“Well, fuck me sideways with a baked aubergine.” “Something I can help you with, Luc?” Rhys Jones Bowen, who had been passing on the way to either the coffee machine or the burns unit, stuck his head round the door. “I mean, not with that. Not that I’m judging.” “It was a rhetorical aubergine, Rhys.” “I’m not sure that makes it any better. Now what’s the issue?” “Just”—I waved a dismissive hand—“donor stuff.” He came in uninvited and plonked himself in the spare chair. “Well, let me hear it. A problem shared is a problem two people have.” “I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to do much good
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