Night Sisters. John Pritchard
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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