St Piran's: The Brooding Heart Surgeon. Alison Roberts

his shoulder and shook it firmly, hunched down so that he could lean close and shout.

      ‘Roger? Can you hear me? Open your eyes!’

      He barely waited for the response that didn’t come. His hands on Roger’s chin and forehead, he tilted the head back to open his airway.

      ‘Does anyone know him?’ he demanded. ‘Medical history?’

      ‘He takes pills,’ someone said. ‘For his blood pressure, I think.’

      ‘No, it’s his heart,’ another voice added.

      The few seconds that Luke had kept his fingertips on the side of Roger’s neck and his cheek close to his face had been enough to let him know that there was no pulse or respiration to be felt or seen. Anna crouched on the other side of the collapsed man as Luke raised his fist and brought it down squarely in the centre of the man’s chest. A precordial thump that was unlikely to be successful but was worth a try.

      Ready to start CPR, Anna was thinking fast, compiling a mental list of what they would need. Luke was way ahead of her.

      ‘Get a crash trolley in here. Find a cardiac arrest button. Send for someone in ED or wherever’s closest. Anna, start compressions.’ He looked up at the silent, horrified onlookers. ‘Move!’

      They backed away. Anna heard someone yelling into the canteen for the cardiac arrest button to be pushed. If there wasn’t one in there, it wouldn’t be too far away. She positioned her hands, locked her elbows and started pushing on Roger’s chest. He was a big man and it was hard work to compress the sternum enough to be effective.

      Ten … twenty … thirty compressions. At least someone would arrive with a bag-mask unit very soon so she didn’t have to worry about the implications of unprotected mouth-to-mouth respirations on a stranger.

      The faint possibility of contracting something like hepatitis didn’t seem to occur to Luke. Or it didn’t bother him.

      ‘Hold it,’ he ordered Anna, pinching Roger’s nose and tilting his head back as he spoke. Then he sealed the man’s mouth with his own. One slow breath … and then another.

      Anna started compressions again, the image of Luke’s lips pressed to someone’s face emblazoned in her mind. The kiss of life … She’d seen it before, though it was a rarity in a medical setting. Was that why it was so disturbing this time? Shocking, in fact. She had to concentrate on her silent counting until it was time to warn Luke.

      ‘Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty …’

      By the time they had completed another set of compressions and breaths, there were new voices nearby and the rattle of a trolley.

      ‘Crash team,’ someone announced. ‘We’ll take over now.’

      ‘I’ve got it, thanks,’ Luke growled. ‘But it’s what we—’

      ‘We just need the gear,’ the surgeon interrupted. ‘And some assistance.’

      Anna could feel the resentment at not being allowed to do what they thought they had been summoned for, but a life pack was lifted from the trolley and put on the floor along with an IV roll, a bag mask and a portable oxygen tank.

      She carried on with the chest compressions, pausing only to let Luke rip the chef’s jacket and the singlet underneath open to expose the chest and stick the pads in place. On direction, one of the doctors in the crash team secured his airway and attached oxygen to the bag mask, holding it in place until Anna paused again.

      Could she ask to hand over compressions to someone else? This was enough of a physical effort to make her aware of perspiration dampening her shirt. No, she wouldn’t ask. She was with Luke on this.

      He had been the one to respond and identify the crisis, which made this man his patient until he chose to hand him over. And he’d asked for Anna’s help. Roger was their patient and they could do this as well, probably better, than the junior doctors assigned to crash-team duties for the day.

      ‘Stop compressions.’ Luke was watching the screen of the life pack, waiting for a readable trace to appear. ‘V fib,’ he announced moments later. ‘Charging to three hundred joules. Everyone stand clear.’

      The junior doctors inched back, exchanging glances.

      ‘Who is this guy?’ Anna heard one of them ask another.

      ‘Luke Davenport,’ came the response. ‘You know, the surgeon who’s just got back from Iraq?’

      ‘Oh …’

      In the short space of time it had taken for three stacked shocks to be delivered, the atmosphere in this inner circle around the victim changed. The crash team, who had been busy resenting not being allowed to showcase their skills in managing an arrest, suddenly couldn’t do enough to help their leader.

      ‘Do you want an intubation kit, Mr Davenport?’

      ‘Shall I draw up some adrenaline? Atropine?’

      ‘Here’s a sixteen-gauge cannula. And a flush.’

      ‘Dr Bartlett? Do you need a break?’

      Anna sat back on her heels, nodding. There was plenty of scientific evidence that compressions became less effective after two minutes unless someone else took a turn. She didn’t move far away, however. She watched, totally amazed by the speed at which Luke worked. And she noticed things she hadn’t noticed before.

      Like the streaks of grey in his short brown hair. They had to be premature because she knew he was only a few years older than her and couldn’t have hit forty quite yet. He had such neat fingernails too and his hands looked so different without gloves. Far more masculine, which made their speed and cleverness more impressive as he gained intravenous access and secured the line.

      His brain was working just as fast. He seemed to be able to think of everything at once and keep tabs on what everybody was doing, but most of all, Anna was caught by the way he’d taken a trolley of equipment and a group of young medics who hadn’t been thrilled not to be allowed to take over and forged them into a team that was now working under difficult conditions as well as they could have in a resuscitation bay in Emergency.

      It was a team that had achieved success even before Luke had made a move to secure Roger’s airway with an endotracheal tube. When the static cleared from the next, single shock delivered, the flat line suddenly gave a blip. And then another.

      ‘Sinus rhythm,’ one of the crash team said triumphantly. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Have we got a stretcher?’ Luke still hadn’t relaxed. ‘Let’s get this man into the ED. Or CCU.’

      Charlotte had edged her way to the back of the kitchen. ‘Great job, Mr Davenport. Would you like to hand over now?’

      ‘Call me Luke,’ he said, still watching the monitor. The rhythm was picking up steadily and Roger was taking his own breaths now. The chef’s eyes flickered and he groaned loudly.

      And, finally, Anna saw the grim lines of Luke’s face soften a little. He leaned down and gripped Roger’s shoulder again with his hand—the way he had when he’d first begun this resuscitation effort. He didn’t shake it this time. This was a reassuring touch.

      ‘Just relax,’ he told Roger. ‘We’re looking after you. Everything’s all right.’

      He looked up at Charlotte and gave a nod to indicate transfer of responsibility. Charlotte moved closer to talk to him, but as she moved, Luke shifted his gaze to Anna.

      And something inside her tightened and then melted.

      From the moment this incident had started—from when she’d heard the scream and seen Luke’s instantaneous response, she’d been aware of his total command of the situation. Of his faultless performance and ability to absorb additional resources and personnel and then … right at the end … an indication that he really cared about this patient.

      An