Quite Ugly One Morning Read Online Free PDF

terrifying, massive, insatiable appetite for public funds, chewing up and swallowing billions of pounds every year; but unlike other greedy mouths at the public tit – defence being a shining example – precious little of it found its way into the pockets of Party members and contributors. It was just one huge, amorphous, unanswerable entity, running its own ship, its spending dictated almost entirely by patients’ healthcare needs. No familiar faces at the top with the power to award hefty contracts; indeed, precious little in the way of external contracts at all. No six-figure executive posts with company Beamie.
    The only way to score from it was perhaps to buy into one of the big drug firms, but anyone could do that, and as purchases were all in accordance with doctors’ prescriptive practices, there wasn’t even an easy way to manipulate the market. It just swallowed up public money and circulated it within itself until it needed more.
    Nightmare.
    Aberration.
    The basic fact of the matter was that if public spendingcould not be avoided, it should at least be spent in the private sector.
    But then came the NHS reforms and the dawn of the Trusts, and the picture got suddenly and dramatically brighter.
    Stephen Lime made great play of resigning two part-time, higher-paying consultancies to concentrate on his duties with St George’s Trust, and dramatically increased that year’s tax-deductable charitable donation, thereby subtly indicating to the right people that he was claiming his long-term investor’s bonus. And after less than nine months on the St George’s board, he was appointed Chief Executive of the Midlothian NHS Trust in Edinburgh.
    Then he really went to work.
    But this evening he was relaxing, having a good soak before getting ready for dinner, and waiting patiently for the phone call that would confirm the removal of one last small obstacle from his path.
    He had his portable on a table by the bath, having carved a space out for it among his self-multiplying aftershave collection. He picked it up, enjoying the feel, the weight of it in his hand, and yes, he would probably admit, willing it to ring.
    Strange that such a small and relatively inexpensive item could give him so much reassurance, but there was no denying it, his portable always made him feel good. Smooth, compact, sleekly black, satisfyingly heavy, he always thought of it as his light-sabre. Few could guess from its appearance what power this harmless-looking little electronic object could wield in his skilled hands.
    There was a knock at the door which startled him momentarily and gave him a nasty fright as the phone slipped from his right hand but nestled itself between his left forearm and a fold of fat on his stomach, barely a centimetre above the water.
    ‘Mr Lime?’ It was Mrs Branigan, the housekeeper.
    ‘Yes, Theresa?’
    ‘The newspaper is here.’
    ‘Thank you, Theresa.’
    Lovely. As such a busy man he seldom got time either to enjoy more than a brief shower a couple of mornings per week or a decent read at the paper, so when he did have theopportunity he loved to combine a good bath with a glance at the local rag. And perhaps there might be a brief reference to what he needed to know, although chances were it might not be discovered for another day or so. He looked down over the side of the bath to see his copy of the Evening Capital sliding under the bathroom door, dried his hand with a towel and leaned over to grab it.
    Farting once more as he sat up, he unfolded the unwieldy broadsheet to reveal the top half of the front page, read the headline and shat in the bath.

FIVE
    ‘Yeah, but a fucking polis station Duncan, for Christ’s sake.’
    ‘Aw, come on, Jack. You didn’t exactly give me much notice. I don’t think I did too badly.’
    ‘I’m not ungrateful Duncan, and I’m not complaining about the flat. I’m just saying you could have warned me.’
    Parlabane sat with his friend, Duncan McLean, on high