CALLED OUT AT 2:30 A.M. to Warley General Hospital by an A amp;E Department that was two general surgeons short, Molly found herself dealing with far too many drunks and victims of violent attack, many of them women. And some of the patients were scuffling amongst themselves.

On duty, too, was Abu Hassim, a general porter, not tall but strong and wiry, and more than able to look after himself in that brawling crowd. Abu, born in Streatham, had a Cockney edge to his voice although his features were Arab.

He knew Molly, and she knew him enough to nod and say hello because he lived in a corner shop owned by his uncle and aunt half a mile from Molly’s house.

She was hot and sweaty and deadly tired, and as she pushed through the crowd, a man of thirty or so, hugely drunk, screaming and shouting and demanding a doctor, saw her.

“Who’s this babe?” he yelled, and tried to kiss her.

She cried out, “Leave me alone, damn you,” and tried to fight him off.

He slapped her on the side of the face. “Bitch.”

The crowd surged, and a hand pulled her away. It was Abu Hassim, who said, “That’s no way to treat a lady,” took one step forward and head-butted the drunk with great precision. The drunk went backward, and Abu grabbed him by the front of his jacket and eased him into a chair.

She wiped her face with a hand towel.“That was definitely not in the book, but thanks. Abu Hassim, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Doctor. Sorry about that-good thing I was here.”

“It certainly was. But all in a day’s work, I guess. Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

“Not me, I’ve got the morning off.”

“Lucky you.”