Читать книгу Night Sisters - John Pritchard - Страница 13

Five

Monday night it was back to business.

I’d prepared for it in the usual way: late night on the Sunday, and as much sleep as I could get during Monday. It had been another bright day, and oblivion hadn’t come easy – not with the sounds of everyday life filtering through the curtains along with the sunlight. I was lucky this was a fairly quiet street, with only the occasional car and a few kids playing. Oh yes, and the sodding ice-cream van rolling up at three o’clock playing Greensleeves in a peal of loud, distorted chimes.

It was well dark by the time I caught the bus up to the hospital: several other night-shift workers were already aboard, or got on with me, and most of them I knew. I swapped anecdotes with Janice, a nurse from Theatres; and cheerfully endured the jokes of Ken, a security man at one of the sites on the neighbouring industrial estate. But some of my attention was inescapably caught by the sight of the hospital itself, looming darkly into view against the dimness of the sky. Like a black fortress in the night, with many windows dark, or dimly-curtained, but others watchfully ablaze. I’ve always loved the life of Nights, the wakefulness in a sleeping world – the atmosphere of a place that’s never sleeping; merely sedated. But a hospital at night has its eerie side too; its sinister shadows. It was that aspect that struck me most forcibly now.

It wasn’t even that I was thinking particularly about the murders and mysteries of the past few days, and weeks, and months. Routine’s the great comforter; and the prospect of a busy night in Casualty was enough to clear the excess mental baggage from anyone’s mind. I knew I still had fears lurking there below the surface; but real life went on. It had to.

The bus pulled in across the forecourt from our department’s brightly-lit canopy, and I disembarked. At least there weren’t any ambulances parked askew outside the doors, blue lights still pulsing, so I hoped I wouldn’t be pitched straight in.

I changed into my uniform in the locker room: fastening the close-fitting navy dress up to the collar; unzipping the cuffs and rolling the sleeves back to my elbows. I was still trying to fix my cap on with one hairgrip too few when Judith, one of my counterparts on Days, came in and joined me at the mirror.

‘Rachel. It’s good to have you back.’

Sister Parsons – Judith, but never Judy. Despite her silver-grey hair she was still in her forties; and her vivid blue eyes were those of someone younger still. A northerner with a brisk – some would say brusque – manner, and I knew some of the students didn’t get on with her: but that was their loss, for she was everything that they aspired to be: competent, calm and compassionate. I reckoned she mothered me sometimes, but I didn’t mind. Sometimes I needed it.

‘Busy shift?’ I asked, through a mouthful of protruding hairgrips.

‘Not too bad. One RTA in for observation; a few cuts and bruises. One OD – a bottle of paracetamol and maybe half a bottle of vodka. And she didn’t look a day over sixteen, poor girl.’

I grimaced. ‘Bet the wash-out was fun. She okay?’

‘We hope so. The Medical team admitted her, anyway.’

‘Let’s hope it stays quiet.’ I finished adjusting my cap and stepped back to admire the result; then turned and grinned at her.

‘You’re settling back into the routine, then?’ Her own smile was fond. ‘But then you’ve always been able to adapt. Some people your age would find being on permanent nights just impossible to adjust to. But you love it, don’t you?’

It was true: as I said, the atmosphere grows on you. Maybe most women my age would prefer the more ordered social life of a day job; but not having a partner or any family commitments made this option just as easy for me. Unsocial hours make for good rates of pay; and besides, the social life in this town is practically non-existent anyway.

I adjusted the fob-watch pinned over my breast, and she glanced down at hers. ‘Parker’s doing handover tonight …’ – I placed the face, nodded – ‘Apparently she still remembers you telling her to get her hair off her collar on her first night down here …’

I remembered it too: she’d seemed quite nonplussed, getting that attitude off a girl only three years older than she was. ‘It was rather a heavy shift,’ I pointed out, defensively.

Judith’s smile widened. ‘Well it did the trick, anyway. And niggles aside, she’s turning into a damned good Casualty nurse. She’s got another block of nights coming up next month; you can really start polishing her up then.’

I nodded again – and realized how good it felt, being treated as a fellow-professional by the nurse I most respected; sharing together in the development of our staff. She was right, Staff Nurse Joanna Parker was going to go far. I hoped I’d be able to bring out the best in her along the way.

Nice to be back, Judith.

Karen came in at that point, already in uniform apart from her cap and belt. We all said our hellos, and Judith left us to finish getting ready, as the clock eased round to the start of one more working night.

The department was still fairly busy, and Joanna had perched herself on the doctors’ desk by Cubicles to give report; I was sure Judith wouldn’t have approved, but she was behind a curtain helping with somebody’s dressing. Me, I didn’t mind. I’d done the same often enough.

‘Right,’ she said, glancing down her page of notes; her stethoscope still slung around her neck. ‘One RTA in Short Stay for overnight obs; Darren Allen, age 24, query concussion. Bloke with a gashed leg in Cubicle Four …’ And so on down the list: those patients in their various stages of treatment, and those who’d been clerked-in but had yet to see the doctor. The last couple of hours seemed to have been heavier than Judith had let on, but Joanna seemed to have come through it all cheerfully enough. No tinge of tiredness in her fresh, freckle-dusted face, and her voice was bright and lively.

She was wearing her mousy hair well off her collar, too.

‘… Query pneumothorax in Six, Mrs Jean Fowler, 51 …’ And Mike and a couple of students stepped aside to let the Medical Houseman get at the X-ray viewing box, slapping the black film up under the clip. The white, eerie glow lit up the image, outlining the shadowy lungs. One was obviously distorted. One more bed filled; or were they full up already, and phoning around? From the grimness on the doctor’s face as he studied the X-ray, I guessed it might well be the latter.

That might make for some fun later on, if they started backing up into here.

I looked back to Joanna as she finished. A routine workload, then; nothing dramatic. Nothing life-threatening. Mike, Karen and the rest had taken down what notes they’d needed, and began dispersing with a general murmur of thanks. I thanked her too – with a compliment that brought a pleased little smile – and went to get the drug keys off Judith. ‘I’ll leave things in your capable hands, then,’ she said as she handed them over; then gave an exaggerated sigh, and smiled afresh. ‘Right: time to see if Jack read the instructions right, or if he’s burned his supper again. At least the traffic should be better than it was this afternoon …’

We said goodbye; and as she went on down towards the changing room, her parting shot was Have a nice night.

She really meant it, too – which just goes to show how worthless good wishes sometimes are.

We had a fairly steady throughput of patients – all walking wounded – to start with; but by half-past midnight things had quietened down considerably – so much so that I reckoned we could take our staggered meal-breaks up in the canteen (sometimes when it’s busy we have to send someone up with a trolley, and we eat off our knees down here in the duty room). It was getting on for one when my turn came round. I unclipped the bunch of ward keys – the true symbol of authority – from the safety pin on my lapel and passed them to Mike, and Karen and I went up together. I was still carrying the departmental bleep, tucked away under my cardi: any crises and I’d be right down again.

Half of the canteen was in darkness; the rest was bright, and fairly busy, with nurses filtering down from the various wards, and a huddle of porters round one of the window tables. Despite the mediocrity of the food, the place always gave me a strangely upbeat feel: an island of light at the very heart of the dark and dormant hospital. Karen and I loaded up our trays and joined the queue; I was first past the till, and nodded towards the table by the Coke machine, where Anne O’Brien from ENT was already tucking in.

She looked up, smiling, as we joined her. ‘Hiya. Quiet tonight?’

‘Apart from the twenty-eight-car pile-up,’ I said airily. ‘We’re putting a brave face on it.’

Karen unclipped her belt with a grateful little sigh, tucking the ends into the pockets of her dress. ‘How’s the curry?’ she asked, studying her plate without enthusiasm.

‘About two spoonfuls short of critical mass.’ Annie wrinkled her nose in a mischievous grin, and set about raking up another forkful. She was halfway through eating it when her eyes suddenly widened, and she leaned forward with a (slightly muffled) exclamation of interest. ‘Hey, is that the ring, then?’

Karen glanced down at the gold circle with its small, bright diamond, fastened to her dress with the clip of her fob-watch so as to leave her hands clear for work. Her smile was tinged with the hint of a blush.

‘Yeah. He gave it to me tonight – just before I came in to work. Can’t wait to wear it proper …’

Staff Nurse Karen Kane: three years younger than me, and very much in love. It wasn’t surprising, she was attractive enough, in a bright-eyed, slightly nervous-looking way. She’d been seeing Steve, her bloke, for nearly a year now, and he’d finally popped the question a week ago. Not surprisingly she was over the moon about that – though she hadn’t let such distractions affect her professionalism, and remained as clear-headed and competent as ever. A good nurse and a good friend, and I enjoyed working with her on both counts. I didn’t get the chance as often as I’d have liked, because she was normally on Days, with stints of Nights according to the department’s internal rota. But with the purchase of a house now looming, she’d been working extra nights in anticipation of the mortgage.

‘Named the day yet?’ Anne asked; but before Karen could answer, the bleep on my belt went off with a rapid staccato of pips, and we all tensed. Cardiac arrest group alert: with a forkful of chips poised halfway to my mouth I waited for the voice-over.

The message came crackling over the channel a moment later: ‘Cardiac arrest, Coronary Care … .’ It repeated four times, but we were already relaxing, the instinctive surge of adrenaline thinning out. Not one of ours, not this time … One of the porters at the window table had got the call too, on the cardiac bleep, and left at a sprint, ready to assist upstairs.

Karen glanced after him, then back at me. She shrugged.

‘Anyone notice what was for pudding?’ Anne asked.

‘Fruit pie.’

‘Meaning rhubarb?’

‘Usually.’ I grimaced. ‘Among other things.’

She decided to risk it anyway, and while she was paying, the two of us moved on to speculate whether Staff Nurse Mike Shannon was likely to get off with Staff Nurse Brenda Griffiths. Karen doubted it, but on balance I reckoned they’d go well together; apart from anything else, Mike was Irish and Bren was Welsh, so there might at least be an element of Celtic solidarity there. Mike was in his thirties, energetic and cheerful, his rather boyish good looks tempered by the premature grey in his dark hair and beard. Brenda was more Karen’s age, very demure and quiet-spoken; but her smile was as spontaneous as sunshine, and it rarely failed to lift our spirits.

‘So when are we going to get you fixed up, then?’ Karen wanted to know, an impish little sparkle in her eyes. ‘No eligible young medics around? How about that Dr Wright?’

I grinned. ‘I don’t think so, somehow. He’s a nice bloke, but …’

But I’m not ready to get hitched yet, Kaz. Still too restless …

Break was over all too soon. Finishing our cigarettes (you’d be surprised how many nurses smoke), we said goodbye to Anne, picked up our bags and made our unhurried way back downstairs to the department. The waiting area was still nearly empty – just a couple of people slouched in the chairs, and a girl standing over by the drinks machine, head down as if counting her last pennies. Apart from a long brown scarf and gloves, she was dressed, rather scruffily, in black from the boots up: tight jeans, long threadbare coat and a flat-brimmed cowboy hat. The Gypsy Goth look, I decided. My cursory glance took in the fact that her dark hair was cropped close to her skull, with a single braid curling down below her collar. And even indoors, in the dark small hours of a winter’s morning, she was wearing shades.

I assumed she’d been clerked-in, but checked with Mike anyway as I retrieved my keys. He raised his eyebrows.

‘Far as I know we’ve just got two blokes waiting – a cut hand and a sprained wrist; plus the guy with Graham in Suturing now …’

I glanced down the corridor towards the suturing room. ‘What happened to him?’

‘Argument in a nightclub – Ramon’s, I think; it usually is. Some charmer smashed a glass in his face.’

‘Bad?’

‘Pretty superficial – more blood than damage. But he’ll need a good few stitches.’

And Dr Graham Hancock doing the needlework. Lucky man. Graham was one of our less charming doctors, short on patience and especially surly in the small hours. ‘Who’s helping him? Helen?’

He nodded. ‘Good practice for her: how to put up with an SHO who reckons he needs his beauty sleep.’

I smiled at that. ‘How about the sprained wrist: he been X-rayed yet?’

‘They should be about ready for him now. Shall I … ?’

‘I’ll take him round if you like.’ This from Karen, just back from locking her bag away. She still wore her blue cardigan: it was at least one size too large, giving her a slightly forlorn look.

‘If you would, thanks.’ I fastened the clinking bunch of keys back on to my lapel. ‘And I’ll go find out what our latest customer wants.’

She was sitting down when I re-entered the waiting area, holding a plastic cup of coffee in both shabby-gloved hands. I guessed she was making the most of its heat; to judge by the state of her clothes, she was currently living rough – or maybe in a squat, if she was lucky. Everything looked dirty and ill-fitting: the coat nearly ankle-length; the grey jersey beneath it reaching halfway to her knees. Even her high-laced boots were stuffed with thick socks. Her cropped, easy-clean hair – suggested much the same thing. And I could smell her from here.

Another Traveller, then. Or one more real example of the destitution which our local politicians spoke about in such airy, abstract terms.

She was contemplating the drink as I came over, and didn’t look up until I was standing in front of her and clearing my throat. Close to, her grubby face looked pale and very young – but I sensed an underlying hardness in her expression: a suggestion that this girl might be young in years but was old, old beyond measure, in experience. Bitter experience. Her eyes might have told me more, but they remained hidden; the black shades were impassive and vaguely unsettling.

‘Excuse me (miss? I left it hanging) … can I help you at all?’

For a long moment I thought she wasn’t going to reply; and, as I waited, became aware of the silence of our two other patients. I felt the tingle of their watchfulness on my back – and suddenly realized they were nervous. Two healthy, previously garrulous young lads had made sure there was a wide space between them and a solitary girl – and now sat stiff and uneasy in their chairs. In a way I didn’t blame them. It was getting hard to face down that cool, eyeless gaze, and I broke the contact briefly, my attention switching to her hands, her chewed-down gloves; the glint of silver rings against her knuckles. One of them bore a pentagram sign. Another formed the double-mask motif of the theatre – except that both the faces were skulls, one leering, one grimacing: both staring emptily up at me.

I looked back to her face.

‘I’d like to see the doctor, please,’ she said in a low, slightly hoarse voice.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I’ve been sick … past few days. Got the runs too. Liquids is all I can keep down.’ She took a sip of coffee as if to prove the point.

‘Have you been to your GP?’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t have one. I’m just … passing through, you could say.’

I could indeed: we’d had her type in here often enough. The dog-handler had been the most recent example – and at least he’d presented with a genuine injury. Some of them came seeking shelter, however temporary; others hoped to be fobbed off with medication – free pills, if they could get them. In general, it was departmental policy to give such people short shrift; but then again, she didn’t exactly look the picture of health; and who knew what lurking medical condition we might be turning away?

Better to be safe than sued (to put it realistically). And it would keep Graham on his toes for a while longer. With that not unpleasant thought, I relaxed slightly. ‘All right. The doctor will take a look at you as soon as he can. In the meantime, can I just take a few details … ?’

I sensed her gaze follow me suspiciously to the desk as I walked over to get a caz-card. ‘Like what?’

‘Just your name, address, date of birth – that sort of thing.’ I had my pen poised, and was trying to be as conciliatory as possible. It was difficult. Someone else in need of a sympathetic face perhaps, but that was the last thing on my mind. She was giving me a chill.

‘McCain,’ she said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Carol McCain. No fixed address.’

‘Date of birth?’ I prompted hopefully.

She smiled then, albeit faintly. ‘I’m older than I look,’ was all she said.

I was back behind the desk making a Fracture Clinic appointment for our supposed ‘sprained wrist’ when her name was finally called. She rose slowly to her feet and followed Mike through towards the examination area, giving me a sidelong glance as she passed. I didn’t realize how fixedly my eyes were following her until the waiting youth muttered: ‘Getting to you, too, is she?’

I blinked. ‘Sorry; where were we … ?’ Returning my attention quickly to the clinic sheet; but he was still looking up the corridor, frowning slightly.

‘Something weird about that one,’ he said softly. ‘Something really … weird.’

I wondered if he’d tried chatting her up or something. He gave the distinct impression of someone who fancied himself, as well as anything in skirts. Perhaps her rebuff had been unexpectedly cold. Yet there wasn’t the tang of sour grapes about his attitude; rather a puzzlement that bordered on unease …

‘We do get some odd customers at this time of night,’ I allowed, neutrally. ‘You get used to it after a while.’

Famous last words.

I finished writing up his booking, and watched him walk off into the night clutching his appointment card, his forearm encased in plaster. The two patients who’d needed stitching up had also departed; a couple more minor injuries had joined the queue. It was proving to be an average-to-quiet night on the whole. I started back up the corridor, and met Graham halfway. He was looking tired, his plump face pale and slack.

‘Just another three,’ I told him mercilessly, and he cast a wistful glance towards the duty room, where the plasterman on call was just about to brew up.

‘What’ve we got in One?’ he asked with resignation.

‘Bad case of D&V, apparently: says she hasn’t been able to eat for a few days. She’s been sleeping rough …’

He gave me an exasperated look. ‘Rachel. She should see a doctor in town: sign on as a temporary resident. This is supposed to be a department for accidents and emergencies, for God’s sake …’

I shrugged. ‘Well she’s here now, and we’re hardly rushed off our feet, are we?’ He opened his mouth to protest further, and I added: ‘And besides, who’s to say it’s not something serious? Come on, Graham, you might as well take a look at her.’ So we can get rid of her as soon as possible, I almost added.

‘All right, all right.’ He yawned, and glanced at his watch; then again towards the duty room, where the first hissings of the kettle could now be clearly heard.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll leave some for you,’ I assured him. He gave me another look, as though – for some reason – unconvinced by the sweetness of my smile; then muttered something under his breath, and turned back towards the examination area.

I wandered into the duty room, where Dave, the plaster technician, was studying the dented kettle as if willing it to boil more quickly. ‘He’s in a good mood tonight,’ he observed drily.

‘Isn’t he always?’ I sat down in one of the low, shabby chairs, feeling the webbing sag beneath me. Unlacing my shoes, I slipped them off and leaned back, flexing my stockinged feet.

‘I’ve seen firemen with shorter ladders,’ he said, without appearing to look.

‘Piss off.’

He grinned at that, watching me crane forward to examine my tights. There was more to Our Dave (as we called him, to avoid confusion with one of the regular ambulancemen) than met the eye: a quirky sense of humour lurking behind that placid exterior. I was settling back in my chair again when Mike stuck his head round the door.

‘Hey, Raitch … How many Goths does it take to change a lightbulb?’

‘None, they all prefer sitting in the dark,’ I said comfortably. ‘Go away.’

‘Damn, she’s heard it before,’ Karen muttered in the background. The two of them wandered disconsolately back towards reception.

Dave nodded towards the kettle as it bubbled towards climax. ‘Want one?’

‘Please. Coffee if you’re making it.’

‘How about his lordship?’

‘I think he might appreciate it.’ And to be fair, the man had been on duty since nine o’clock the previous morning.

‘Tea, coffee?’

I wasn’t sure: it had been so long since he’d last deigned to take tea with us. ‘Hang on, I’ll go and ask him.’

I put my shoes back on and went through into Examination, a long, over-lit room fairly wallpapered with charts for instant reference: toxic substances, advice on Hep-B (‘All blood is guilty until proved innocent’), Wallace’s ubiquitous Rule of Nines for the assessment of burns … Ten trolley-beds formed a row down one side, individually curtained-off into examination cubicles. Only the one was in use at the moment, furthest from the door. I walked down past the sinks and the X-ray viewing boxes and the desk for writing up notes, glancing into each of the empty cubicles to check that all was tidy and in order; if not it would give us something to do if things stayed quiet. Thus occupied, I had almost reached the last cubicle before it registered that there was no sound of voices coming from behind its drawn curtains – and for no logical reason, I suddenly hesitated. And the silence persisted.

I could understand a few moments’ quiet to ponder a symptom; but an examination is more than anything a verbal process – the doctor’s questions, the patient’s replies. Yet the stillness was total: I couldn’t even hear any movement in there. And I realized then that my nerves had begun to tingle, as though sensing something ominous and threatening, separated from me by no more than the thickness of that plain green curtain.

My overactive imagination again, of course. More likely she’d wandered off somewhere and Graham had gone looking for her. I drew back the curtain anyway.

In that first split-second I glimpsed enough: the white-coated figure on the floor beside the trolley, the black-clad figure bending over it, and straightening as I came through; the glint of a drawn knife in the harsh light. And I’d been on the Control & Restraint courses, knew all about how to reason with a knife-wielding patient – but as those sombre shades came round all I wanted to do was turn and run. I got as far as the turn. Before I could run, or even shout for help, her fist was in my hair and dragging my head back, stretching my throat so I choked on my cry and could only gawp soundlessly as she hauled me back into the cubicle. Desperately I threshed at the end of her arm, struggling to get free, to stop the white, ripping pain in my scalp: arms bent back, both hands scrabbling at hers now, trying to pry those fingers loose. But effortlessly she drew me in. From the corner of my eye I caught the gleam of the knife, and with a last frenzied effort managed to twist half around and lash out, knocking the glasses from her face.

I glimpsed eyes that were a cold and bleached-out blue, in the instant that the bright light struck them. The pupils reacted immediately, contracting to pinpoints, and with a snarl that was partly pain she jerked her face away.

Photophobia: she couldn’t stand the light. And before I could even think to take advantage, she’d wrenched me right round by the hair and slammed me bodily against the back wall. Winded, I gasped aloud. The fingers in my hair loosened and withdrew; I felt her grasp my shoulder and turn me slowly round to face her.

And a quick, sickening punch to my midriff dropped me in a heap at her feet.

For a moment everything was just a queasy blur; my head echoed and spun, and I didn’t even have the strength to retch. Then I became aware that she was sitting on her heels beside me.

She’d put her shades back on and pushed the wide-brimmed hat to the back of her head. The knife was cradled in both hands now, as though she was doing no more than idly weigh it, testing its balance. I managed to focus on the weapon, and it was a vicious-looking switchblade: cold, clean steel, and grips that looked like they’d been carved from bone. And for all the easiness with which she handled it, the point was still angled down towards me.

‘I had questions for your doctor,’ she told me, in the same dust-dry monotone she’d used before. ‘He wouldn’t answer them. I was about to show him the error of his ways, but …’ She inclined her head, studying me thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you will answer them for me.’

Oh shit, I thought. Aloud I managed to ask: ‘What … questions?’

‘A young girl was brought into your department this evening: she’d overdosed – tried to kill herself. What happened to her?’

I swallowed. ‘She was admitted …’

‘Which ward?’ And as I hesitated, with the instinctive reticence of someone for whom patient confidentiality was second nature, she leaned forward and hissed: ‘Don’t even dream of lying: I’ll see it in your soul.’

I believed her, too: the shock of that icy gaze still throbbed within me. It was fortunate that I was in a position to answer her, having browsed through the admissions ledger earlier in the evening. ‘She went to Jenner Ward: that’s Medical … second floor …’

She absorbed the information in silence for a moment; then reached slowly out with the knife and used the point to snag the silver chain of my crucifix, and lift the pendant clear of my collar. She spoke again, even more quietly than before.

‘This. Is it just a trinket … or something more?’

Again I swallowed, trying to lubricate a mouth gone bone-dry. ‘It’s what I believe in. Who I believe in …’

She nodded, and let it fall back into the hollow of my throat. ‘You’ll need to,’ she promised softly – and even her breath felt cold.

And with that she rose swiftly to her feet and was gone.

For a long moment after the curtain had flopped closed behind her, I just slumped there, eyes wide with disbelief. Then reaction set in – a sick and chilling surge that left me shivering. But despite the weakness that came with it, I began struggling to my feet.

I was halfway there when Mike stuck his head round the curtain to see how we were getting on: the shock that blanked-out his cheerful expression was so abrupt it was almost funny. ‘Rachel – what –’

My legs nearly gave way at that point and I had to clutch at the trolley for support. He moved quickly forward but I waved him away: ‘Okay. I’m okay. What about Graham … ?’

There was the sound of movement from the floor on the far side of the trolley, and a stifled groan. I leaned over. Graham was trying to sit up: his face paler than ever, and streaked with blood from a gash on his temple. I never thought I’d be so relieved to know he was still with us.

‘What happened?’ Mike was asking, even as he stooped to help the doctor up.

‘That girl – she’s a nutter, she’s got a knife.’ I paused for a gulp of air. ‘Need to fast-bleep the porters, tell them she’s after the girl on Jenner – the OD – ring the ward too. And the police …’

Karen was approaching by then, and detoured straight to the wall-mounted phone. I returned my attention to Graham, seated on the chair now, as Mike set about examining his wound; but when I glanced back at her, I saw the worried little frown creep over her features. She punched in the emergency number again.

‘I can’t get through – something’s wrong with the phone, it’s just whining …’

‘Shit! Try the one in my office.’ She hurried to do so, and I stumbled after her. I was more or less steady on my feet by the time I got there – but the expression on her face as she looked up from the phone was enough to stop me short.

‘Same again – it’s interference or something. Now I can’t get a dial tone …’ ~

‘Oh my God …’ I couldn’t believe it: not another switchboard failure, not now. And that crazy woman with a knife was on her way up to a sleeping ward – and about to arrive without warning …

Mike had come up behind me, and was about to echo my disbelief when I turned and grasped his coat. ‘Come on. We’ve got to go after her.’

He nodded, and we began to run. It was sheer instinct that prompted me to relinquish my keys, and I swung back round to toss them towards Karen; behind me, getting further away by the second, I heard Mike shouting, ‘Danny. Where’s Danny? Someone find the lazy sod!’ And then I was racing after him, down past the treatment rooms and Suturing and Minor Theatre, and on into the dimly-lit corridor that led to the lifts.