirens faded and died to create an eerie void in the grey dawn. Jack ripped the latex gloves from his hands, leaving them where they fell, and pondered Rachel’s expressionless face, her motionless body. He rested his fingers lightly on her clammy cheek for the briefest moment. Flicking the catches open under her gurney he stretched and splayed open the rear doors.

  ‘How is she?’ Tim gasped, jumping in and peering down at the paraphernalia hanging off his sister. ‘Jeezus, Jack. She looks worse. What the hell happened?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mia Sandhurst blinked hard with the effort it took to keep her eyes open as she lay back on the vinyl couch of her cramped office and dialled his number yet again. It would be around 3.00pm in Singapore. She couldn’t think of any reason why he would not answer this time.. She had been ringing him every hour on the hour since her shift had started nine hours ago. Giving into belligerent weariness, she lifted her red runners, crossed her ankles and, with a deep sigh, lay her feet on the coffee table. Having her feet off the ground felt like manna from heaven — even if it was only for a moment. She closed her eyes as though to block the frustration of his phone ringing out yet again and fought the sense of weightlessness that comes just before sleep.

  Gritting her teeth, she jabbed the end call button with more force than intended, then tossed her mobile onto the coffee table, watching it skim the light timber surface and drop with a clunk to the tiled floor. ‘For chrissake, when are you going to answer your phone, Eric,’ she spat, lowering her feet and leaning her head between her hands, wishing she had taken more notice of his schedule for this trip. She knew he and his colleagues were somewhere in Singapore trying to finalise an important multinational funding deal. He’d been away on similar projects countless times, but never before had he so persistently ignored her calls.

  Fatigue and frustration combined to create visions in her mind of Eric horribly injured in a traffic accident or desperately ill with an exotic disease — or worse, gasping and writhing on a king-sized bed in a five-star Singaporean hotel, sharing bodily fluids with another woman. The vision of his facial expression, the echo of the words he invariably shouted at the moment of climax, the thought he may be enjoying this sacrosanct experience with someone other than her, rattled her heart and her confidence for just a moment, until common sense reminded her she had no rational reason to mistrust him. At the exact same moment as this thought came the triage nurse’s voice from her pager: ‘Mia. We need you in the treatment area.’

  Mia grabbed up her mobile and shoved it deep into the pocket of her blue scrubs before making her way speedily down the cream and blue-tiled corridor that ran between her office and the Emergency ward. By the time she had reached the treatment area, all thoughts of anything other than her next patient had left her.

  His height made Jack Carmichael easy to spot amid the organised chaos of the Emergency room. Mia knew Jack superficially, due to the numerous times he had transported patients from the Fleurieu. Some of her colleagues, medical and non-medical, female and male, paid Jack more mind than could be considered usual because of his legendary status in football. To Mia, whose only interest in the sport was avoiding the mind-numbing postmortems saturating the media, any iconic status Jack Carmichael had earned 20 years ago was secondary to his skills as a paramedic and his dedication to his patients. At his side, a tall guy in his twenties paced the floor, raking his fingers through his russet hair with an air of frustrated helplessness. She immediately thought of her own son, Adam, who was about the same age, and her heart lurched. Already at work on the patient was an Emergency RN, Chester, whose fine-boned frame would have made him seem vulnerable, and dwarfed beside the others, if it hadn’t been for the palpable confidence and efficacy with which he carried on caring for the young patient stretched out on the gurney.

  Jack watched Mia as she walked towards him, his demeanour impatient, his brow stern and furrowed. ‘This is Rachel Hooper, 15, acute alcohol toxicity,’ he offered, his tone reflecting bitter disappointment.

  Mia glanced at the portable cardio-monitor which had been bundled up and left on the gurney at the teen’s feet, checked her pupils and slippe
d her pencil torch back into her top pocket.

  ‘She had vomited at the scene before we arrived.’ Jack continued. ‘Went into cardiac arrest 15 minutes ago. Responded on the second attempt at defib. I intubated her en route. Um … and I found this in the pocket of her jeans,’ he concluded in a tone that convinced Mia if Rachel had been conscious Jack would have been dealing her a sound and vociferous reprimand. She watched him withdraw from the pocket of his green uniform a pink pill encased in a tiny plastic bag. ‘Looks like ecstasy,’ he said, placing it in Mia’s open palm.

  Tim pushed past Jack and stared at the packet as though it was crawling with maggots. ‘Bullshit. Rachel would never do drugs.’

  ‘This is Tim, Rachel’s older brother,’ Jack said to Mia. He turned back to Tim and stood at his full height. ‘Sorry, mate, but it looks as though she did. That would explain the cardiac arrest.’

  ‘This is crap … absolute bullshit,’ Tim said resuming his pacing and hair raking.

  ‘We need a full tox screen, thanks Chester.’ Mia handed the pill to the RN. ‘And can we get an ECG over here stat, please? Let’s get her sugar up, pronto. And pump her stomach. She spoke a little louder and turned momentarily towards Tim. ‘I know this is frustrating for you, Tim,’ she said trawling her fingers assiduously through Rachel’s dark hair and surveying her praying mantis-like limbs for injury, ‘… but we will be more certain about what your sister has taken once we run some tests.’ She snapped the latex gloves off and dropped them into the bin. ‘Are you absolutely certain she has never taken alcohol or drugs before?’

  Tim stopped pacing and threw both hands on top of his head, his striking face contorted by anguish and confusion. ‘No, never … she’s a really sensible kid,’ he said.

  ‘Okay. Try not to worry until we can be more certain.’ She turned back to her patient.

  ‘Let’s wait outside,’ Jack said, steering Tim towards the waiting area.

  Tim pulled his arm from Jack’s grasp. ‘Bullshit. I’m not leaving her.’