Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor Read Online Free

Fingal said. “Where does it hurt?” Even as he waited for a reply he’d taken the man’s wrist. The pulse was regular, didn’t seem unduly rapid. By his ragged full shock of black hair and clear complexion, Fingal guessed the man to be in his middle twenties. His face was creased and he gritted his teeth, but he was having no difficulty breathing.
    “Me feckin’ left ankle,” the man said. “Don’t touch it. For God’s sake , don’t.”
    “I won’t.” Fingal looked the man in the eyes. Young man’s eyes. Both pupils were equal in size and neither constricted nor dilated. “Your head feel all right?”
    “Me nut’s grand,” the man said, and grimaced.
    “Where are you?” O’Reilly asked.
    “Dat’s a feckin’ stupid question. Do you t’ink I t’ink I’m up in the Phoenix Park lying on the grass wit’ me arm round a pretty wee mot?” His face screwed up, he groaned and reached down toward his left leg.
    “I know it sounds daft,” Fingal said, “but I am trying to help. Just tell me where you are.” He glanced up to see Doctor Corrigan nodding in what Fingal took as approval. So he was being tested.
    “All right. I’m lyin’ on Aungier Street and I’ve a banjaxed ankle. A horse reared up. A bloody great barrel of Guinness fell off a dray and near poleaxed me. I swerved and the wheels of me bike got stuck in the feckin’ tram lines. The poor oul’ driver couldn’t stop and he knocked me arse over teakettle, but it was an accident.”
    No disorientation there and no intent to blame the tram driver. Fingal said, “Thank you. That does help. Now I’m going to take a quick gander.” His general examination would be rapid because he was already sure that the man had suffered no potentially lethal injuries. Fingal was aware of another presence and looked up. “Officer,” he said to a large Garda sergeant who turned from questioning the driver.
    “You carry on, Doc,” the policeman said. “I’m getting the facts from the tram driver. I’ll have a word wit’ yourself when you’re done wit’ that poor divil on the floor.”
    “Right.” Fingal ran his hands over each of the patient’s arms. Nothing broken there. An abdominal injury was pretty unlikely. “Are your guts all right?”
    “Never better, sir.”
    Fingal decided he’d leave the belly alone. Nor was there any sign of bleeding. “Mister…?” Fingal asked.
    “Finnegan. John-Joe Finnegan. From the Coombe.”
    “Mister Finnegan,” Fingal said, “how’s your right leg?”
    “Feels grand to me,” he said. “Look.” Even lying on the cobbles he was able with no difficulty to flex it at the knee. “It’s the udder one. At me ankle.” He swallowed. “It’s not so bad now, if I don’t try to move it, but, och, Mother of Jasus, if I do.” He sucked air between his teeth.
    Either the ligaments of the joint had been badly torn or the ankle was broken. Likely a Pott’s fracture. Fingal turned to report his findings to Doctor Corrigan as he might have to a senior doctor when he was examining a patient in his student days, but there was no sign of the man. He must have slipped off back to the surgery. There had been a lot more patients in the waiting room. He might have said “Cheerio,” Fingal thought, or “Carry on, Doctor O’Reilly. You’re doing fine,” but he’d simply vanished. Never mind, there was a more pressing matter to attend to. “I’m going to take a look at the bad ankle,” he said.
    “Go easy, sir. Please?”
    “I will.” Fingal gently removed a bicycle clip and eased the leg of the man’s moleskin trousers up his calf. Mister Finnegan’s left foot lay twisted to the side, an angle of nearly ninety degrees to the shin, and as he wore no socks, the increasing swelling and bruising were obvious. This was no sprain. “I’m afraid it’s broken,” Fingal said. At least there was no evidence of bone penetrating the skin, unless there was damage he couldn’t see without moving the leg. If