The Pharmacist by Rachelle Attalla

Author:Rachelle Attalla [Attalla, Rachelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Published: 2021-10-19T00:00:00+00:00

I worked on autopilot, pulling open drawers and retrieving medication: 75mg of venlafaxine for depression and 2mg of diazepam. My eyes glazed over as I double-checked them with the patient’s drug chart. I passed the tablets through but my patient was theatrical in her swallowing, and when she opened her mouth for inspection I could see a tinge of white poking out from under her tongue.

Look, either swallow the diazepam or spit it out, I said. Stop wasting my time.

She swallowed again and this time I saw nothing so nodded, already turning away and disowning her. I’d hated supervising drug addicts in my previous life – with methadone it was usually a quick transaction but sometimes it would be these buprenorphine tablets that stank of lemon and had to be dissolved under the tongue. It took five to ten minutes for them to fully dissolve and there was something unnatural about having to spend that intimate amount of time with a stranger, cramped in a consultation room, nothing but silence or awkward conversation to carry us through. Once, one of them told me he was planning to get clean for his son’s third birthday. I’d nodded, a vacant smile settling on my lips, before turning to look at the patient information leaflets stacked in plastic holders – one explained how naloxone injections saved lives by reversing a potential overdose – an opioid user’s best friend. A few days later this same patient was back to get sterile needles, water ampoules and sachets of citric acid. After a while it didn’t matter to me if he let his tablets dissolve. I wasn’t his mother. But I did wonder how old his son would have been now, if he had lived.

Levitt was watching me, resting her elbows on the counter and cupping her face in her hands. What are they trying to do with the tablets if they don’t swallow them?

Pass it on to someone else, trade it . . . Maybe they want to save their tablets up for an overdose.

So those tablets you were dispensing for the leader, they’re, like, serious, then . . . ?

Why are you asking?

She shrugged. I don’t know, I’m just curious. I mean, I don’t know about your side of the bunker but I get the impression his popularity is dwindling . . .

I stopped. What makes you say that?

She crossed her arms under her chest and I thought I could see the small bulge of the baby. It was probably nothing; my imagination getting the better of me.

My dad . . . She shrugged. I’ve heard him say a few things.

Like what? Asking her was like a reflex, instinctual. But I realised that I didn’t want to know; didn’t want to hear words that could be used against me.

People are disgruntled. Can’t you feel it?

But I couldn’t feel it. At times it seemed as if I lived in a different bunker from everyone else. What do you feel? I asked.

She hesitated. Listen, it’s nothing.

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