Night Sisters. John Pritchard
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the doors had closed behind us and Angela was safely on her way. What that might cost me I didn’t pause long enough to consider: I knew my hesitation would be fatal for both of us if I did.
The lift steadied itself, lined itself up; there was another pause. I thought I couldn’t get any more keyed up – but my stomach still lurched as the door slid smoothly open, and I saw –
Nobody there.
Nobody in sight, anyway. I glanced at Angela, and swallowed, and moved slowly forward to peer out.
The foyer was empty.
And even as we hesitated, unsure what to do next, I heard footsteps from down the corridor – several people, walking quickly; and voices I recognized.
They reached the lift area a moment later: Adrian, who was clearly chargehand porter for tonight, and three of his lads – including Danny from our department. His eyes widened as he saw us.
‘Rachel – we just got a call from A&E, said you’d gone off chasing some nutter with a knife …’
Well at least the phones were working again. I nodded urgently. ‘Yeah, some woman got up on to the Med floor, she must still be up there now. Have they called the police?’
They had. The Duty Nurse Manager as well. All the wards were in the process of being alerted. I nodded again, thankfully, and gestured to Angela, who was keeping close beside me, hugging herself in that outsize dressing-gown.
‘This is Angela. The girl she was after. I want to get her sat down and with a cup of tea, can someone come with us?’
It was Danny who volunteered, and the three of us went back down the corridor towards Casualty; my arm round Angela’s shoulders now, soothing her as the shock began to set in. I reckoned it would be more private round by us, rather than in the canteen or wherever. Part of my mind was still very much on what must be happening upstairs – that woman still loose, still armed and dangerous; and what had happened to Mike? But I realized that right now this girl needed all my attention, so I forced the other thoughts and fears from my mind and concentrated on her. Speaking softly. Guiding her steps.
A cup of hospital tea. I’d just been looking forward to one when all this had started. Maybe ten minutes ago. Maybe a lifetime.
‘Want to tell me about it?’
She looked warily up from the mug that steamed in both her hands. ‘About what?’
‘Who she is.’
She glanced down at her drink again, and didn’t answer.
I didn’t push it. The police were already here, and would be asking their own questions soon enough. I could hear the WPC on the phone in my office, just across from the duty room where we were sitting. One of her male colleagues was hovering in the corridor outside, his handset picking up occasional crackles of conversation on the open channel. More officers were still searching the building; the intruder had not yet been located.
Mike was sitting in with us: a much-recovered Graham had obligingly sutured the laceration in his side, and decided he didn’t have concussion. He was off sick as of now, of course – but the police would want a statement from him too, and he was nursing a coffee while he waited.
I caught his eye now, but all he could do was shrug. He’d been lucky, and he knew it. She’d slashed and kicked him brutally as she’d struggled clear: the realization of how close death had come was there to see in the paleness of his face. The two of us had been through some sticky situations together since I’d joined the night shift; I well remembered that time he’d disarmed a bottle-wielding drunk and could still make a joke of it afterwards. I’d never seen him as subdued as he was tonight.
Death had come close. But McCain had come closer. And, like me, he must have felt her coldness, the icy insanity beneath her calm exterior. I knew that this was what had really unnerved him; knew just how he was feeling.
And she was still in here with us: somewhere in this warren of echoing corridors and shadow-filled wards. Even with the police in A&E, I didn’t quite feel safe. It’s a big department, after all, divided into half a dozen areas: trolleys, cubicles, theatres … Tonight it was empty – and the bright lights only made it all look emptier, and emphasized its silence.
I sipped some more coffee. Still warm, but what the hell.
They questioned Angela first, with me still present at her request. Not that she was about to tell them anything, either: it was all shrugs and monosyllables. From the line the policeman was taking, they obviously thought she was involved in street crime of some description: drugs or prostitution. McCain was clearly acting on behalf of some pusher or pimp – perhaps she was one herself. Angela, chalk-faced, did not deny the possibility – but I knew they’d got it all wrong. I didn’t intervene, though; nor did I mention my suspicions when I came to give my own statement. What did I know about it, after all? Nothing – except that I’d looked Carol McCain in the face, and heard the things she’d said; and knew that whatever had brought her here, it was nothing so sordidly simple as drugs or sex.
When the police had finished with me, Kessler was waiting; something like this was worth dragging even a consultant out of bed for. He saw me in his office, and sat me down, and seemed quite concerned. Too restless to sit still, I was fairly hunched forward in the chair as I gave a more or less comprehensive report of what had happened. When I’d finished, he asked me if I wanted a cigarette – which, considering his views on smoking, was quite a concession. I nodded gratefully, fumbled in my bag for my packet of Players and lit up. Drawing in the smoke, I closed my eyes, and began at last to think of relaxation. When I opened them again, he was watching me levelly.
‘You’re all right to carry on?’
I nodded again, almost urgently, and he smiled: it was the answer he’d expected. Kessler was a good bloke to work for, on the whole: he knew his stuff, and wasn’t above getting his own hands dirty once in a while. And though he could be a bastard at times, abusing the staff remained his prerogative alone: he was fiercely protective of our interests whenever they were threatened from above. Or at times like this.
‘Have they … caught her yet?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Last I heard they were still looking.’
I glanced down at my fob-watch, and saw it was nearly three a.m. Kessler was removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. His hand moved up to rub his forehead, below the dark, receding hairline; he was probably a lot tireder than he looked.
I breathed out shallowly, so as not to pollute the air too much.
‘Since we’re here, Rachel,’ Kessler resumed, ‘there’s something I have been meaning to discuss with you – and tonight would seem to be as appropriate a time as any.’
I shrugged, waited.
‘You remember those syringes disappearing from the utility room?’
That had been a while back. I nodded.
‘Nothing like that’s happened since, has it?’
‘Not since they reviewed the security.’
His turn to nod. ‘As I thought. But there’s renewed concern, apparently. Someone’s been scavenging round by the waste skips: they think some of the sharps buckets have been taken.’
‘They must be desperate.’ Desperate enough to filch used needles from the very bins in which they awaited incineration: the yellow plastic tubs sealed with Biohazard stickers and the legend Danger of infection. Danger of Hep-B, danger of AIDS … I grimaced at the thought.
Kessler nodded. ‘They are. You know how bad the drug situation’s getting round here; the police were up to see me just the other day, warning about addicts on the prowl for needles and syringes. Improved security or no, I want you all to keep your