Angels of Mourning

Angels of Mourning John Pritchard Something appalling lurks under the streets of London. Something that has survived for centuries, thriving on pain and hatred and grief.And with another terrorist bombing campaign in the City, there's plenty to fuel such an appetite for evil.Rachel Young has moved to the capital to work in one of the major hospital's Intensive Care Units: it's a desperate job at the best of times, and now is not the best of times.Despite a happy marriage to Nick and a successful three-year recovery from past traumas, Rachel senses that the skin of normality over the abyss is about to erupt, and the glimpse of an old adversary lurking among the homeless people further increases her fears.Roxanne – Angel of Death, Angel of Mourning – has returned from the Void… COPYRIGHT (#ulink_73bb9b3a-f7f0-55c5-a6d0-9bedc5f28588) This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/) Copyright © John Pritchard 1995 John Pritchard asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication Source ISBN: 9780006480136 Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008219482 Version: 2016-10-26 Any similarity between characters in this story and real police officers or units is certainly not intended! Nor is Rachel’s workplace based on any one hospital. DEDICATION (#ulink_dc7f455a-b0ba-53e6-acb0-047c492f16e9) To Veronique and Huw For all their sense and humour CONTENTS Cover (#uf0e34e54-d2d4-51f4-aa8c-4f4d61627313) Title Page (#u73b86b6d-bceb-5bb1-9417-9899c9008744) Copyright (#ulink_0791a0ac-cabf-5a4b-97e4-e1293b4857d8) Dedication (#ulink_87234d4e-2967-5249-9cde-6da5e66ade73) Part 1: The Mercy of Angels (#ulink_ae5692ba-def5-5993-b5a1-9b2be944d2b7) Chapter 1 (#ulink_79a76831-2214-5d62-85fd-b8f94d33c1b4) Chapter 2 (#ulink_462b15db-cf45-55bb-aa14-96cd53ab28fa) Chapter 3 (#ulink_1e1a958c-347f-5bee-bd5d-49c5cbab41d3) Chapter 4 (#ulink_bf8e0c51-3bde-51b3-8175-0677d5d17492) Chapter 5 (#ulink_16e3c502-d626-589c-9850-32d79e4219ce) Chapter 6 (#ulink_ded6b604-992a-5af9-9542-971ca4683914) Chapter 7 (#ulink_a99e6198-d925-5013-807b-d3ded960810d) Chapter 8 (#ulink_c4509768-50de-5ea9-b13f-aa58b7965525) Chapter 9 (#ulink_36091f3d-701e-5e0d-99d8-d95db60e6cc5) Chapter 10 (#ulink_6c88423b-ba37-51fc-925e-055c4c1b7304) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Part 2: The City of Crows (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Part 3: Death is Sweet from the Soldier of God (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Other Books By (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) PART 1 (#ulink_2e52715a-8ca3-5903-820c-02417b42efcc) The Mercy of Angels (#ulink_2e52715a-8ca3-5903-820c-02417b42efcc) Chapter 1 (#ulink_dd4a4d1f-240d-5673-9f36-af67467601a1) I remember waking up on that first, awful Friday, and thinking how good it felt to be alive. I’d come to the surface in my own sweet time. No need to grope for my alarm clock through the darkness – nor meet my pasty-faced reflection in the bathroom mirror, the window beside it still black from the night outside. No call to venture out into the pre-dawn city chill. No more Earlies for me this week. I wasn’t on until one. So I just lay where I was, content and clear-headed from a full eight hours, and soaked up the duvet’s warmth. With bed and bedclothes all to myself, I’d snuggled deep into a cosy little nest: the hardest sort of all to quit. And maybe I’d started building it when I should have still been sharing – at least if Nick’s usual complaints were anything to go by. But Nick was long gone now; out before six to catch his shift-change. His turn to tiptoe to the bathroom, and dress in the dimness, and let himself out into the darkest hour. I hadn’t woken. Sleep – at long, long last – was somewhere I felt safe. The light through the curtains was pale and flat; they were going on about snow on the radio news. But it didn’t really register until I’d gone through, yawning, to open the front door – and couldn’t find the milk bottles. The doorstep was a shapeless heap; our street was blanketed. I started delving – then stopped again to listen to the hush. It seemed unreal: like the sallow, sick-rose pink of the sky above the rooftops. For a moment I just knelt there, not feeling the chill that came gnawing through my nightshirt. Knelt, and stared in wide-eyed wonder, and couldn’t stop the grin spreading over my face. Because I’ve always loved the early-morning snow: loved the way it can turn a dreary winter city to another world. From back when I was a girl growing up in the Midlands, to now, in drab North London, the magic hadn’t changed. It still made me want to play snowballs. Even the prospect of the chaos I’d face getting in to work didn’t dampen my mood. A note on the cork board caught my eye as I came back in with the bottles. Raitch. I’ll get some more bread on the way home. Love, Nick. Which probably meant he’d finished the loaf; no wonder there were all those kisses at the end. I blew him one back, and carried the chilled milk through into the kitchen. After breakfast, with a couple of hours left to kill, I wandered round the house for a while. Some stray bits of dirty washing to be rounded up (Nick!); a few fastidious flicks of the duster. But it had been a lived-in sort of place from day one, which was what I really liked about it. Overlooking Clissold Park: two bedrooms – one damp – and it had cost us. But it was ours now. A place of our own. A place we’d begun to call home. Ours. Something special: something shared. Something to make the past seem very far away. Sometimes. And sometimes it seemed like yesterday. Three crowded years just fled away, and the dark was so close it made me catch my breath. But such moments were more fleeting now; much fewer. I might still dream the dreams, but I couldn’t recall them. And they didn’t wake me, sobbing, in the night. Ready to go – bag packed, and travelcard ready in my purse – I wrapped up warm, and picked my way out into the silent street. The snow was slick and icy underfoot – I almost slipped – but there was a narrow, gritted gap down the middle, like the safe path through a minefield, and I followed it carefully towards the main road. This was busier, and already mostly slush. A queue of people were waiting by the bus-stop, and I’d joined them just long enough for my cheeks to start stinging when the number 73 came rumbling into view. I rode the bus as far as King’s Cross, then changed to the tube for the rest of the journey; watching the snow melting off my boots as we banged and rattled southward, from tunnels into canyons open to the slaty sky. Someone was waiting for me at the other end. Coming up out of the station, I found him right in my path – huddling on the stairs like a survivor of Stalingrad. A beggar wrapped up in a hospital blanket, his stubbled face pinched tight with the cold. His grey eyes hungry. And survivor he was, I thought numbly: straggling in retreat from an undeclared war. A man defeated. But I was the one who spread my mittened hands, as if in surrender. ‘Sorry, mate … No change …’ He’d asked as I said it; the appeal stayed frozen to his face. And all I could do was pass him by, my helpless hands still empty; giving him a small, regretful smile. Big help, of course. But with shock still thumping dully in my chest, it was as much as I could manage. Hardly his fault, poor bloke – but some things still brought the worst of it back. And try as I might, I couldn’t keep my nerves from reacting. After a moment I raised my face again – and the hospital was there before me, looming up like a tenement block; sombre as stone. But its windows leaked light and warmth from the world within: a place protected from this bitter day. A refuge in refugee city. I waited for a gap and crossed the road: hunching my shoulders against the cold. Finished scribbling the last detail, I looked up from my notebook. ‘That it?’ Sue nodded, and I glanced quickly back over what I’d written. Six patients handed over, in varying degrees of recovery. I glanced out through the office door, and the pages of notes were transformed into six exhausted bodies, hemmed in with machinery and monitors. The nearest ventilator hissed steadily. Intensive Care was nearly a full house. ‘Oh … we had some lost property handed in …’ Sue added, as I clicked my pen. ‘I locked it in the drugs cupboard …’ ‘What, from relatives?’ She shrugged. ‘Cleaner found it. Some sort of toy or trinket. Doubt if it’s valuable …’ The rest of the shift were already stirring. The phone at the station rang again, and Jez led the way out to answer it. Sally was helping Jean turn Mr Hall. The next eight hours began here and now. I stood, and tucked away my notebook. Beyond the blinds and windows, the grey sky looked like porridge; it made our lights seem all the brighter. I could almost feel the chilly wind against the glass; sense the mess of slushy streets below us. But winter couldn’t reach us here. I’d come to this hospital with my ENB 100 under my belt, and my mind on a fresh start; but it had been a bit like a homecoming as well. London was where I’d trained: where I’d grown from girl to woman. I always knew I’d return one day. The ITU qualification had been my ticket back. Intensive Care. A whole new ballgame after A&E, but no less demanding. I’d been one of the Sisters here for nine months now – and all of them on days. I’ll not be working nights again. Not ever. ‘Do you want me to change Joe’s infusion?’ Sue asked, already glancing in that direction; still smoothing her polythene pinny. I glanced down at my watch; the time had flown. She should have been gone an hour ago. ‘No, you get off home now. And thanks, Sue. I mean that.’ She gave a tired little smile – which flickered to a frown. ‘Oh, yes … That lost property. I was meaning to give it you …’ ‘Look, don’t worry …’ I began, but she was already going over to the wall cupboard. The red light above the door came silently on as she unlocked it, like a warning sign. And that was how it struck me, for no good reason – even though I’d seen the like on every single working day. Red for danger: a glowing, bloodshot eye. Then the softer yellow light of the interior bathed our faces. ‘Here. I didn’t seal it.’ She handed the envelope across, and I took it, peered inside – and curiously drew the object out. It was the oddest thing: like a die on a small metal stalk. Something you’d spin like a top, I realised; see which side finished uppermost. Except that the sides were all the same. All aces of spades. I felt the faintest frown across my forehead. A trinket from someone’s Christmas cracker, probably. Hardly worth handing in. I turned it over in my fingers one more time; then slipped it back into the envelope. And after just a moment’s hesitation, I licked the flap and sealed it. ‘Thanks. I’ll get it sent down during supper.’ I smiled then, in a mock-resigned sort of way. ‘Assuming we get any.’ As it turned out, we didn’t. The bomb went off just after half past six. Jez and I were queuing for supper in the canteen, and heard it there. A dull but distinctive boom. The darkened windows rattled faintly, and were still. I felt a cold little knot drawing tight inside me. Still balancing my tray, I turned to Jez – but Jez was already peering out into the night. I craned my head in turn, but there was nothing to see: no flicker of flame to tell us where. ‘Oh God, not another one …’ I muttered. He grunted. ‘Sounded big. And not too far.’ His eyes came back round to me. ‘Bastards …’ I knew who he meant, of course. After the past fortnight, no one needed it spelled out. Bombs in London: big deal. That’s how I used to think. But then I came to live here. Then I started travelling on the Underground. And then, two weeks ago, the year’s first bomb blew a tube station apart. There’d been no warning; no caller with a helpful Irish accent and recognised code word. Just a suitcase load of semtex at St Paul’s. The place had been demolished, starting a fire that the underground wind had sucked deep into the tunnels. At least we hadn’t had another King’s Cross, thank God; it had been late, just the last train left, and the platforms and stairs had been almost empty. Five people died. And then the next bomb, and the next: set off completely at random, as though someone was playing battleships with an A to Z. One in an Oxford Street restaurant at Saturday lunchtime, leaving it a burned-out shell. One in the City, breaking windows at the Barbican. We’d waited, shaken, for the admissions – the claims – we knew were coming. But they hadn’t come. There’d just been silence. And not of guilt or shame, for all my wishful thinking. Just an absence of human contact: an eerie emptiness. And then another awful bomb. I could hear sirens now, reaching us fitfully through wind and windows; already wailing their despair. The lump of ice in my stomach grew sharper edges as I pictured the chaos out there. The snow would only make it worse, of course. And the night would make it far more frightening. Disasters at night always haunt me the most. From the Tay Bridge to the Titanic, they give me the shivers. All those people lost and screaming in the dark … ‘Think they’ll come to us?’ Jez asked; but I saw I wouldn’t need to guess. An ambulance crew was sitting at the nearest table, and the bloke was already fiddling with his radio handset. His companion watched pensively, biting her lip. They were still wearing their green and yellow anoraks, the reflective stripes aglow under the canteen lights. They’d hardly had a chance to touch their coffee. The radio crackled into crosstalk. Too distant for me to hear; but after a moment the crewman met my eyes, as if expecting to find me watching, and raised his voice. ‘Liverpool Street.’ ‘Shit,’ from Jez. I shared the sentiment – but saved my breath. I guessed I’d be needing it soon enough. It wasn’t certain that they’d come to us; just bloody likely. If this was a big one, with lots of casualties, the units all around would be receiving. Even as we finished loading our trays – the hot food sandwiched by paper plates to keep it warm – our own A&E would be gearing up and clearing the decks. And I knew we’d need to follow suit. ‘Who can we move?’ Jez asked, as we retraced our echoing steps along the corridor. ‘Mrs Hickson, probably … if we’re pushed. But let’s see what Murdoch says.’ I turned to back in through the unit’s swing doors, held them open with my heel while he followed me through, then led the way over to our rest room. A glimpse of faces glancing round as we passed the relatives’ room; but I’d given up feeling embarrassed. Even angels eat chips. Lucy looked up from the sagging chair into which she’d sunk. ‘Rachel, did you hear –’ ‘Yep. Liverpool Street.’ I was still looking round for somewhere I could leave my supper to get cold. ‘Any details?’ Lucy – who’d worked overtime this week, and looked it – just spread her hands. No worry. Dumping my tray, I left her to her well-earned break, and went on down into the unit proper. The lights were low, now: the glow of readouts seeming brighter in the dimness. Fuller lighting was on around two of the beds, where procedures were underway – and at the desk, where Johann Meier was listening intently to the phone. I went over and waited; a bit keyed-up, and trying not to show it. Johann’s eyes found mine, and said hello. Like most of the ITU medics he worked in shirtsleeves, and I could see sweat stains in the armpits. After a moment he spoke again – his English calm and precise – and the conversation ended. ‘A&E are expecting two,’ he told me, hanging up. ‘One will probably go straight to theatre. The other comes to us as soon as he is stable.’ We’d get them both in due course. ‘So who’s going?’ ‘Mrs Hickson. She is still under the physicians, so Murdoch is talking to them. And that is us full.’ Again. The second time in three weeks we’d closed the doors. We had the beds for more, of course; but not the nurses. I turned away as he dialled again; reaching up into my short uniform sleeve to scratch my shoulder. Staring unhappily at middle-aged Mrs Hickson, inert on her bed. She’d improved steadily since she came off the ventilator; Dr Murdoch had been pleased with her progress on the teatime round. But she could have done with another day here. Just to be safe. Which made me think of something else: how safe I felt in here. Well settled now – and getting real satisfaction from helping to run a specialist unit: a world within a world. A place whose informality and instant crises concealed a secret order – of patience, skill and common purpose. It had boosted my confidence no end. Even the long dark winter evenings didn’t depress me any more. I still turned my back on the windows, though: avoiding them like eyes. Even in this overheated room, they seemed to radiate cold. As if the effort of holding the night at bay had turned them into sheets of hard black ice. Mrs Hickson was transferred on out; the first of our two bomb victims came in to take her place. He was dead within the hour. I knew we were on a loser from the start; it didn’t need a nurse’s intuition. He’d been close to the core of the explosion, his body dreadfully burnt. But as long as a glimmer of hope remained, we fought to save him. Even as we struggled, a part of me found time to watch how well the team was working. Dr Murdoch – our consultant in charge – mucking in with his sleeves rolled up; another anaesthetist at his elbow, still wearing his theatre pyjamas. Michelle and I busying ourselves with drips and drug infusions, setting them up as fast as the medics could put them in. Others hovered round us; came and went. Someone’s ventilator alarm started bleeping at the far end of the room, but the problem was corrected quickly. Jez had the rest of the unit well in hand. Our nameless – faceless – patient’s output was fading all the time. Murdoch kept at it, his own face stern with concentration; but the damage done had been too great. The spark of life grew dimmer; dwindled. Died. We lost him. Let him go. And kept right on working. No time for a breather. Just fenced off the bed with mobile screens, and turned our attention to the living. Oh, the frustration lingered on of course: I felt its weight inside me as I phoned down to Haematology for some more bloods. And the handset felt much too bulky as I set it down again, and turned – to find a uniformed young copper standing rather nervously behind me. ‘Er … evening, Sister. I’ve got the relatives of one of the bomb victims. James Baxter. Casualty said he’d come up to you …’ ‘Oh, God.’ I glanced past him. They were clustered in the corridor outside, not speaking. ‘Couldn’t you have rung?’ He gestured helplessly: looking more out of his depth by the moment. ‘They tried, but all your phones were engaged. I thought I’d better …’ ‘All right. Don’t worry …’ I grabbed Lucy as she passed, and told her to shepherd our new arrivals into the now-empty waiting room. Then turned back to the PC. ‘It’s just that he’s …’ I crossed myself ‘… and we haven’t had a chance to clean him up yet.’ ‘Shit. They know he was critical, but …’ But someone was going to have to tell them the worst. Murdoch had gone off somewhere with the casenotes; and Johann was busy. Which – as per usual – left it to me. Afterwards I went back into my office and sat at my desk: resting my mouth against my hands for a minute’s dull silence. I’d remembered to bin my soiled pinny before going in to see them – only to have them notice my cheery unofficial trappings (smiley lapel badge, and teddy bear pen-top) as I broke the news. They took the tidings numbly; and after I’d explained all the procedures – and dissuaded them from seeing him just yet – I quietly withdrew, and left them to it. Some things you never get used to. After a pause – and without really thinking – I leaned back and opened the top drawer. The envelope with its lost property was there where I’d left it, amid the peppermints and paper clips. And I couldn’t have licked the flap thoroughly enough: it was coming unstuck. I picked it up, and peeled it fully open. The little top came out into my palm. I rolled it thoughtfully between fingers and thumb. The faces of the die looked worn, as if many people had done as much before me. Something that came up ace of spades, every time; the card of ill-omen. It wasn’t a toy, I’d realized that. There was something altogether too grim about it: almost grotesque. Something that abruptly made me put it back, and close the drawer. And wipe my hand – so recently scrubbed clean – right down my dress. I’d phoned home to say I’d be late, and not to worry; but Nick was out in the hall to greet me before I’d fully locked the door. ‘Hiya.’ Quick kiss. ‘You must be knackered.’ ‘You bet I am.’ I went through into the lounge and flopped down onto the sofa; and suddenly it seemed I’d never find the strength to rise again. ‘Hang on, I’ll get you a drink. What’d you like?’ ‘Um. Horlicks, please. Lots of milk.’ I rested my head against the cushion, and turned towards the TV. Some film or other. From the spread of books and notes by his chair, Nick had been doing his homework in front of it. Naughty boy. Still, looking at all those weighty tomes on The Criminal Law, I guessed they needed some diluting. Just like nursing textbooks did. Nick came back from the kitchen a few minutes later, and passed me my mug; watching with some concern as I took a first, grateful sip. ‘You got some of those from Liverpool Street, then?’ I nodded; drank again. ‘Two. One died. The other was still in theatre when I left …’ ‘It was on News at Ten: the bomb was down in the Underground. Four dead, and more than fifty injured, they said …’ He shook his head. ‘They’re just scum, Rachel: they really are.’ He seemed to be expecting a response to that. When I didn’t oblige, he sat wearily down beside me, slipping his arm around my shoulders. ‘Come on, Raitch. I know you want to believe there’s good in everybody, but it isn’t true. Some of the people we deal with are just plain evil …’ His tone was gentle, persuasive; inviting me to see reason for myself. ‘The ones who’ve been planting these bombs – they’re past forgiving.’ I shrugged: still staring at my drink. ‘Oh, don’t worry – I think they’re scum as well. I’m just trying not to be judgmental …’ ‘Nothing wrong in judging,’ he came back evenly. ‘It’s what the bastards need. Christ, they even had the gall to make a statement denying it was their people doing it. That was on the news as well …’ I could see our old capital punishment argument looming up again. Enjoyable enough when I was in the mood – and just the kind of debate that had first brought us together, in the pub following a fund-raising five-a-side match. But tonight I really wasn’t up to it. Besides, with the eyes of five grieving people still wide in my mind, I just wouldn’t have been objective. ‘One of your lot brought the relatives in,’ I said, rather obviously changing the subject. ‘Still wet behind the ears.’ I glanced across, and managed a faint grin. ‘Reminded me of someone …’ ‘Gerroff,’ he grinned back, and squeezed my shoulders. His clean-cut features were boyish enough, to be sure; but Nick had been on the beat quite long enough to know his business. ‘Oh, yes …’ he said, as I finished my drink. ‘Someone rang for you earlier. From your church. Wanted to know if you could help with the soup run tomorrow night.’ I pulled a face, I couldn’t help it. ‘Well …’ ‘Don’t worry: I said you probably couldn’t. Pressure of work and all that.’ ‘Thanks,’ I murmured; not even trying to feel guilty. ‘Come on,’ Nick added brightly, getting up. He turned and took my hands, his grin fading to a knowing little smile. ‘“Time for bed,” said Zebedee. BOINGG!’ Which succeeded in giving me the giggles – and so left me completely at his mercy. And so I ended up where I’d begun – as though this long and gruesome day had never been. Deep under the soft duvet, with Nick cuddling me close: a warm, safe refuge from the night. And yet my mind just would not rest. Even after I’d screened out all the evening’s traumas, it kept on niggling. That strange little thing: that gizmo. For some reason I couldn’t get it out of my head. Could almost feel its coldness in my fingers. That windy night I hardly slept at all. Chapter 2 (#ulink_bc4f9a95-e2ec-56ca-9d1a-3f4198a00037) A flick of my fingers and thumb and it was off again – veering over the desktop in a black-and-white blur. I watched it, mesmerized, chin in hand: my pen laid aside on the sheaf of Off-Duties; the requests ledger forgotten at my elbow. My turn to do the rosters this month, a chore at the best of times – but this was more than just distraction. The thing had virtually found its own way to my fingers; they’d itched to make it move. There was something morbidly compelling about its inevitable progress: it held my attention like a hook. It spun like an ordinary top at first; then with the weird, wobbling motion of a gyroscope, leaning out at forty-five degrees for longer than I’d thought was possible. But finally it fell, and rolled, and came to rest in front of me. The Ace of Spades, of course. So what game of chance could you possibly play? No matter how you spun it, you’d never beat its bias towards bad luck. I halfway reached for it again – then changed my mind, and let it lie. It almost felt like a test of my resolve: being able to leave the bloody thing alone. In (and out of) my desk five days already, and I still hadn’t got round to handing it in. No one had rung to enquire, but even so … This afternoon, then, I decided. This time I won’t forget. Maybe my fingers just needed something to keep them busy; maybe it was nerves. Like when I sometimes caught myself fiddling with the rings on my fingers, or the cross round my neck: an unconscious, edgy reflex. The sort I knew I’d shown this morning, while I listened to Lucy weep. It’s not just the relatives who need a quiet cry sometimes; the stress can wear the best of us down. I’ve needed a good, hard hug myself before now. But poor Lucy had more than the workload or the death of a patient on her mind. She’d just lost one of her friends. Quite horribly. I hadn’t known the girl myself: she’d worked over on one of the surgical wards, and our paths hadn’t crossed. Anna Stubbs, her name was. And yesterday she’d got into her car, just round by the nurses’ home; turned the ignition – and been burned alive. No warning: no hope. The car had been a fireball in seconds. We’d known nothing at the time – all sirens sound the same on a busy day – and it wasn’t until I got home and saw the TV that I realised where the commotion had been coming from. There’d been a fleeting clip on South East News: the gutted hulk that had once been a trim Mini Metro. ‘… a tragic accident,’ according to the voice-over ‘claimed the life of a young nurse in London today …’ And watching, I’d lost my appetite completely. How much worse for Lucy, who’d been sitting on a birthday present, ready-wrapped, for Anna’s twenty-third: next Thursday. She’d come in this morning with a brave enough face, but couldn’t hold it. And when I suggested a quiet chat in my office, it wasn’t long before she let herself go completely. In between sobs and sniffles she’d tried her best to talk it all out – and I’d done my best to help it come. An awful, awkward job; but one I felt oddly at ease with. Perhaps because I knew just how she was feeling. ‘Really I do,’ I’d insisted, while she watched me miserably, and wiped her reddened eyes. ‘I mean … I lost my parents when I was just your age. That was an RTA. And then … a couple of years ago … my flatmate was … was murdered by her boyfriend …’ And oh, there’d been more to it than that, of course. Much more. But it was enough to sit her up, quite startled – then sympathetic herself. ‘Oh, Rachel. I’m so sorry …’ I shrugged, and quickly steered the conversation back to her. Her problems. I felt guilty dwelling on my own. And really didn’t want to. But they’d already started stirring again, at the back of my head. The memories of darkness, and burning, and bloody death. Stuff it had taken me months to get over; and years to begin to forget. As Lucy talked on, her voice getting slowly stronger, I fingered my crucifix – feeling its ends digging in under my nails – and tried very hard just to follow her words. ‘Did you … ever get depressed or anything?’ she’d ventured after a while; having said all she’d felt necessary on her own account. Ready to listen in turn now: the first step back up the ladder. I was grateful for that, at least. ‘Well …’ I hesitated. Then: ‘Yes, I was – for quite a while. Reactive depression, you know?’ And she nodded, the term familiar to us both. Except that mine had been the reactive depression more commonly associated with surviving fires or train crashes. The sort that gives dreadful dreams – and waking weeks of utter hopelessness. I’d been fine for a while, too – coping really well, or so I’d thought. Then the tears from nowhere had begun. The conviction that getting up in the morning would not be worth the trouble. The thoughts of suicide. Not active suicide, of course: not really. More the passive variety. Like, if a car had mounted the pavement, out of control, I wouldn’t have bothered getting out of the way. Suicide with a clear conscience, if you prefer. And I still think the only thing that kept me going through it all was Jenny. Her face in my dreams. Jenny, who’d been my best and closest friend. Jenny, who’d died before my own nightmare even began. Jenny, who’d reached out from her grave to save me from a fate far worse than death. And in all the weeks that followed, I’d felt her with me still: even in the darkest, longest nights. Beckoning me on towards the breaking of day. I’d met with her murderess, too: the witch-like woman who’d risen from her deathbed to strangle her. We’d faced each other in an overcast cemetery, over Jenny’s last resting place – and the old woman had just smiled a toothless smile, and gone her way. Perhaps to find a resting place herself; but maybe she was out there still. Whatever, it was an end between us. I’d sensed that much, that day. And so life had gone on, as it always must. And as I moved on too – new job, new town, new home, new friends – so the past had faded into the background. But sometimes, even now, I’d feel an emptiness: the strangest yearning for what was gone – like someone who’s been somehow left behind. Oh Jenny. What about me? ‘Penny for them, Rachel,’ Murdoch said quietly. I came back to myself with a start – to find him in the office doorway, watching me. Dressed in a charcoal-dark suit, as always: it gave him a sombre aspect, despite his crimson tie. His long, thinly-bearded face could often look severe, as well – which made his smile now all the more engaging. ‘Oh … It’ll cost you a good deal more than that, Dr Murdoch,’ I said airily – already feeling just a little better. And Murdoch’s smile grew wider. ‘I’ll be starting the round in a moment: any problems?’ I shook my head. ‘Nope. They’re all being very good. Jez’ll go round with you.’ Even Murdoch called him that now. I guessed only his mum still called him Jeremy. ‘Good. I’ll speak to you later.’ He gave me a courteous nod and went on towards the station. I sat back, still smiling myself. Some of our anaesthetists were temperamental as hell: perhaps it went with the territory. But Murdoch – though one of the youngest – was probably the calmest of them all. And the softest-spoken. Which, when he did get angry, made his rages all the more unnerving. They were cold: controlled. I’d got on the wrong side of him once, and he didn’t even raise his voice – but left me shaking. I hadn’t made the same mistake again. But today he seemed in sunnier mood – which brightened up mine in turn. As a unit we worked well together: we got on. Sue had once even ventured the opinion that Murdoch was ‘kind of a handsome man’. And added (a few drinks later) that ‘he could put me under any time’ – politely ignoring our cheerful, pop-eyed stares of disbelief. Well, now. Sue could go on the Early with Jean. Jez had requested a day off. So who could I put on the Late? I pondered – or tried to. But the real question was, could I find an excuse for not doing the soup run again this week? Getting into bad habits, and I knew it. Knew, and didn’t much care. Not that it had ever been my favourite way to spend a cold winter’s evening: doling out soup to the street-sleepers. The temptation to let it go had always itched beneath the surface. But there was something more than apathy or mere distaste involved this time. I’d really had a fright. An awful shock. And all in the mind, as I’d realised soon enough. A last, stray echo of things left well behind me. But still – sitting here, pen poised – I could feel the way my guts had clenched inside me. I wasn’t about to go through that again. It had been a fortnight ago; we’d been bringing soup to an enclave of the homeless near Waterloo. Quite a crowd had gathered round our van, to slurp from steaming beakers in the dimness. I’d started out by making conversation – and ended up quite absorbed. Chewing the fat with a wryly funny Scotsman not long out of a psychie unit – and a well-spoken accountant type, who’d ended up on the street with what sounded like petrifying suddenness. ‘Gissa hand, will ye?’ the Scots bloke asked at length, taking a fresh beaker in each hand and jerking his head towards the people still crouching in the shelter of the nearby bridge. ‘Some o’ yon lads’re too tired to bloody stand …’ I nodded, grabbed a couple more helpings of oxtail and followed him over. Hands reached up gratefully from the foxholes of cardboard and blankets. I glimpsed someone sitting apart from the others, almost submerged in the deeper gloom beneath the arch, and made towards him with my last beaker. I was only a few feet short when I suddenly stopped dead. So suddenly that the soup slopped out, scalding my wrist between sleeve and glove. So dead, I scarcely felt it. The person ahead of me was squatting with their back against the brickwork: wrapped up in an old black greatcoat. A battered, wide-brimmed hat was pulled right down to cover the face beneath; black as the coat, but smudged and smeared with ashy grey. I suddenly felt like a knife was being pushed into my belly. Pushed and twisted. My skin grew instantly cold. I took a tiny step backwards. The bowed head never moved. ‘… one over here, lassie …’ the Scotsman said cheerfully. He sounded a long way off. The shadow-shrouded figure didn’t stir. Probably asleep, of course. Exhausted, hungry, and about to miss his chance because of my ridiculous unease. Yet all I could do was back away, my heart now racing like a drum-roll. The Scotsman had to clap me on the shoulder to snap me out of it: the casual grip of his grimy hand was more welcome than I’d have ever dreamed. With a last, wary look towards the shape beneath the bridge, I turned towards the faces I could see, and made an effort to return their smiles and quirky greetings. But all the time I could feel the chilly sweat of that moment: trapped under my clothes, and slowly soaking in. And even after I’d got home, and showered, and scrubbed it all off, my jumpiness remained. My stomach felt sick and sore. Even though I told myself, again and again, that it couldn’t have been her. It couldn’t have. And of course, it hadn’t been: I surely knew that now. Not Razoxane. Because Razoxane was dead and gone – to Hell. Three years ago, I found out what Hell meant. I’d been just another nurse; an A&E Night Sister getting on with her job. Then she had come in off the street, and Hell had followed with her. I’d thought she was a psychie case at first, which was scary enough – but then she’d revealed the magic in her madness; opened my startled eyes, and made me see. Comfortable certainties had crumbled to dust. And then she’d dragged me into her feud with a firm of Physicians as evil and old as she was: and the blood-bags really hit the fan … I found the top was in my fingers once again: I’d fished it up from my drawer without thinking. Turning it over in my free hand, I put Michelle down for the Late – then gave in to the temptation, and set it spinning one more time. Maybe I should just tell them I can’t spare the time, I thought glumly, watching it move. Maybe I’ll even manage not to make it sound too selfish … Maybe. The little top toppled, and spiralled to a stop before me. Ace of bloody Spades. Chapter 3 (#ulink_41131922-e999-5316-b26b-b9dfd40eb6eb) The next day I passed a uniformed policeman in the downstairs corridor: a bag of sandwiches from the foyer shop in one hand, a coffee in the other – and a huge black revolver in a holster at his belt. He seemed not to notice my startled double-take. So I was left to speculate – until Jez broke the news at the gossipy tail-end of Report. ‘Heard who they’ve got down on Ortho? Only one of those bloody terrorists …’ You could tell he was pleased with our reaction: his freckled face lit up. ‘Under armed guard. One of the porters was telling me.’ Which made it gospel, of course. ‘I heard it was some gang leader or someone,’ Lucy countered equably. ‘Got shot, and they’ve had to give him armed protection.’ She hesitated. ‘Or maybe he was stabbed …’ The hospital grapevine was obviously working well. I smiled to myself, still writing. ‘Well he wouldn’t be on Bones if he’d been stabbed, would he, Lucinda?’ Jean pointed out beside me: putting on her most sententious tone. The sort with nearly thirty years in nursing to back it up. And I, with less than twelve, might be Sister to her Staff Nurse – but it still sometimes felt like she was the headmistress, and I was just head girl. Most of it was just an act, of course – though her sense of humour was too dry for some people, who took it all seriously. But Lucy knew the score, and they got on well. No one else would dare call her Lucinda: she hated that. ‘Now, Mr Clarke,’ Jean continued, fixing Jez with shrewd grey eyes. ‘If you would be so kind as to expand upon your information … ?’ He was glad to. ‘Well, according to Bob, he was brought in after the Liverpool Street bomb: leg and back injuries. But something about him didn’t fit. The cops who interviewed him got suspicious. Now they reckon he probably planted the damn thing, and didn’t get clear fast enough …’ His smile had faded now. Like the rest of us who’d been on that night, he was clearly recalling the mess that bomb had made of two hapless human beings. The second victim had survived his emergency op, and come through to us in the small hours of the following morning. He was still with us now: still struggling. Scarcely a square inch of his skin visible between the bandages, IV sites and ECG electrodes. ‘Bastard,’ Sue muttered, with a glance towards the bed. Hardly an original sentiment; but a sincere one. I added a rider, something about them probably not being sure yet. But I knew it lacked conviction. I taxed Nick with it when I got home; he confirmed Jez’s version in a roundabout sort of way. Terrorist suspect under guard. There’d been nothing about it on the news as yet. But give it time, I thought. What most unnerved me was the thought of armed police around the hospital – for all that they were trying to keep the profile as low as possible. I couldn’t forget the look of the pistol that PC had carried – strapped snug into its holster, but still full of latent threat: seeming much bigger and heavier in real life than the guns you see in films. I’d stepped much further aside than I’d needed to let him pass; but while one part of me had shied away, another had stared in morbid fascination. It would have to be loaded, of course. Live ammunition. And what would happen if someone made a try for their charge? Would they draw those guns in a hospital ward, and start to shoot, with helpless patients all around (and nurses, come to that)? It almost made me shudder just to think it. So I was glad I had other – happier – things to occupy my next day off. Besides, it was worth it just to see Nick’s face when he walked drowsily into the kitchen to find me having breakfast with a giant yellow teddy bear. ‘… who’s it for?’ he asked again, still eyeing it warily while he poured his coffee. Propped up in the chair at my elbow, it seemed to stare affably back at him through its cellophane wrappings. ‘Sandra. You know, that girl we had in with us the other week. Meningitis …’ I had another spoonful of cereal while he came and sat down. ‘She’s still in the kids’ ward, and … I don’t know, I just wanted to brighten her day.’ Which was the only way I could express it, really. I’d been thinking about her a lot of late; and buying this had suddenly felt right. ‘Fair enough.’ He made a show of leaning forward, face set, as though intimidating a suspect. The bear remained unfazed. ‘Got a name, has he?’ I shrugged, grinning. ‘Utilising his right to remain silent, eh? I know his type …’ He snorted; then reached across to take my free hand, and squeeze it. ‘That was a really nice idea, Raitch. I hope she loves it.’ ‘Me too. She’s a nice kid.’ He gave me a half-suspicious look. ‘Not getting broody, are we?’ ‘No, we are not.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘Any more questions?’ ‘Are you wearing anything at all under that shirt?’ he asked conversationally. ‘Nick. I’m having breakfast.’ ‘So. We can improvise.’ ‘Sod off.’ He met my smile with a look of injured innocence; then sighed dramatically, and spread his hands. ‘Well, then: can I interest you in some toast?’ At least his hope for the afternoon was realised; and mine as well. Sandra liked her present lots. I sat back in the bedside chair and watched her hug it – pressing it up against her cheek. It looked about to smother her. ‘Oh, Rachel … he’s lovely. Thanks ever so much.’ ‘Thought you’d like him,’ I murmured, feeling almost as delighted as she looked: enjoying the glow of warmth that grew inside me. Nothing to do with broodiness, despite Nick’s suspicions; just the simple, heady buzz of making somebody’s day. Someone I’d seen at death’s door, and helped nurse back to health. She was still a little pale, but her fine brown hair had its sheen back now – and her eyes their sparkle. She looked like an eight-year-old girl was supposed to look: carefree, and full of fresh life. And I’d been her age once, of course – but I couldn’t imagine it. Not any more. Couldn’t dream of seeing the world with such unclouded eyes. I felt my smile becoming wistful, and glanced away: around the bed-bay. The colour scheme was insistently cheerful – bright paint backing up an agreeably scrappy wallpapering of kids’ drawings. Toys and televisions vied for attention. All trying – against the odds – to make the place a little bit less scary; a little more like home. It still smelled like a hospital, though. And no child’s bedroom was ever this clinically clean. ‘Has your mum been in to see you today?’ I asked, looking back at her. And Sandra shook her head, still cuddling her present. ‘Not yet – she’s coming tonight.’ She said it quite matter-of-factly; but I saw her squeeze the bear a little tighter as she spoke, as if seeking reassurance. I knew what the problem was, of course. Her dad had walked out years ago, leaving her mum to manage on her own with three small kids. So the poor woman had to work her guts out to make ends meet. I’d learned as much when Sandra was in with us – her mother almost frantic with worry, yet unable to spare the time she wanted to: time that was money her family needed. It had taken me a lot of quiet talking to convince her she was leaving her daughter in safe and loving hands; and a whole lot more to persuade her that she needn’t feel so guilty. Now that Sandra was back on the ward, I’d taken to visiting her regularly: trying as best I could to fill the gaps when her mum couldn’t make it. It would take more than giant teddy bears to manage that, of course; but she was always glad to see me, and the feeling was mutual. ‘Did you see the snow?’ I asked her, looking over towards the window. It was tall, and much in need of cleaning; the rooftops I could see through it were more grungey grey than white. ‘Oh yes. We can’t see much from up here, but Nurse Janet told me all about it. She promised to let me throw a snowball at her … if it’s still here when I go.’ Her small face fell. ‘But I bet it won’t be.’ Someone had appeared at the end of the bed: a sandy-haired young man with a serious, bespectacled smile. He acknowledged me with a nod, then turned his attention to the patient, and leaned forward to examine the bear. ‘Hello, Sandra. Is this your new friend, then?’ She stared up at him, eyes narrowed in childish suspicion. ‘Yes, he is. Are you a doctor?’ His smile widened. ‘I certainly am. Look …’ He unslung the red stethoscope from round his neck. ‘And this is my badge, see …’ It was pinned to his check shirt. ‘My name’s Dr Miller.’ She didn’t appear convinced. ‘You’re not a proper doctor, though. You haven’t got a white coat.’ Dr Miller glanced at me again. I just rolled my eyes. ‘When mum takes me to see Dr Hughes,’ Sandra went on firmly, ‘he usually wears a suit, but sometimes he’s got his white coat on. So I know he’s a proper doctor.’ So much for the medics on the kids’ ward not wearing white coats in an effort to make the place seem homelier. I grinned, and got to my feet. ‘I’m sure he’s a proper doctor really, Sandra: he looks like one to me. So I’ll leave the two of you to have a chat …’ Dr Miller winked gratefully; he’d already unhooked the clipboard of charts from the bed-end. I leaned down and ruffled Sandra’s hair. ‘Listen, I’ll try and drop in tomorrow, okay? Take care. Say hello to your mum from me.’ She nodded brightly, and gave me a wave. As I left, I could hear her proudly introducing Dr Miller to her very newest friend. I was still smiling as I left the children’s unit: off the ward, past reception and out through the double doors. They swung closed again behind me – and I heard the automatic locks click into place. There was a keypad next to them for staff, but otherwise it was admission via intercom only. You can’t be too careful these days. Well, that’s your good deed done for the day, Rachel Young. And now there was the shopping to be thinking of – and getting home before the rush-hour started. I paused in the corridor to plot my course: idly scuffing at the lino with the toe of my boot while I thought the options through. After the brightness of the ward, it seemed very dim out here: no natural light for a dozen yards. The corridor’s whole length would be well enough lit come nightfall, of course; but it was daytime now, and electricity could still be saved. Energy policy and all that. I’d seen a memo somewhere … So: Safeway or Sainsbury’s? I turned pensively towards the distant lifts. There was a cleaner mopping the floor half-way along the corridor, working in a pool of wintry sunlight from the nearest window. I’d taken the first step in her direction when I realized someone was behind me. There’d been no sound; not even a shifting of air. Just that sixth-sense tingle you sometimes get, when some prankster tries tip-toeing up. I turned round quickly. The corridor was empty. I stood quite still for a moment: puzzled. I’d been mistaken … and yet the nape of my neck was still cool and itchy. The gloom was deeper in this direction: the corridor leading to an unlit stairwell. The paint on the walls – already cheerless – had been sullied by shadow, like a coating of dirt. Even the air seemed grainy and begrimed. But no one was there. I could see that much, at least. Even as I stared, I felt unease creep up, and slip its arms around me. Despite myself, I almost squirmed – then turned sharply on my heel, as if to shake it off completely. But it clung on by its fingernails, and dogged me all the way back down to the lifts. The cleaner smiled a greeting as I passed her, and I managed one back – but it was just my face going through the motions. Something – out of nowhere – had spoiled my mood: some hidden concern, intruding to cast its shadow. Now, of all times. I could almost taste my disappointment. That, and something else: something much more bitter on the back of my tongue. Just before I got to the lifts I glanced over my shoulder one more time: I couldn’t help it. Beyond the cleaner in her splash of sunshine, and the signs announcing Paediatric Wards, the corridor lay in dingy silence. A hospital thoroughfare like any other. Of course. But it still took an effort to turn my back on it again; and a still greater one to stop thinking of all that darkness between myself and Sandra’s cheery smile. Through the rest of the afternoon it kept on coming back: that queasy, churned-up feeling in my stomach. Sometimes so acute that I even began to wonder – hopefully – if it wasn’t just something I’d eaten. Or some other easy explanation I could cope with. But as I trailed round Sainsbury’s, trying to focus my mind on budget and bargains, I couldn’t out-think the other possibility. I prevaricated for ages over which washing powder to go for; read and re-read each label in turn; but it didn’t help. Words just failed to sink in: my head was far too full of grimmer matters. I knew I was … sensitive to certain things around me: I’d found that out before. A common gift, apparently – but in my case strong enough to give me revelations: dreams and nightmares; and the awareness – sometimes – of presences not seen. It wasn’t a gift I’d ever wanted. After … the last time … I’d studiously ignored it: tried to school it out of my head. And as time had passed, I’d even started to forget it – and put my occasional flashes of insight down to female intuition. Or whatever. But what I’d felt this afternoon had been something more than that. So the hospital’s got ghosts. So what? It’s an old enough building … I made for a mental shrug, and – as usual – plumped for the Persil. By the time I got off the bus at the bottom of my road, I was feeling better. Still a bit delicate – the prospect of cooking tea aroused no enthusiasm at all – but my leaden mood had lifted somewhat. Maybe it was just tiredness, after all: things had been pretty hectic of late. I reckoned I could do with an early night. I let myself in, and lugged the two full carriers through to the kitchen; not bothering with lights, although the place was awash with winter dusk. I was back on home ground now: familiar territory, made more intimate by shadow. Here even the dimness had its comforts. But I liked the way the glow from the fridge spilled out around me as I loaded the shelves. I checked the kettle and clicked it on, then wandered back into the hall. The house was quiet: Nick wouldn’t be back until late. I was just shrugging out of my coat when I noticed the footprints. Smeared grey footprints, on my freshly-hoovered carpet: leading upstairs, and out of sight. For what seemed like a minute I studied them in silence – but that silence was full of all the sounds I’d just been making, coming back to me in waves: the rattle of the lock, the opening door; my tired little sigh, and footsteps through to the kitchen. Each mundane noise magnified a hundredfold by the knowledge that someone else had heard them too: that someone was in here with me. Nick, I thought, and opened my mouth to say it. But the dusky air flowed in and dried it up. My throat as well. Suddenly I couldn’t even croak. Because I knew it wasn’t Nick, of course; knew before the thought had barely formed. A stranger’s boots had made those marks. And even as I stared upstairs – and strained my singing ears against the hush – a fist of foreboding closed inside me. A burglar. Still here. I’ve surprised him. Upstairs. My eyes flicked to the phone on the wall. The overfull pinboard beside it seemed almost insultingly cheerful. So how fast could I grab it and dial 999? Faster than a shadow could come racing down the stairs towards me? And how long after that would a police car turn up? How many minutes? A minute’s a long time in rape. A very long time. I took a quiet, cautious step back towards the door – the one I’d closed so noisily behind me. All my attention was on the motionless murk at the top of the stairs; but as I passed the doorway to the front room, something just grazed the corner of my eye – and clicked in my mind a moment later. My head snapped round. A woman was sitting on the sofa, hunched uncomfortably forward: watching me from the dimness with cold, dark eyes. I rode the bitter wave of adrenaline, and just stood there staring back. She looked about my age: her face pale and taut. The eyes stayed steady; but they couldn’t belie the wariness – and hostility – in her expression. After an awful pause – a dozen painful heartbeats – she opened her mouth and said: ‘Rachel.’ I swallowed. ‘… What?’ ‘You’ve no need to worry. Listen …’ Her voice was low, and carefully emphatic. There was an accent there, but my mind was still too slippery with shock to grasp it. I wavered; her obvious edginess was hardly reassuring. Whoever she was. I made to ask the obvious. She cut me off. ‘Just sit down a minute, why don’t you?’ She was rising even as she said it. Shabby donkey-jacket, I noted; worn black jeans. And for all her attempts at a conciliatory tone, she was still watching with eyes as intent and unforgiving as a beggar’s. ‘All right …’ I’ murmured meekly, glancing down – then made a lunge for the front door. The lock, which Nick was always promising to oil, seemed to stiffen under my frantic fingers – stiffen and jam. I was still fumbling with the sodding thing when she grasped my collar, hauled me back hard, and sent me lurching off into the breakfast room. I turned around, teetering – and found she was pointing a gun at me. A pistol, held out at arm’s length. The face behind was livid. ‘Sit down,’ she hissed; and now I caught it right enough. Her accent – thick enough to slice. Sit doyne. Oh … shit shit shit. I took a helpless step backward – and once more had that spine-tingling feeling of somebody behind me: close enough to kiss my neck. I spun around. And this time there really was. She was watching from the kitchen doorway; I’d been in and out and missed her in the dusk. All the time I’d been filling the fridge, she’d been one of the shadows behind me, muffled in her long black greatcoat – her face masked with gloom beneath the brim of her hat. But the hat was in her hands now, her close-cropped head uncovered, and her face stood out as bleakly as a newly-risen moon. ‘Hello, Rachel,’ said Razoxane softly. ‘Welcome home.’ Chapter 4 (#ulink_b85e69cf-5618-52ae-8df3-7651a2acedeb) I might have fainted then – but my body refused to opt for such a cop-out. Razoxane straightened up from her slouch against the door-jamb: smiling thinly. I flinched, and swallowed a moan, but couldn’t step back: not with that gun behind me. All I could do was gawp. She hadn’t changed a bit. From the state of her clothes she hadn’t changed those, either. Maybe she looked a little paler; and thinner, to judge by the hang of her scarecrow coat; but still not a day over twenty-five or so. And the smile was all Razoxane: all razor. It cut me to the quick. My hand crept up to cover my mouth. I made a small, scared sound behind it. No point protesting I was seeing things, hallucinating horrors; still less in wondering how she’d got here – because here she was before me. Flesh and cold blood. The day outside was almost dead – but she still wore those shades of hers, the lenses cupped like goggles to the sockets of her eyes to exclude all trace of sunlight: the light she couldn’t stand. I tried to return her blindwoman’s gaze, but it was hopeless: like trying to out-stare a skull. Dusty-mouthed, I glanced aside; and realised I’d begun to shake. ‘Jackie’s right,’ came Razoxane’s voice. ‘You look like you could do with a good sit down.’ It was the edge of dry amusement in her tone that brought my head back round – and pushed fear past the flashpoint into anger. ‘For Christ’s sake leave me alone!’ The words came out like a stream of spittle. I’ve even heard that spit can drive back demons – but perhaps it’s the vehemence behind it that counts; the hate that really matters. And hate was what I tasted now: it filled my mouth like bitter medicine. Hate for the past I thought I’d left behind me. And hate for Razoxane – who’d brought it with her. Not being a demon, Razoxane stood her ground – and clicked her tongue in mild admonishment. ‘Rachel. Is that any way to greet your long-lost sister?’ ‘You’re no bloody sister of mine …’ I managed grimly. ‘Not in this life, maybe.’ Her thin smile hadn’t faltered; it was still so horribly knowing. ‘But we still belong together, Rachel. Believe it. We’ve walked apart too long.’ I almost choked. ‘Listen, I’m not following you anywhere … ever … again. All right?’ Behind me, the Irish girl shifted impatiently. Unsettled. ‘McCain. You said we could trust her …’ That lifted the hairs on the back of my neck: made me think of twitchy trigger-fingers, and bullets in the spine. I swallowed so hard it hurt my throat. Razoxane looked past me. ‘She’s had a shock; it’s only to be expected. Thought I was dead, didn’t you Rachel?’ (Hoped, I thought back viciously, still glowering.) ‘Listen, give us a few minutes alone: I’ll talk her round.’ I risked a glance behind me; the girl met my eyes suspiciously, before lowering her pistol with exaggerated slowness. There was a message in the gesture as much as in the gaze: a barely-veiled threat. Jackie. That’s what Razoxane had called her. I found a moment to wonder if that everyday name – this young, unsmiling face – was one of those behind the atrocities of recent weeks. The thought was dizzying. I really hoped she wasn’t. And was really afraid she was. Then Razoxane was beside me, her hand on my shoulder: her bloody hand – however many times she’d washed it. I didn’t even try to shrug it off. Suddenly I didn’t have the strength. So we went upstairs to our bedroom – Nick’s and mine: retracing Razoxane’s dirty bootprints to the place I’d once felt safest. Once inside, I went straight to the window and just stared out – at the cherry-red streetlamps coming on, and the ashen sky beyond them; stared, while our bed creaked behind me. There were kids still playing, down there in the park: scampering and shouting through the gathering grey. I left it as long as I could; then let go of the outside world, and turned reluctantly around. She was reclining comfortably against the pillows, her booted feet crossed on our nice clean duvet. The black leather was withered and grey with grime; her jeans were tucked into the tops. The grubby combination of her greatcoat and her grin made me think of some Victorian ragamuffin in a long-faded photo. ‘I was quite looking forward to that cup of soup, you know …’ she said, reproachfully. ‘Why’d you come back?’ I hissed. It sounded almost petulant: the last stab of someone who’s lost the argument already. Which of course I had. Razoxane shrugged. ‘It’s a round world, Rachel. Even if we walk away, we always end up back in the same place.’ I mulled that over dully for a moment, then ventured: ‘You … cheated the Void, then?’ She nodded. ‘In the end. It almost had me …’ Her gaze slid away as she said it, her voice growing raw. She paused, and her silence spoke the rest – or some of it. I waited nervously. ‘Melphalan got out,’ she continued after a moment, her unseen eyes now roving the room. ‘Bastard. I couldn’t hold him …’ The shades fixed me once more. ‘But you stopped him, Rachel. You really did. I was impressed.’ An image of cremation lit my mind – and filled my nostrils with its stench. I grimaced, instinctively rubbing my fingers over my pinched-shut lips. Then something else occurred to me, and almost froze them into place there. ‘But … If you got out …’ Her smile was back again, still faint; she shook her head. ‘The other two didn’t. They hadn’t the strength: they hadn’t the will. They’ll still be sinking now, Rachel. The Void goes on forever.’ And you almost dumped me there, didn’t you? Another pause. She’d returned her attention to her hat: was turning it idly between her fingers. I noted the circlet of old, discoloured iron pushed down around the crown. ‘So what do you want now?’ I asked. ‘Your help,’ she answered simply. ‘What?’ ‘It’s true,’ she insisted. ‘Believe me, Rachel, if I didn’t, I’d have left you in peace. You’ve already been through enough.’ I could agree with her on that, at least. More than enough. Again I waited. ‘I’ve things to do in this city,’ Razoxane said slowly. ‘Things you don’t want to know about …’ ‘Oh, God,’ I blurted. ‘Not more Clinicians?’ She shook her head. ‘Not this time. My business with them is finished.’ She settled herself back. ‘I’ll say no more about the wherefores: it’s best you don’t know. But it’s work I’ve recruited some help for.’ I thought of the restless woman downstairs; could almost picture her pacing up and down in the hall. ‘That girl – Jackie or whoever. She’s …’ I hesitated, half-aware I was stating the obvious. And half afraid to. ‘She’s a terrorist, isn’t she?’ ‘That’s an emotive word,’ said Razoxane mildly. ‘Razoxane. Jesus!’ I could feel my frightened outrage beginning to seethe. ‘What the hell are you doing, bringing her to my house?’ ‘I thought it would cut out some of the small talk,’ was her unperturbed response. ‘Explanations and such. Much easier to let you see for yourself.’ ‘I’m living with a policeman, for God’s sake.’ ‘Well, she doesn’t know that, does she?’ I found I was hugging myself. Gripping my shoulders tight. ‘All those bombings … Liverpool Street and places. You did those?’ My voice had sunk to a disbelieving whisper. ‘Not personally, no. But I’m involved. There are reasons, Rachel.’ I stared back at those uncompromising shades. The face below had hardened; like the voice. Open-mouthed, I just shook my head. Fractured images of mutilation seemed to rattle round inside it. And then all the rest came crowding in; the other injuries and deaths. The tearful faces. The creeping fear we’d all begun to feel – and our revulsion for the people who made us feel it. One of whom was staring at me now. ‘No reasons, Razoxane,’ I said, still whispering. ‘Not for that …’ ‘You’ll understand them someday,’ she told me evenly. ‘Some fine day …’ She paused then, and glanced back down at her hat; picking her next words carefully. ‘But in the meantime, one of my … co-workers has managed to get himself injured. He’s in your hospital, under guard. We need your help to get him out.’ Just run that by me again is one of those Americanisms I pick up from time to time. I almost used it then. Instead I just said, incredulously, ‘Fuck off.’ ‘Language, Rachel,’ she chided amiably. ‘Just go away,’ I snapped, not looking; my fingers sliding up into my hair to grip my skull and squeeze it. As if that would somehow stop the pounding in my head. ‘Please, Razoxane … whatever you’re up to … for Christ’s sake leave me out of it.’ ‘I’m sorry: it has to be done. This isn’t something primitive like politics, Rachel; it’s much more serious than that.’ ‘Razoxane. I don’t want to be involved.’ I stressed it like a string of full stops. ‘But you’re already involved,’ she pointed out softly. ‘You’ve seen her face, now: one of my terrorists – as you call them. An excitable young woman, as you’ll have noticed. If she finds you won’t co-operate … Well.’ I felt my stomach lurch, and looked up quickly. She was fingering the occult-looking amulet she wore at her throat; her pale smile had grown sly. ‘What if she was to find out you sleep with a policeman?’ She glanced over at the dressing table. ‘That him, is it?’ There was a photo of the two of us in a frame there. Nothing fancy; just a snapshot by a friend. Nick in a chair and me sitting in front; his hands resting gently on my shoulders. I nodded wordlessly. Razoxane’s smile grew chilling. ‘What a very nice couple you make.’ My eyes were suddenly stinging wet: tears of sheer frustration as much as anything. She’d do it, all right – and nothing I could say would stop her. I was past feeling scared for myself now; but fear for Nick yawned inside me like a bottomless pit. ‘Please …’ It came out sounding like a sob. ‘No need to get upset,’ she murmured. ‘It’s all so straightforward, Rachel. No risks. I just need you to find out the layout of the ward he’s on; where the guards are. That sort of thing. All right?’ I sniffed, and managed a reluctant little nod. ‘Excellent. I knew we could count on you.’ And with that she clicked on the bedside lamp, and turned her attention to the bookshelf beneath: the things I sometimes browse through on the downslope to sleep. I rubbed my sleeve across my cheek, and watched her study the selection. I tried to focus my frustration into rage again, but it wouldn’t gel. I was too demoralised for that. All I could think of was house and home and happiness now balanced on a knife-edge: the steel of her razor smile … ‘Glad to see you’ve still got both feet on the ground,’ she remarked drily, pulling out a book to read the back. The Radical Tradition; I recognised it from here. Saints standing up for the poor. Most of my religious books were the same sort of thing. Social awareness; justice and peace. None of that trite evangelical stuff. ‘Still believing in saints then, Rachel?’ I nodded again, feeling the smallest spark of defiance inside me. But it wasn’t kindled. Her smile was thin, but not mocking. ‘And guardian angels too?’ ‘Maybe, Razoxane,’ I said dully. ‘Maybe. But you’re not one of them.’ She shrugged, and picked another book. ‘Ah, yes …’ There was satisfaction in the word. ‘Mother Julian of Norwich. The visionary. The Anchoress.’ She looked at me again. ‘You know her story, then?’ Once more I nodded; warily now. ‘She walled herself up inside a church – to meditate on God. A lot of people did things like that in the Middle Ages. Hermits and such …’ ‘So they did. Withdrawn from the sight of the living … that’s what the name meant. Anchoress. Anker. Ankerite …’ There was an edge to the way she pronounced that last word, but I couldn’t grasp why; and Razoxane just went on thumbing through the book. ‘Cheer up,’ she said a moment later: her smile sardonic. ‘See what she says here, Rachel. All manner of thing shall be well.’ She had, too. All manner of thing. But right now I couldn’t believe it. After a pause I said: ‘Your … terrorists. They don’t know what you’re doing either – do they?’ She put back the book, still smiling. ‘Not entirely.’ ‘So what … ?’ ‘They’ve got fire-power in all its forms: I need it to finish this work. I need their bullets and their bombs. But most of all I need their blindness. Once someone’s started killing for a cause, they’re so easy to use. So easy to snare and to seduce. I promised them power, in the context of their sordid little war; they came scuttling to me for what they thought they could get. And now they’re mine.’ She flicked dust – or ash – from the brim of her hat, and watched it filter downward through the lamplight; then raised her sombre gaze to me. ‘We’re going to put the terror back into terrorism. Believe me, you’re well out of it.’ ‘Will I be, though?’ ‘Yes, you will. One small favour, and then you can forget you ever met us.’ ‘Witch’s promise?’ I asked bitterly. Razoxane grinned. I swallowed. ‘And what if they realize … ?’ ‘They won’t: at least, not in time. And a little more time is all I need.’ My mouth was still dry, but I found the saliva somewhere. ‘I might tell them.’ Razoxane’s smile grew almost fond. ‘Yes, Rachel, you might. But I wouldn’t recommend it. Not unless you want your vocal cords cut.’ I didn’t. So I shut up. When we came back downstairs, the girl – Jackie – was waiting in the hall, her pistol out of sight again and both hands in her jacket pockets. She hadn’t turned on any lights, and her face was smudged with dimness, but I could read the impatience written there – and the unease. ‘All right?’ ‘Sure,’ said Razoxane calmly. ‘No problem.’ She turned to me. ‘I’ll be in touch, Rachel. Soon.’ Her smile showed up palely in the shadows. ‘Keep the faith till then.’ I almost hit her. Jackie opened the door – so easily, after all my struggling – and peered out into the street. The air that wafted in smelt of frost. After a moment she glanced back at Razoxane. ‘Okay.’ Her gaze switched to me – a mistrustful parting shot – and she slipped out. Razoxane followed. I shut the door behind them. Silence fell. I listened to it for what seemed like ages: the stillness of a truly empty house. Then I went slowly into the unlit front room, sat gingerly down, and just waited for the rising night to swallow me whole. Chapter 5 (#ulink_7614fd77-ea52-56ca-87b0-4d37ffb35e9f) I felt suddenly – absurdly – afraid to turn the page, but only for an instant. Then, with a rustle of paper, it was done – and the entry leaped to meet me. Johann’s dog-eared copy of the British National Formulary: I’d picked it up from where he’d left it on the desk, without thinking, and started browsing morbidly through it, towards the page I used to dread. Perhaps today it would help me get a grip: seeing the word again in black and white. Razoxane. Just a drug-name; one of God alone knew how many aliases she’d used (like McCain, which I’d known her as first, and which – it seemed – her terrorists called her still). Its very sound was viciousness enough; but it was appropriate for other reasons too. Because razoxane’s a chemo drug, one of those for people with cancer. Cytotoxics, as they call them. Cell-killers. Kill or cure. The last time our paths had crossed had been like one of those operations which succeed at the cost of the patient’s life. She’d come on like a medieval doctor – bleeding and butchering in her hopeless quest to heal. I scarcely dared think what she might be up to this time. So don’t, I told myself grimly. Don’t think. Just do what she wants and forget it. I did feel a twinge of guilt at the prospect of helping a terrorist escape – but only a twinge. The cold, unpleasant instincts of survival quite eclipsed it. It would happen anyway, and what could I do? Tip off the police? Tell them the current round of atrocities had been unleashed by an eighteenth century witch, who believed she was a reincarnated fallen angel? Oh, yeah, that would really go down well. Besides, whatever they thought, they’d never catch her. And she’d cut much more than my vocal cords next time … A sudden quick shudder went through me: the sort you might get if you linger too long on a whiff of vomit, and your body starts coming out in sympathy. Still grimacing, I glanced up – and found Sue leaning over the upper worktop, watching; mouth nervously half-open. I reshaped my expression as fast as I could, but discouragement was there in hers already. I could have kicked myself. Because Sue had something on her mind, I knew it: something that had been troubling her for days. And just then she’d seemed on the brink of broaching the subject. She didn’t now. Just swallowed, and asked me to crosscheck Mr Jackson’s next drug infusion with her. I did so, waiting for her to try again even as I compared label and drug-chart. But she didn’t; and in another moment the rhythm of the unit had drawn us apart again, with different nursing matters to attend to. I wondered what was up. Boyfriend trouble? Or something more work-related? I didn’t think it was that poor girl’s death: Lucy’s friend in the burning car. Sue had been preoccupied before that happened. Quieter than usual; sometimes snappier, too. Something was there inside, and wanted out. Another job for Sister. It wasn’t one I’d shrink from. Like Lucy, she was a friend as much as a member of my staff. I wanted to see her smiling again; I’d be happy to listen and advise – when she was ready. When I got back to the station, the BNF was still lying there open: almost mockingly. I closed it on that awful word, and glanced down at my watch. Nearly ten to one: it would soon be time for break, and a well-earned breather. And a wander, on some vague pretext or other, to the Orthopaedic wards. They were trying to be less obtrusive. I’d gathered there had been complaints about armed policemen parading around. But the situation was obvious enough – a uniformed copper in an unzipped anorak sitting boredly outside the side-room door. The window-curtain was drawn behind him. A rather superfluous note sellotaped against it advised all-comers not to enter without seeing the nurse in charge – a form of words more commonly used on the wards to convey the discreet message There Is A Dead Body In Here. But not this time. At least (oh, Razoxane …) not yet. I’d been through two Ortho wards already; it was getting difficult to keep my cool. I was in full uniform, of course – laminated ID badge and all. No one had given me more than a glance (a guilty one in the case of a Care Assistant I’d found gossiping in the corridor). But I still felt unnervingly exposed; as if the eyes of every patient and nurse I’d passed had turned to watch me. Pure paranoia, of course. The walk down that last long ward had felt like half a mile, but the two girls doing the drug round only looked up long enough to judge, from the briskness of my stride, that I knew where I was headed. Beyond them, another nurse was perched on the paper-strewn desk, the phone tucked under her chin as she scrawled out a note. We’d exchanged a casual smile; she kept on talking. I kept on walking. The adjoining ward was empty. I guessed it had been shut a while ago; perhaps they were even getting round to painting it. The beds had been stripped to their metal bones, looking doubly bleak in the grey daylight. But there was a fluorescent on at this end of the room, just beyond the entrance doors. Peering cautiously through the porthole, I saw the copper sitting there. No Entry said a hand-printed sign above the window. A bit difficult to miss, but still … The PC glanced round as I came on through, his expression dour. ‘Sorry, this bit’s closed.’ ‘Oh … right,’ I said, and nodded dutifully: trying to ignore the thudding in my chest. ‘Still at it, eh?’ He grunted, but amiably enough. ‘Yeah – but not for long. Shift change in half an hour …’ His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘You don’t work round here, do you …’ Oh God, he’s got his wits about him, this one. I felt my smile slipping. ‘Er … no. Just passing through. Shortcut …’ ‘Thought I hadn’t seen you. Anyway, I’ll not be sorry to get going. Hate hospitals. Don’t know how you nurses stand it …’ Just an idle enquiry, that’s all it had been. A bored young man just making conversation. I swallowed. ‘Being good, is he?’ I ventured. Somehow it managed to come out sounding casual. ‘Who, him?’ He jerked his head towards the door behind him, the curtained window. Please speak to Nurse in Charge before entering. I couldn’t quite get the ominous connotations of that phrase out of my mind. ‘Good as gold,’ the copper was saying, a sneer on his thin young face. ‘Not much choice, really, has he? Sod …’ My heart was still steaming away. I was convinced I’d betray myself if I lingered for another minute. But I also knew I’d never have the nerve to try this again; and people would get suspicious if I did. I had to get everything I could in this one go. ‘You never know …’ I smiled (hoping it looked like a smile) ‘… he could be making a rope out of sheets right now.’ He snorted. ‘Nah. Brian’s in there with him. And not to read him bedtime stories, neither.’ I nodded; but my eyes had found his revolver now, the butt peeping out from under his anorak as he bent forward, and I couldn’t keep them off it. He didn’t notice; he’d been picking up his paper. ‘There’s a lot of crap in the Sun these days, too,’ he muttered, folding it back onto the crossword. ‘I went down to get the Mirror, but they’d sold out …’ He sat back, and the gun was out of sight once more. The ease with which he ignored it only made its presence seem more menacing. Two of you, then. ‘I’d best be getting on,’ I said quickly. ‘Have fun.’ ‘I will. I’ll see you, Sister.’ With a grin, he got back to his puzzling. I supposed if I’d been an ordinary member of the public he’d have called me ‘Miss’; a courtesy that always seemed to come out sounding cold. But uniformed professions can meet on equal terms; and trust each other. Oh, yes. Retreating – walking off the ward and back towards the lifts – I hoped against hope that he was wrong: that the two of us would never meet again. And that he wouldn’t be on duty when Razoxane came visiting. Nick was late home; it was gone eleven when I heard his key in the door. More than a little relieved, I called hello – but if he answered at all, I didn’t hear it. When he came into the front room, his expression was wan and strained. ‘You’re not going on any more of those soup runs,’ he said, without preamble. I blinked. ‘What?’ ‘You heard me, Rachel. It isn’t safe.’ I was curled up on the sofa, watching Question Time. Comfortable and half-asleep – until a second ago. Now I sat up, frowning. ‘What are you on about?’ ‘Listen a minute, will you …’ He saw my frown deepen towards a scowl, and spread his hands. There was a can of beer from the fridge in one of them. ‘For your own good, Raitch. Something … bloody terrible happened this evening.’ The TV seemed suddenly too loud. I fumbled for the remote and flicked it off. Then drew my knees up under me and waited. Nick took a long swig, and swallowed it down. Wiped his mouth, still watching me. Then started to talk. ‘There was a fire-bombing over in Kentish Town – just after nine o’clock. Wasn’t it on the news … ?’ I shrugged; I hadn’t watched it. ‘Well, it was a squat, and someone burned it down. Two people were trapped inside. Died inside.’ He paused for another gulp of beer. ‘Three managed to get out: two dossers, and some woman we think was a charity worker. Shelter or whatever. They’d all had the crap beaten out of them, and …’ He paused again there, but not to drink. Just shook his head. There was a look like helplessness on his face. I felt my heart-rate speeding up. ‘And we’ll never get to hear what happened, Rachel. Not from them. Because … Jesus … whoever did it gouged their bloody eyes out – and cut out their tongues. All of them: even the ones who burned …’ I almost flinched back from him; almost mewled in disgust. But now he’d started talking, he had to finish. ‘Some neighbour came to see if he could help – so the bastards set dogs on him, Rachel. Bloody Dobermans, from the state he’s in. Poor sod’s in ribbons. And there I am, just looking forward to booking-off time when I get called to attend that. Blood everywhere, and … screaming. Faces, screaming. And they wouldn’t stop. Not even the ambulance men could make them stop …’ I just sat there, numb, both hands to my mouth. Strands of hair had fallen into my eyes; I didn’t even think to brush them clear. This had been a cosy room a minute ago; now – in just my loose T-shirt and leggings – I suddenly felt freezing. Nick took a deep, tired breath. I clambered up quickly, and started towards him. His words alone had given me gooseflesh; but he’d seen sights. Such awful sights. There’d be counselling available, and colleagues to talk to – but right now, I knew, he needed holding. It was as much a nurse’s instinct as a lover’s. Oh, Nick. ‘Still don’t believe in evil people, then?’ he asked me sourly; and even through my sympathy, I felt the barb in that: it hurt. ‘Well they’re out there anyway, Rachel. And that’s why you’re not going on any more soup runs.’ His tone was flat, and categorical. ‘End of story.’ He turned back towards the kitchen. And of course, if he’d put it just a bit more reasonably, I might even have agreed. Would probably have jumped at the chance not to go out and get my hands dirty again – especially with Razoxane now lurking in those grimy shadows … But to tell me what to do like that, and turn his back, had just the opposite effect. Sympathy went up in smoke. Abruptly I was bloody furious. ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, Nick Mitchell,’ I snapped, going through after him. ‘And don’t ever tell me what I’m going to do.’ I caught up with him as he was getting a second can out of the fridge; the kitchen lino felt clammy under my bare feet. I grabbed his sleeve. ‘Look, you can lay off that, as well … I’ll decide if it’s safe for me to go out and help the homeless, all right?’ He shrugged me off. Blocked me with his back while he cracked the can open. ‘All right?’ I repeated, and he turned. ‘Sorry, Rachel, I forgot. You have to be a socially responsible member of society, don’t you.’ I couldn’t stand the edge of sarcasm in his voice. Suddenly I tasted tears. ‘Just sod off, Nick.’ ‘… or maybe it’s just your Christian bloody duty. Always the bloody same. God, you’re never alone with a Catholic …’ I just gasped aloud at that. He walked past me, gulping beer, and I wheeled. ‘Well, thank you. I’m bloody living with you, aren’t I?’ And yes, I did get guilt complexes about it sometimes – but that was something I could live with too. He went back towards the lounge: I followed. The argument went round and round. Shouting didn’t help, but we shouted anyway. It struck me at one point, as I paused for breath, that this was the best row we’d had in ages – one for the archives. Perhaps he should get his bloody camcorder out, and tape it. The thought brought a moment’s bitter pleasure. Then I laid in once more. The end, when it came, was quite sudden. Without any warning the fires went out, and left us there weak and winded; I had the same sick feeling I remembered from school sports day, at the end of a gruelling race. I turned my face away long enough to wipe my arm across my eyes, then glanced back at Nick. He didn’t look too far from tears himself. ‘Oh God, Rachel, I’m sorry …’ I sniffed. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeated, almost whispering. ‘I’m worried about you – that’s all. Couldn’t stand the thought of that happening to you …’ He reached tentatively out; I slapped his hand aside. After a pause he tried again, and so did I, but he caught my wrist, and then my other – and I felt my strength and anger melt like wax. I didn’t resist as he clumsily embraced me; and after a moment I was hugging fiercely back. ‘Oh, Rachel, Rachel …’ he whispered into my hair, as I finally let the floodgates open. ‘I love you. Love you so much …’ We finished up in bed together: a reconciliation on equal terms that sweated the last of the bitterness out. Afterwards, I just snuggled up against him, with sleepy satisfaction. No thoughts left now, only feelings – and the sense of a timeless moment here in the dark: a refuge between tomorrow and today. I was probably still smiling as I floated into sleep. And found my worst nightmare waiting. Chapter 6 (#ulink_4365c1b1-8f4a-5896-b88b-5e1156d371b1) The feel of it came first: a slick and clammy dampness on my skin. I tried ignoring it for as long as I could, lying there in the murk – but enough of my mind had surfaced for me to realise that I wouldn’t make it to the morning – not now. I was soaked in fresh sweat: fever-sweat, like the onset of flu. And sooner or later I was going to have to peel myself off the bedclothes, pick my way through to the bathroom and wash it off. So it might as well be sooner, I decided glumly; waited another few minutes, and finally forced myself upright. And with that movement, the scales fell from my eyes. Daylight filled them; but a dull, damp daylight, like the reflection from wet pavements. And everything was gone: the bed from beneath me, the bedroom around. I found myself out in the rain, beneath a bleary sky – cold droplets striking my startled face, and rolling down like tears. I was in the middle of a building site: a field of grey earth and gravel against the city skyline. The downpour had turned much of it to mud. The nearest buildings were all gaping shells; whether half-built or half-demolished I couldn’t tell. The rain pressed home the atmosphere of this unfinished place: the sense of dripping desolation. Pools and puddles were swelling in the mire around me, bubbling beneath the downpour. I clambered breathlessly up, already sopping wet. There was no one in sight, but that didn’t reassure me; my stomach felt as hollow and sore as if I’d fasted for a week. This place looked like a war-zone – a killing ground in Eastern Europe – and it felt like one as well. Those tread-marks in the mud had been left by bulldozers, of course; but the watchful sniper-silence of the buildings was not so easily shrugged off. I backed away from them, stumbling; shivering – and then a sound came rasping through the stillness, and I swung around to look. Still nothing to see, but the noise came again almost at once: a grim, metallic scrape. It sounded like a shovel. Like someone digging, just over a rise in the ground to my right. For a moment I just stood there, getting wetter; gnawing nervously at my thumb. The shovel-sounds continued in a broken rhythm – and at least they meant that somebody was working in this waste ground. So why didn’t I want to even see him? But the buildings were giving me the creeps as well; I was becoming convinced that someone was lying up in one of them, and staring balefully out at me. It was that thought that finally drove me up over the rise. Better the devil you see than the one that you don’t … The digger was there on the other side – and closer than I’d thought: head-down over the shovel. Dressed all in soiled and sodden black, like a vagabond undertaker. And it was Razoxane. I gasped – and her head snapped round. The scene winked out before her face had fully registered – but as I dropped back through the dark towards my sleeping body, the palest after-image of her expression followed me down. No more than what I’d glimpsed; but I sensed a dreadful anger there – as though I’d stumbled onto something I was never meant to see. I almost whimpered with fear … and realized I was back in my bed. My nice warm bed. The shock was almost physical – as if I really had plunged from a dizzying height, with only the mattress to break my fall. You’ll come down to earth with a bump, my girl: that’s what Mum used to say when she scolded me. One of these days … I tried to open my eyes. They wouldn’t. ‘Jesus, we’re losing her …’ someone snapped. There was sudden consternation all around me: a frantic sense of movement overhead. Even as I lay there, helpless, I heard that voice and others overlap; the words seemed frighteningly familiar. Then someone’s fist slammed down onto my chest, and my eyes sprang staring open. Even in that first, winded moment I knew I was in hospital – but not as a nurse. Not this time. The glare of striplights was mostly blocked by overhanging bodies, and faces peering down at me; a tight-mouthed doctor to the fore. But I was the one in bed now. And as the crushing pain continued, and filled my chest, I realized I was dying. The doctor put his hand on my heart, pressed his other palm down over it, and began compressing – hard. It hurt. Cardiac massage means squeezing the heart between sternum and spine, and now I knew just what that felt like. I wanted to groan out loud; I found I couldn’t even grimace. Not a muscle of my face would move. Someone else – the anaesthetist? – forced my slack mouth wider, and shoved an airway deep into my throat; I almost gagged. The pumping went on. I felt a needle pierce my arm, as sharp as a wasp-sting – but the pain was nothing compared to the panic. My chest was still on fire; there was the bilious foretaste of vomit in the back of my mouth. But worst of all was the icy feeling that I had only seconds left to live … ‘… defib …’ someone said; then: ‘Clear … ?’ The figures drew hastily back even as I felt the cold metal paddles – slick with jelly – pressing down against my smoothed-out breasts. Then the defibrillator buzzed. And the agonising jolt brought me fully awake. At last. At last. I was gasping tearfully for breath – and drenched with sweat. Nick had woken, and his arms were round me, holding tight. And as his instinctive, sleepy mumbling grew clearer and more comforting, so at last I let myself relax. My heart kept up its whamming for a minute or two longer, but that was almost a joy: proof positive that it wasn’t going to stop. ‘God, Rachel …’ I sensed his smile then, in the dark. ‘You were making more noise than when we were awake …’ He brushed the damp hair off my forehead. ‘Bad dream?’ Very bad. I gave a quick, wordless nod. I let him cuddle me for a while longer, then peered over at the alarm clock. Just gone five. No chance of any more sleep this morning; I’d be getting up anyway in an hour. And I wasn’t about to lie here, cold and greasy, and count the minutes. ‘I’m just going to take a shower,’ I whispered. ‘Sorry I woke you.’ He murmured something, his hand sliding down my back as I got up. I heard him settling down again as I went through to the bathroom, and shut myself in with its hot, bright bulb. For more than a minute I wavered between the shower and the toilet bowl. My stomach felt close to overspill, and even the short walk across the landing – naked in the dark – had sluiced it round some more. I waited until it was fully settled before venturing behind the plastic curtain. Then I just turned and turned the tap, until the spill became a downblast. I stayed under it for ages. Soaped and scrubbed; shampooed and soaked. And little by little I felt myself becoming clean. But when I closed the tap again, and the roar of water dripped and dribbled into silence, the ghost of Razoxane’s face was still there in my mind. And so was the fear of her rage in my belly: as indigestible as lead. Oh God, I didn’t mean it, I found myself thinking even as I reached for my towel. I didn’t want to see. And now I’ll forget it, Razoxane: forget it ever happened. Promise … And maybe she heard my thoughts: sensed them from wherever she was now, out there in the night. But even if she did, I knew she wouldn’t believe my promise. Because neither, of course, did I. I was still a bit shaken by the time I got to work – but a busy morning helped fix my mind on the here and now. Routine stuff, but plenty of it: infusions to change, effusions to aspirate and measure, observations to record. I wrote up my nursing notes in a stark spill of light from the X-ray box as Murdoch – just out of Theatre – discussed fresh films with his juniors. Then it was on to the unit round, providing casenotes and commentary as each patient’s progress was reviewed. Our newest, a bloke in his sixties, was still distressed and disorientated; not least because the ventilator patched into his throat left him unable to speak. I took time to comfort him as best I could; trying hard to understand and answer his gaspy, voiceless questions. All of a sudden it was nearly half-past twelve. ‘Doesn’t it just fly when you’re enjoying yourself …’ Jean observed drily, on her way to the sluice to empty a bedpan. I couldn’t help a wry little smile at that; but it was true enough. And after lunch, in the slacker time of shift overlap, I’d be doing Sue’s appraisal: a review of her professional development. Something else to get my mental teeth into. And maybe we’d get round to discussing whatever it was that was bothering her, as well. Someone else’s troubles to consider, for a change. ‘Sure there’s nothing else?’ I asked casually. I knew I was nearly there. In my office with the door closed, we’d started off formally enough – but after an hour of honest, friendly discussion, we’d both relaxed a lot. I found I’d drawn both legs up under me where I sat, almost without realizing. And Sue’s initial apprehension had largely faded. But still she hesitated at the question; not quite meeting my eye. ‘Fancy a Polo?’ I prompted, reaching into my drawer. I felt for the packet – and found that metal spinner waiting there. It chilled my fingertips; but I managed to keep my smile in place, and fumbled out the mints. She nodded, and reached over to pick one. Still smiling, I watched her face: and wondered. Like me, she was clearly trying to put something dark behind her; but whatever it was still kept her awake at nights – I guessed as much from the weary pallor of her features. She looked like she hadn’t slept for days. This afternoon she’d made an effort: done herself justice, and come over well. But even then, there had been moments when her mind was somewhere else again. She wanted to talk, I knew; and didn’t want to. An equal balance. It was down to me to tip it. ‘I’m always happy to listen, Sue,’ I told her quietly. ‘Professional or personal, it doesn’t matter. And sometimes it helps to talk, it really does.’ Sue shrugged. There was a pause. Then, still looking down, she whispered: ‘Rachel, I’m so scared.’ Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t quite that. Domestic problems, perhaps, or money worries – but not fear. I leaned forward, frowning: concerned. ‘Suzy. Scared of what?’ A few suggestions skittered through my head even as she paused again. Unplanned pregnancy. Positive smear test. Even unprotected sex with a stranger. I didn’t much fancy coping with any of those. She swallowed. ‘I have to tell someone, Rachel. I have to. And … maybe you’ll understand … Being religious and all …’ When she glanced up at me again, she looked on the verge of tears. I waited. ‘We were just fooling around,’ Sue continued, her voice still low. ‘Me and a few of the girls on my corridor. We’d been to see a show, we got back late … we were talking. Just sat around in the top-floor common room, talking. About ghosts and things like that, at one in the morning. And then … just for a giggle … Gill suggests we have a seance.’ She paused again, uncomfortably: watching for my reaction. I just nodded her on. ‘Well … we’d had a bit to drink, and we thought, why not? Safety in numbers, and all that. So: we laid out one of those ouija board things, with a glass and all, and … Have you ever tried one of those, Rachel?’ I shook my head quickly. ‘No, well, you’re lucky. Anyway, we all put a finger on the glass, like you do, and we started …’ Something cold had started creeping up my back, towards the nape of my neck; but I managed to keep my expression neutral – like a good Samaritan. I knew Sue lived in one of the old residential blocks annexed to the hospital; I could almost see the scene before me. Everyone sitting round the table in that upstairs room, the empty mugs and cigarette-stubbed saucers cleared away. Just the circle of makeshift letters in their midst, now – and the upturned glass. ‘It moves, you know. By itself. It really does.’ She was suddenly insistent – as though pre-empting any show of scepticism. She needn’t have bothered, though; and I think my face told her so, as much as my nod did. I believed her right enough. ‘So anyway … we were asking questions, and it was spelling out answers – really slowly. And then, while we were thinking what to ask next, it started to spell a word of its own.’ She stopped. ‘Which was?’ I ventured, against my better judgement. Sue hesitated a moment longer. Then: ‘Wampir.’ I blinked. ‘Spelled … ?’ She spelt it out almost cautiously, as though afraid someone would hear her through the door. Or the wall. And I leaned back, still frowning – but beginning to see a glimmer of light now. A glimmer of hope. ‘Listen, Sue … You’re sure it wasn’t one of your mates winding you up?’ She shook her head – quite calmly. ‘Oh, I’m sure, Rachel. Because as soon as it had finished, it started again. Only harder.’ The glimmer began guttering. ‘And then again, and again, just the same word. Wampir. More and more violently, as if something was coming closer all the time. ‘And then the glass just shattered.’ I was so absorbed by this point I actually winced. ‘And that really freaked me out, Rachel,’ Sue finished quietly. ‘Well, all of us, actually. And now … I just keep thinking, what did we really do? And what might happen next?’ She’d managed to keep the threatening tears in check through all of this, but the catch in her voice now showed how close the dam was to bursting. ‘Oh, Sue, Sue …’ I reached out for her hand, and took it tightly in my own. ‘How long have you been bottling this up for, then?’ She sniffed. ‘About … a week.’ ‘Well listen … The best thing you could have done was tell me about it: not just let it fester inside you. We can look at it together, now.’ I could feel her returning my grip: it’s a good job nurses have short nails. She moistened her lips, looking like a girl fifteen years younger than me, rather than just five. ‘Do you … believe what they say about … evil spirits and things getting out during seances?’ ‘Um …’ Yes. ‘… I think it might have happened sometimes,’ I said carefully. ‘But I don’t believe anything like that can really hurt you, Sue: not unless you let them. And the very fact that you’re worried means you don’t want that.’ She gave her head a miserable little shake. ‘You’re right to think it’s dangerous,’ I went on. ‘But I think you’ve been lucky. I’d tell your friend Gill the same thing, if I were you.’ She had let her eyes drop, and I freed one of my hands to lift her chin up and meet them again. ‘It’s all right, Sue. Really. I’m glad you told me – and you’ll feel better for it. You wait.’ She smiled damply back; and I felt a moment’s inner satisfaction at the sight. Hardly your average appraisal session – but it had achieved its objectives nonetheless. I tried to ignore the lingering discomfort between my shoulder blades. Damp patch. Cold spot. An awareness of what might have happened, when Sue and her friends had started to unpick the edge of darkness … ‘Do you … think it could have been a real vampire?’ she asked after a moment; a bit more objective now. Interested, even. I smiled faintly. ‘No, I don’t. I don’t believe at all in vampires, Sue. Whatever it was you picked up was just trying to scare you, that’s all.’ ‘Well, it bloody well succeeded.’ She gave a final little shudder, and settled back. Some of the weight had lifted already, I could tell. ‘Thanks ever so much, Rachel. I really needed to talk.’ ‘No trouble.’ I gave her hand another squeeze before letting go. We tied up the interview’s last loose ends; already preparing to get back to the hands-on business. But at the door she paused, with her hand on the handle, and glanced back once again. ‘Rachel … Could you give us a thought tonight?’ I nodded once. ‘I will.’ And she went on out. A shabby Victorian nurses’ home; a high winter night. She’d need to know she wasn’t alone: that someone else’s thoughts were with her in the silence. I knew it was the closest she’d go to asking for a prayer. Time for me to re-emerge, too. Back into the fray. But not quite yet. I sat looking down at the word that I’d doodled, and imagined – though I struggled not to – a voice without a throat, speaking out of the darkness. Slurred and distorted by the distance and dead air. Wampir. Wampir. Wampir. Chapter 7 (#ulink_373536b2-5c85-564a-bb2e-addf33f28650) In the crisp afternoon sunlight, even the grey streets behind King’s Cross had a certain glamour about them. Patches of melting slush flashed bright reflections; the tarmac glistened. The drab pavements looked as if they’d been gilded. Fool’s gold, and we knew it. Both of us. Me on the Sunday afternoon soup-run, and the bloke I was talking to, who hadn’t slept in a bed since last September. ‘Not that I believed all that stuff,’ he insisted, taking another sparing sip. ‘A city’s a city; this one’s the biggest, that’s all. You think, there’s got to be some kind o’ work here somewhere …’ He shrugged. ‘Preston, you said you come from?’ ‘Aye.’ He smiled quizzically. ‘And you: Birmingham, right?’ I shook my head. ‘Coventry.’ ‘Nearly right.’ I gave him a look – and grinned. ‘Well we’re all in the same shit-hole now.’ He glanced around him; past the parked minibus and its straggling group of customers, to the sombre fa?ades that hemmed us in. The two huge stations loomed above and beyond them, to the west. King’s Cross, with its vaulted canopies; and St Pancras, towering and gothic. St Pancras Cathedral, I always wanted to call it: a real pile. The sun hadn’t made it any warmer; hunks of dirtied, frozen snow still lingered in the gutters. I hunched my shoulders up inside my coat as the wind changed again – and almost felt guilty for the gesture when he did the same, with only his threadbare bomber jacket to keep it out. ‘Mind you don’t get cold now,’ he murmured, without irony. He sounded quite concerned. ‘Don’t worry …’ I assured him; and wondered how Nick would take it, if he knew. Which he didn’t, of course. After we’d argued to a standstill the other night, the subject had been left lying. But I think he reckoned he’d had the better of it – and made me see sense at last. So I’d volunteered to go on this afternoon’s run partly for the private satisfaction of doing what I saw fit. Partly. But there was a particular reason why I’d opted to go with the King’s Cross group, as well. A reason to do with the dream. It was one of the few real details I remembered: something seen smudgily through the downpour as I’d breasted the rise. St Pancras Cathedral, off to the west; like a gloomy castle rotting under the rain. The thought of using the landmark, and actually seeking out the waste ground, had appalled me when it first occurred; and grown increasingly fascinating thereafter. My reasoning mind had tried to shake itself free: warned of tempting fate – of tempting Razoxane. But all to no avail. My dream had picked up on something secret, I knew that much: something she wanted no one else to see. So perhaps if I saw … and even partly understood … it might give me some kind of leverage against her. Something I could use, if push came to shove. Which, knowing her, it would. I realised the others had started packing up; the ragged gathering around us was beginning to disperse. The bloke from Preston downed the last of his soup. ‘Listen … you ain’t got a fag, have you?’ ‘Sorry – gave up a while back.’ Regretting it sometimes, too. ‘Very wise, flower. Wish I had the will.’ He gave me a worn-looking smile. ‘Thanks for the soup.’ I nodded, and watched him wander aimlessly off. A couple of older men – much further down the road to dereliction – passed behind him, snarling at each other. Jim Stanley’s touch on my shoulder made me jump. ‘All aboard again, Rachel.’ I turned my head. ‘No. ‘It’s okay: I’ll stop off round here. I’ve … got to check some train times.’ ‘We’ll drop you, then. King’s Cross … ?’ ‘No, no … Really. Five minutes’ walk is all it is.’ He looked doubtful. ‘You sure, now? It’s not the sort of area you want to hang around in. Not on your own.’ He was right of course: I didn’t want to. Not one bit. But the impulse had its hooks in now, and I knew there’d be no denying it. Just a brisk little wander was all it would be: looking over towards St Pancras, trying to line it up with my memories. Never straying too far from the busier main roads. Work on the rail link was well underway now; open-cast construction sites spreading out behind the stations like mismanaged bed-sores. Old buildings – slums and storehouses – were being cleared away, and new foundations laid. So I knew pretty much what I was looking for. I just had to find my particular field of mud. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’ I smiled, but said it firmly, and Jim knew me well enough to leave it at that. ‘Okay then.’ He hesitated just a moment longer: a pleasant-looking bloke, with his thoughtful eyes and greying ginger beard. Then raised his hand, palm outwards. ‘We’ll see you, then, Rachel. Good to have you along.’ I nodded, and watched him get in behind the wheel. Others waved from inside; I waved back. And then the minibus was off, and heading back down towards Pentonville Road, its exhaust pipe smoking in the cold. The empty street seemed very quiet when it had gone. Most of the dossers had already withdrawn: fading back into the shadows like a phantom army. I was on my own now. Digging my hands deeper into my pockets, I glanced uneasily around; then started walking. The rattle and clank of an incoming train drew my attention, but it was lost to sight behind buildings. I mentally followed it south to the brooding towers of St Pancras. Was this the angle I’d dreamed it from? I paused. Perhaps. Moving back onto York Way, I turned north, towards the main excavations. Even this main road was relatively quiet – just sporadic Sunday traffic swishing by. The building sites themselves were silent and deserted. Coming to the first, I peered curiously in between rusting railings – but mounds of churned earth blocked most of the view. There were old sleepers and chunks of masonry mixed in with the spoil. A little further on I had a tiptoe glimpse of derelict goods sheds, and nettle fields hedged with brambles. None of which left me any the wiser. I paused again, not sure what I should do next. Something was nagging at the back of my head. I couldn’t quite place it; but plain common sense suggested I head west into Camden as soon as I could. This was hardly the most salubrious of districts, especially for a woman on her own. It wasn’t just the prospect of kerb-crawlers or aggressive addicts that was nibbling at my nerves, though. And a moment later, I twigged what my subconscious mind had already noticed. The trickle of traffic had stopped completely. No cars at all had passed for several minutes. Frowning, I peered both ways: the road was empty for as far as I could see. Almost as if it had been blocked somewhere. The thought of the area being sealed up with me inside it was hardly likely, but it finally lost me my nerve. Quickly I retraced my steps to where the road branched westward, and turned along it. Goodsway, said the signs on sooty brick. The walls were high and grimy on both sides; but a set of gates on the right gave a view of the canal. Still no traffic passing. A building on the far bank caught hold of my attention. It looked like a ruined warehouse; the roof was missing, the windows glassless. Scaffolding braced the crumbled upper levels, and snagged at the sky. The place had a sinister, lowering air. At four or five storeys, it seemed as imposing as a fortress. Something squeezed my heart like an iron hand. It was nothing I could justify with eyes and ears; just a horrid sensation of being watched from those lofty ramparts. As if Razoxane herself had made her roost there. Spooked, I looked away and pushed onward – round the corner and downhill: putting the wall back between us. I passed the old gas works, its girders standing out against the sky like the ribcages of giants. And then a car appeared, cruising steadily up towards me … followed by another. I felt an irrational upsurge of relief. St Pancras Cathedral hove slowly into view. There was more clearance work going on near the foot of the hill, but I wasn’t going to hang around investigating that. I made straight for the junction under the railway bridges. The afternoon sun was sinking fast, and the triple span cast a long deep shadow, soaking the road. A glimpse of the westering glow beyond made it seem for all the world like a gateway out of hell. With a sentinel on sombre watch beside it. I slowed almost to a stop; the impression was quite unnerving. Then I realized it was a policeman waiting there. I felt a rush of reassurance; but only for a moment. As I drew closer, and took more in, I saw details that unsettled me afresh. He wasn’t a beat PC: oh no. Not with that short black carbine across his chest – cradled lightly in the crooks of his arms. A weapon as real as the ones I’d seen at work, and twice as ugly: I couldn’t stop staring – not even when he turned his head to watch me pass. His eyes were flat and unfriendly beneath the peak of his cap. A black muffler covered his mouth against the cold, its ends tucked into his turned-up collar. I could see the in-the-ear headphone he wore, wired up to the handset beneath his coat. I wondered what was up. A crackdown on the crack dealers, perhaps. Or maybe this was part of the anti-terrorist response we’d all been promised: more police on the streets, with the wherewithal to finish the job. I sensed him follow me with his gaze as I walked on into the gloom. Heard him murmur something to his radio, and I knew he was talking about me. And even as my ears began burning, my stomach shrank towards the opposite extreme. In all my innocence, I realised I felt guilty. Suddenly I’d have preferred any number of building-site ‘appreciations’ to that quiet, clipped report. The dimness I’d walked into was damp and smelly, but the sunlight beckoned beyond it. A rhythmic clunk of sleepers overhead, and then I was out; the bridges behind me, and their dour guardian too. I could have sighed with relief. There was a big police transit up ahead, parked with its wheels on the pavement; its bodywork like gleaming bone beneath a patina of grime. I closed the distance slowly, curious now. Perhaps I’d get to see an operation underway; the sightseer in me felt a flash of anticipation at the thought. But the waiting vehicle still left me uneasy, like they always did: not just for its cold, aggressive bulk, but for its grimmer features – the wired-in lights, and the riot shield racked up above its windscreen like steel mesh shades. Community policing kissed goodbye; the riot sections rode in things like this. And the firearms units too: coppers with guns, like the one back there under the bridge. God, Nick. Stick with your squad car. Stay smiling. The side and rear windows were ambulance glass: I couldn’t see whoever was inside. I knew they could see me, though. I could almost feel the watchfulness coming through those black panes as I passed. The driver was in his cab, and gave me an unsmiling glance. He made me feel like a potential criminal as well. I lowered my head and kept going. ‘Excuse me, Miss …’ I wavered – that guilt again – and then turned towards the man who’d spoken. He was already crossing the road towards me, a radio in one hand. Wearing one of those high-visibility yellow jackets over his uniform, the reflective stripes like ribs. There were silver pips on his epaulettes, I noticed. He’d be an Inspector or something. ‘May I ask where you’re going, please?’ Quite politely – but some reckless part of me still wanted to mutter No, you may not. The sort of witty riposte that gets you a night in the cells if you’re not careful. ‘Camden Town,’ I answered, sensibly; trying to appear all calm and unruffled. ‘I’ve been helping with a soup run by King’s Cross.’ Trying to seem the interested citizen too as I added: ‘Is this to do with the bombings, then?’ He looked like he hadn’t had more than two nights’ sleep in seven: his face pale, and shadowed with stubble. But his smile, when it came, was genuine enough: it widened his light blue eyes, and made him handsome. I guessed he was a little older than me; but even after all he must have been through these past few weeks, there was still something almost youthful in that wry expression. ‘Afraid so. We had some information … but it’s come to nothing.’ His tone was low and pleasant, with just a hint of exasperation. I found myself beginning to warm to him. With some people, things just click. ‘You … look like you’ve been on the job a while,’ I ventured. ‘Too bloody right.’ He scratched absently at the roughness of his cheek. ‘Surveillance stubble, you could call this …’ As he turned his head to glance upstreet, I saw a neat receiver tucked into his ear, too, its wire leading down into his collar. The transit behind us started up, and sat there ticking over. The Inspector lifted his handset to his mouth. ‘All units from Whisky Oscar One … Back to the transport, we’re moving on.’ He lowered the radio, and smiled at me again. ‘Best be on your way too, Miss. It’s not the safest area to be on your own in …’ I nodded; though it still felt safer than the one I’d left behind me. Walking on, I couldn’t help wondering if they’d caught a whiff of Razoxane’s terrorists: somewhere round here. Or maybe Razoxane herself. If their information had really been correct, they’d have had a result, all right: a total blood-bath. No prizes for guessing who I thought would walk away. And I’d shared a smile with that bloke while knowing what I knew. This time the twinge of guilt was real. I’d walked a hundred yards or so when the transit passed me, cruising. I glimpsed the Inspector sitting up beside the driver. They reached the intersection just ahead – and came scrunching to a stop. Give Way said the sign; but nothing was coming. The intersection stayed deserted, like the street. But the transit just sat there – its brake lights all the brighter now that the day was losing colour. For no obvious reason, I began to slow my pace. And then they were off again, tyres rasping over tarmac as they turned north, and put on speed, and were quickly lost to sight. A personable bloke, that Inspector; but something told me he knew his stuff. As did his men, if the one I’d seen was anything to go by. Well, Razoxane, I thought, resuming my thoughtful walk. I’d watch my bloody step if I were you. Maybe the outcome of their encounter wouldn’t be such a foregone conclusion after all. Chapter 8 (#ulink_f2468a2c-5aad-5ca5-b9f9-d06498e4597d) According to the Know Your Medics notice on my office pinboard – a classic fifth-generation photocopy – Consultants can clear tall buildings in a single bound, walk on water and give policy to God. But when Murdoch put his head round the duty-room door, it was only to ask if we were all okay for transport next Thursday evening. ‘I’ve room for two more if not; three, if you count the roof-rack …’ We assured him that we’d manage, and were looking forward to coming – which was true. Sickness and workload had conspired against the unit’s Christmas meal out last month, and it had gone by the board; an act of surrender that had left us feeling pretty flat. He’d picked up the vibes – and quietly organized a party at his own house. I don’t know about the others, but that gesture had really warmed me inside. Some Consultants stay aloof; but Murdoch, medic and manager, was very much one of our tightly-knit team. It promised to be fun: a night off we all needed. I just hoped I wouldn’t be the spectre at the feast … ‘Well if there’s nothing else, I’ll be wending my merry way homeward …’ He glanced down at his briefcase. ‘I’ve got my mobile, if anything interesting crops up.’ I smiled goodbye, and listened to his footsteps click away towards the exit; then looked round at the others. ‘Really nice of him, isn’t it? The party, I mean.’ Johann (Senior Reg: clears short buildings with a favourable wind, and talks to God) leaned back, grinning. ‘He has these aberrations sometimes.’ ‘I couldn’t have imagined it when I came here,’ Lucy murmured, from the depths of our comfiest chair. ‘Him throwing a party. I was really scared of him to start with.’ ‘You are not alone,’ Johann said, with a wink at me. ‘I think even Rachel is afraid of Dr Murdoch.’ ‘Good God, yes,’ I agreed cheerfully, tucking my feet up under me. ‘Bloody Godzilla would be scared of Murdoch when he’s in one of his moods …’ ‘His wife’s meant to be very nice,’ Michelle put in. ‘She’s a nurse, isn’t she?’ ‘Used to be, I think. What’s her name, too … ?’ ‘Mrs Murdoch.’ ‘No. Her proper name.’ I gave Johann a withering look; he beamed it back at me. ‘It’s not an other-halves do, is it?’ This – without enthusiasm – from Lucy, who was currently unattached. Michelle shook her head. ‘Members only.’ Which was what most of us preferred. I quite liked showing Nick off on occasion – but there were times when we needed to be together as a group. It had been the same in A&E, and on other wards before it. The things we’d shared between us forged a special kind of bond. ‘You and your bloke well settled now, Rachel?’ Lucy asked me. ‘Mm.’ I smiled. ‘My parish priest was asking how my “significant other” was, the other week. Always teasing me about it, he is.’ ‘You haven’t managed to drag him along to Mass, then?’ ‘He keeps threatening to mention that I’m on the pill. Rotten sod. Don’t know why I put up with him, sometimes …’ ‘Do we know who’s bringing what to this bash?’ asked Theresa, which brought my head round: I’d half-suspected she’d nodded off. She’d been the doctor on call last night, and it was obvious. SHO: makes high marks on wall when trying to clear short buildings; is sometimes addressed by God … ‘I said I’d do some sausage rolls,’ I told her, ignoring the look of mock-panic that passed across Johann’s features. ‘Right. I think I’ll do something veggie, just in case …’ She stifled a yawn. It was almost time to get back to it. I felt at ease in here – unwinding from a dismal afternoon. The hours of routine graft hadn’t been enough to distract my thoughts from the man in that empty ward down on Orthopaedics; still less from Razoxane, and whatever she was planning. Break, in this comfortable room, had provided a welcome refuge from all that, with everyday friends relaxing around me. But all good things must come to an end. ‘Okay, folks,’ I said, unfolding myself and reaching for my shoes; and the others sighed and complied. Even Johann: because Senior Reg is just no match for Sister. Lifts buildings and walks under them. Freezes water with a single glance. She IS God. It had rained hard during the evening: a sour, spiteful noise against our darkened windows. I’d tried to ignore it, hoping it would somehow have cleared by the time I knocked off – and when I finally emerged from the front entrance, I was pleased to find it had done. The road was a river of lights: white and red and orange all reflecting from the glistening surface and shimmering in puddles. I thought it looked quite pretty. The air felt cleaner, too – freshly-scrubbed of its fumes; the City grit dampened down. And up above my head, seeming not much higher than the hospital’s grey gables, the moon was unravelling the clouds. So I kept my brolly furled, and walked on down towards the tube station with a damp breeze in my hair. It was turning chilly now, and my long nurse’s raincoat wasn’t thick enough to keep it out, so I didn’t hang around. A brightly-lit bus hissed past; a whirring taxi. Then enough of a gap for me to cross the street, and hurry in under the reassuring glow of the Underground sign. That bloke in the hospital blanket was waiting there again. Perhaps this was his pitch now: I’d seen him a couple of times since that first day of snow. He sat just inside the entrance, his back to the wall; both knees drawn up in an almost foetal huddle. He’d had an emergency haircut from somewhere, and the result made him look more like a refugee than ever. Deliberately he met my gaze – and extended his hand. Hungry and homeless said the cardboard sign beside him. Please help. I was already fumbling out my travelcard; my purse was there before me in my open bag. I still managed to walk right past him. Perhaps it was the particular grimness on his face this cold, wet evening that made me turn on my heel. His slaty eyes blinked, but showed no other emotion as I went back towards him. I knew that if I gave in to him now, he’d expect it again – looking for one friendly face amid the daily flood of blank expressions – but what the hell. I fished out 20p even as my eyes strayed to the blanket to see if it was one of ours: we’d had enough of them nicked. Then I stooped, and offered him the coin. He made no move to take it; just looked from it to me – and grinned with all his teeth. ‘That’s kind of you, Rachel,’ he murmured drily. ‘But I’d much prefer it if you offered me a drink.’ I just stood there, arm extended. Staring. ‘You’ve gone terrible pale, girl,’ he continued after a moment, sounding amused: the grin had dwindled to a sombre little smile. That accent: Scottish – right? Please? ‘C’mon.’ He began getting to his feet; I backed away a step. ‘There’s a coffee van just down the road. Just so’s you can make sure I’ll not be spending it on booze an’ all …’ The irony in his tone only made the accent richer; and it wasn’t Scottish. People were brushing past me all the while. I heard muttered imprecations, but not a word of them sank in. All I could do was grip my bag – clutch it close to my tight chest. I knew I’d lost colour, all right: I could feel my bloodless cheeks becoming cold. Grey eyes. Metal eyes. They made his dirty face seem all the bleaker. And now the smile had faded in turn, and he was watching me without expression. It struck me then that – under the soiled and trailing blanket, and the cast-off clothes beneath it – he must be carrying a gun. Something he’d use without a scruple, if the need arose. Something he’d use on me. ‘Let’s go.’ A jerk of his head and he was off and walking. It took me a moment to unfreeze myself – and then I was hurrying to catch up, the bright, bustling haven of the station falling behind me. Not that I was keen to leave it, of course; just scared to death of putting a foot wrong. ‘Don’t look so bloody nervous,’ he muttered, as I stumbled into step beside him. ‘You’re buyin’ me a coffee, remember. Out o’ the kindness o’ your heart.’ Walking with my head down, I sensed his sidelong glance. ‘So smile, and say somethin’.’ I swallowed, forced a ghastly grin, and said, ‘Are you … really living rough, then?’ He grunted. ‘For the moment. What better cover in this shit-city of yours? I’m just another fucking Irish drunk.’ The irony was all gone now; his words had the same dull, steady bitterness as the evening’s rain. I guessed that whatever prejudices he already held against the English had surely been redoubled by his experience of the streets. I wondered what he’d have done if I hadn’t spared some change tonight. Maybe come after me; accosted me on the platform. Dragged me back up top again … ‘At least you offered,’ he went on, his tone a little softer. ‘And without knowin’ who I was, to boot. Like I said, that was kind.’ He glanced at me again – and now that he’d cleared some of the sputum of resentment from his chest, he seemed to really see me for the first time. Including the uniform I wore. ‘It’s not usual, y’know: people from your kind of profession supportin’ the cause. They can’t see past the violence …’ From his pensive tone, I couldn’t even tell if he was admiring my vision – or just regretting the fact that even nurses could get dragged into his dirty little war. Either way, I almost shuddered with disgust. The snack van was up ahead: an unhygienic-looking trailer selling burgers and hot-dogs as well as drinks. I went ahead and bought two beakers of muddy coffee, avoiding eye-contact throughout; turned to hand one to him – then followed him on round past the vehicle. To where Razoxane was waiting. I nearly dropped my drink. She was leaning against the corner, nursing a beaker of her own in both shabby gloves. Spots of rain still glistened on the brim of her hat, where the street light fell upon it; the face below was all in darkness. The Irishman walked over; I baby-stepped unhappily after him. And Razoxane raised her unseen eyes. ‘Evening, Rachel.’ A stripe of orange light showed up her smile. ‘How’s it going?’ I didn’t deign to reply. ‘This is Frank,’ she went on calmly, nodding to my companion – and once again I was thrown by the ordinariness of the name. Maybe I’d expected him to have been called Seamus or something. Frank took a swallow of coffee. He looked about twenty-five, and tough: like the sort of bloke who’d start a pub fight. The press, police and politicians had poured out all their rage and frustration against a faceless enemy – but I’d looked him right in the eye. And her as well: that Jackie. Both close enough to touch. And smell … Razoxane tipped her head up: studying the hospital across the road. I followed her gaze towards its glowing windows – and for the first time felt like an outsider myself. Excluded. Looking in from the cold. ‘What have you found out for us?’ she asked. I told her, in a flat reluctant voice. The empty ward, the room, the guards. I’d seen a copper by the lifts, as well; another in the main foyer. When I’d finished, I just took a swig of coffee. Quite tasteless, but the heat scorched right down into my belly and made me grit my teeth. ‘When’s the best time?’ Razoxane wanted to know. ‘Um … To get to him, you mean? Probably the Late/Night handover … nine o’clock. The nurses next door will all be in Report. Out of the way,’ I added emphatically. Frank had finished his own drink, and was putting together a roll-up; but every few seconds he glanced up the street, and down it. A wary reaction rather than a nervous one, perhaps; but nervous was what it made me. Razoxane drained her beaker, and flipped it casually towards the nearby litter-bin. ‘Think they might transfer him?’ I hesitated, keeping my face towards the wall. ‘It’s possible, yeah. Somewhere more secure …’ I forced down some more coffee – fighting the chill. ‘We’ll come tomorrow night, then. What shift will you be on?’ ‘Late again, but …’ I stopped. Then, uneasily: ‘Why?’ ‘Because first you’ll have to get hold of some hospital clothes,’ she explained patiently, ‘and then meet the visitors, and show them up to the ward …’ ‘Oh no I won’t,’ I blurted back, my breath still steaming from the coffee. ‘You asked for information, I gave it to you, now sodding well leave me alone.’ Razoxane seemed to absorb that in silence; the hiss of tyres on wet tarmac was very loud in the pause that followed. Beside her, Frank licked and sealed his crumpled cigarette, his gaze not leaving me now. Then Razoxane said: ‘Remember what we agreed – about our mutual friend? I’d really hate to come between you.’ I knew she meant Nick, of course. The way she said it made me think of a falling shadow, a guillotine blade – but of course it would be more horribly mundane than that. A ring on the doorbell, perhaps; his footsteps going through to answer it. I might be in the kitchen, or reading a book. And then … I’d have thrown the last of my coffee in her face if I’d thought it would do any good. ‘Something for two people to wear,’ her cold voice persisted. ‘White coats, theatre pyjamas – whatever. Find them somewhere to change. Then up to the ward …’ She was sucking me in again, and I knew it. Deep into her dark whirlpool of madness and terror. I should have bloody realised from the start. ‘Agreed?’ I managed one convulsive nod. It probably looked about as agreeable as a head-butt. ‘Got a light?’ Frank asked. I simply turned to him and stared; it was Razoxane – of all people – who fished in her pocket and brought out a book of matches. Frank stooped, and lit up from the flame she’d struck; straightened a moment later with a murmur of thanks. Razoxane kept staring at the flame. It quivered and grew bluish in the restless air; she cupped the glow, and her glasses caught it. Even in my sick, numbed state, I registered surprise. The shades weren’t for show, I knew that much. Whether as a consequence of the witchcraft she’d used to prolong her life, or just the centuries she’d spent delving into the darkness, she hated light: it hurt her. But still she watched the burning match. Then the night breeze snuffed it out. Her head half-turned towards me, as if to catch me watching. The gesture re-awoke the fright of my dream and I looked quickly – guiltily – away, across the road. When I looked back, she’d moved in close: I had to swallow down a shudder before it set all my muscles off. Frank was smoking, over by the kerb: still watchful – but not quite within earshot. ‘It’s all part of the same favour,’ Razoxane said quietly. ‘I meant what I said before. I don’t want you involved this time.’ I stared helplessly back at her; this icy, evil woman who treated me as she might a younger sister. And suddenly a question was rising to my mouth, as irresistibly as vomit. Something that – involved or not – I knew I had to ask. ‘Last week … There was a fire-bombing up in Kentish Town. People with their … eyes and tongues cut out.’ I swallowed; the question’s bilious taste remained. So I spat it out. ‘Please tell me that wasn’t you.’ Razoxane smiled faintly. ‘It wasn’t me.’ I felt a tiny flicker of relief. ‘It was someone looking for me,’ she added softly. Chapter 9 (#ulink_e38f4558-6854-5b6f-8ff3-e8dd18d5719d) ‘What’s up with her ladyship today?’ I heard Lucy mutter – unaware that I was there, outside the storeroom. ‘Who, Rachel?’ ‘Yeah. Five minutes late, that’s all, and she really bites my head off. Cow.’ I know listeners never hear good of themselves, but her tone still hurt a lot. It didn’t sound like a friend talking: not even a frustrated one. More like someone who’s bottled up her feelings for far too long. And I’d thought we got on well, the two of us. Her cross, unguarded whisper made me wince. On top of everything else – all the weight on my mind – I had the sudden, scary thought that maybe no one cared for me, not really; that all their smiles were just for show. Suck up to Sister and keep her sweet … At that moment – still only half-way through this dragging afternoon – the sense of no one left to turn to almost broke me down in tears. ‘I think she’s just tired, that’s all,’ came Jez’s voice. ‘She didn’t mean to snap …’ ‘Yeah, I bet she’s tired. I think she’s got a bloke on the side somewhere, and it isn’t working out …’ Oh you bitch, I thought; but more in misery than anger. ‘… my last Ward Sister was the same. She’d have maybe five blokes going at once, and whenever she’d had a bust-up with one of them, she just came in and took it out on us …’ Biting my lip, I walked quickly on down to my office – no longer caring if they heard my footsteps. I could picture their reaction back there: a shared, sniggery glance of mock-horror. Sitting down at my desk, with the door safely closed, I felt a salty stinging in my eyes and nostrils: creeping up like a gathering sneeze. Being Sister is often a lonely job, of course; and sometimes a thankless one. But even its most isolated moments couldn’t compare with the awful solitude I felt now. And there were still six hours to go. I’d counted nearly sixteen out already; I hadn’t slept a wink. All through the night I’d squirmed and wriggled, trying to get comfy while Nick just snored. Trying and failing. The bedside clock had crawled on through the small hours: at half-past three, the rain began again, wet and sullen against the windows. Lying with my face pushed into my pillow, listening to the streaming black night, I just hoped she was out there somewhere – and getting very wet. I pretended to be asleep when Nick got up for his six-to-two, though. I couldn’t bear the thought of sleepy small talk on this of all mornings. Not when I was nerving myself to betray two of his colleagues, and help put a murderer back on the streets. His gentle parting kiss on my bare shoulder almost made me sob. From then on, things got slower: time became treacle. It was like all the worst waits of my life rolled into one. Interviews. Exams. Even my driving test. I felt breathless and gutted. When I finally got up, I couldn’t face the thought of breakfast. Slouching in my nightshirt on the sofa, trying to browse through the paper, I felt just like I had before my last interview. Could practically see myself, dry-mouthed and dressed to the nines, nervously crossing and uncrossing my legs. Skimming through a copy of House & Garden that might as well have been in Russian. But that had been a bit exciting, too: a challenge. This was like waiting for an excecution – without hope of a reprieve. It might have been better if I’d known this was some meticulously planned operation, weeks in the preparing: something that might go without a hitch, and no one hurt. But what I’d been roped into was a rush job, made up almost as it went along, and the potential for disaster was appalling. Of course the sheer nerve of the thing was a crucial factor; spontaneity and single-mindedness might yet succeed against the odds. But if they didn’t … The thought of terrorists shooting their way out of a sleeping hospital turned my stomach inside out. And just to put the lid on things, there was Razoxane’s chilling little comment to contend with. What she’d said about the Kentish Town atrocity. Someone looking for me … She’d told me I didn’t want to know her business, and she was right. But she’d still involved me, up to my neck; and ignorance was no defence against whoever might be on her heels – as that poor woman from Shelter had discovered. Whatever she was up to, someone (or something?) in this city was ready to mutilate and burn without mercy in its efforts to track her down. And they’d come by night before; but what if they’d got wind of me, and were already on their way? Right now? A few grey streets away, and getting closer … ? What if, what if, what if? Feeling physically sick now, I forced myself to take a long, hot shower. And then I dressed, with almost fatalistic care. Everything clean and fresh, from knickers and slip on out. In case you’re in an accident, they say. As if the thought of them stripping clean clothes off your lifeless body is supposed to make you feel a little better … Someone scratched at the door – and brought me back to my office with my jolt. I turned my head and swallowed. ‘Come in.’ It was only Jez, his smile seeming casual enough. Perhaps he hadn’t heard me walk away; or maybe he had, and was trying to gauge my mood. I felt the worm of paranoia begin to wriggle again. ‘We’re running low on shrouds,’ he said brightly. ‘Thought I’d let you know.’ Oh, brilliant. Thank you, Jez. He’d leaned in around the door-jamb, and was just swinging himself back out again when I saw him hesitate, almost teetering. ‘You okay?’ Did I look like I’d just been crying? At least the betraying streaks of tears were gone – soaked up by the tissue now lying crumpled in my wastebin. I managed a sore-eyed smile. ‘Yeah, I think so …’ ‘You look whacked,’ he persisted seriously. ‘You really shouldn’t push yourself so much.’ The concern in his face was friendly and genuine, and it gave me a lift I really needed. I felt my smile becoming warmer. ‘I won’t, don’t worry. I’ve … got some time owed from Monday: I’ll go off at half-eight, if you’re happy to do handover.’ ‘Sure, no problem.’ He grinned encouragingly, and was gone. My smile dried up and withered on my face. One more step towards the point of no return – if I hadn’t already passed it. I’d told Razoxane I could be waiting at the door downstairs with half an hour to spare: and that was now confirmed. Jez hadn’t seemed surprised, either, even though I didn’t often bother to take time back. Usually I’d be here to the bitter end, reluctant to cut and run – for reasons that lay somewhere between a sense of duty and a sort of superstition … Maybe he saw it as a measure of how tired I really was. Not that I’d be getting any rest tonight, of course; I wondered if I’d ever sleep again. My system was sick and singing with adrenaline now, and my shift not half-way over. Half-past eight, then. The fire-doors nearest the loading bay. That’s what I’d told them last night. The outside lighting was poor round that side of the hospital; the door itself was not alarmed. Scrappy NHS security: I’d complained about it enough times in the past. Raised it direct with management when my own locker got broken into. Nothing had been done. Well, they’d had their chance … Less than six hours, now. I knew I’d be measuring them out in minutes as I went through the motions. And at some stage – probably my supper break – I still had to steal those bloody clothes. It was just gone half-eight when I started down into the cold bowels of the building. Feeling smaller and less confident with every step. Ours was one of the oldest hospitals in London: a great, rambling Gormenghast of a place – just like in those books I’d read at school. Each specialty held its corner, its enclave of wards, supported by a warren of clinics and kitchens, laundries and labs; all linked by lifts and stairwells and long, haunting corridors – a labyrinth you could easily get lost in. But this real-life citadel had its dark side too. The brightest light couldn’t keep its dinginess at bay. The leap from sterility to seediness you got, coming out of our hi-tech unit, always came as a jolt. And down in the nether regions, beyond the public gaze, the decay was even further advanced. All depressing enough at the best of times; but tonight I really felt like I was going down to the dungeons. I had the clothing with me. Getting hold of it hadn’t been hard: not really. I’d put it off long enough to start getting panicky, but in the end all I’d had to do was raid a linen skip in the corridor outside. Two sets of loose blue pyjamas, the hospital’s name stencilled boldly on the backs. They were used, but not obviously soiled. I’d glanced around and grabbed them, stuffing them into the yellow plastic rubbish sack I’d brought along. Back on the unit, I’d helped myself to a spare white coat as well; there were a couple hung up in the office. None of the others gave me a second glance as I came and went; we’re bagging up waste ail the time. When I finally took my leave, it just looked as if I was taking a sackful down to the doors. Jez waved goodbye from a bedside. I faked a smile. The presence of the bag down here would be a bit harder to explain, so I hoped I wouldn’t run into anyone. But the Lates wouldn’t start filtering down until after nine-fifteen, so if I was lucky … Then again, if I was lucky, I wouldn’t have got caught up in all this in the first place. Would I? The corridor was bare, and bleakly lit; I hurried down it. I hadn’t left stuff in a locker since the break-in – and after a nurse was attacked down here last year, I hadn’t used the changing rooms at all. Certainly not at the end of a Late. Even wearing my uniform on public transport, which sometimes got me ogled and even pestered, was preferable to that. It was quiet down here. Echoey. My footsteps bounced ahead of me. My throat was tight and dry by the time I got to the fire-door. There was no one out there. Swallowing, I leaned down on the bar – and the door clanked loudly, stiffly open. The damp night air swilled in. Silence from the nearby backstreet; a faint swish of traffic from round the front. I drew back, my heart hammering. For maybe a minute, nothing happened. Maybe more than a minute. The yard outside lay motionless in the half-light of a white sodium lamp. Then a shape detatched itself from a stand of metal wheely-bins and walked quickly over, closely followed by another. I drew even further back as they came through. The first was a man of about Frank’s age, with brown hair and beard; he looked me full in the face for an unsettling moment, then past me to check the corridor. I could tell at once that he was nervous. The second was the girl called Jackie; she didn’t look too keen on this herself. Both of them were scruffily dressed, and smelled of the Underground: that dull, distinctive odour. They’d probably spent the last few hours down there, haunting the platforms, sheltering from the rain. Psyching themselves up. ‘This is Brendan,’ Jackie introduced grudgingly. I just nodded, with inbred politeness – and noticed the short, thick bundle he carried under his arm, wrapped up in a Sainsbury’s bag. ‘Er … what’s that, please?’ I said it just like a nurse: one who’s caught a patient trying to hide an illicit food parcel. Jackie almost sneered. ‘Flowers for the patient; what d’you think?’ ‘God … Listen, you’re not going to start shooting in there, are you?’ ‘Not if no one gets in our way,’ she answered flatly. ‘Now let’s get ready.’ I hesitated, feeling really wretched; then handed over the pyjamas, and led them back down to the changing rooms. Brendan put his head cautiously around the Male door, and slipped inside. I led the way into the Female. Empty, thank God. The lights above the aisles of lockers were bright and stark, but the annexe of toilets and showers lay in dimness. I ventured warily over to check they were all unoccupied. They were; but one of the shower heads was still dripping slowly in the gloom of its stall, as if it hadn’t long ago been used. Jackie made straight for the nearest toilet, and gestured me in after her. Unwillingly I followed, closed the door and put my back against it. With my arms grimly folded, I watched her start undressing. The claustrophobic space gave it all a stifling intimacy; closing me in with her sour-smelling coat and sourer stare. The clothes beneath looked like jumble sale rejects: ripped and grubby. Frank was right, they were ideal cover. People would look right through her – go out of their way to avoid her eye. And all the time she’d squat there, smiling inside; her pistol pushed snug into the waistband of her jeans. She drew the weapon now, and proffered it. ‘Hang onto that a second.’ I stared at the thing; practically hugging myself now. ‘Go on, then,’ she hissed, so sharply that I flinched. Unthinkingly I took the gun. The weight almost dragged it from my fingers. Beads of sweat popped up across my back. She allowed herself a smile: still stripping. I peered down at the ugly hunk of metal in my hands, and wondered how she could ever bear to touch it. How she could bear to do any of the things she did … My mind’s eye was suddenly clogged with the blackened mess of her Liverpool Street victim. This is what the bombers did. To a human being. A silver crucifix – like mine – was glinting in the hollow of her throat. Down to her underwear now, she stepped into the pyjama trousers. I leaned miserably back against the door: straining my ears for any sound beyond it. Nearly ten-to. ‘Not used to this side of it, are you?’ she asked tersely. I shook my head. ‘Well it’s deeds we need, not words. Words’re cheap …’ She pulled the smock on. ‘It’s time people like you … stood up to be counted …’ I wondered dully just what Razoxane had told her. That I was an armchair sympathiser, probably: playing up the fact I was a Catholic. Maybe even someone who owed their awful cause a favour. What the hell had she got me into? Jackie sat on the toilet bowl to retie the laces on her grubby trainers; I hoped no one was going to notice those. Her street clothes went into the bag I’d brought. ‘You make sure these get burned,’ she told me, straightening up. I made an affirmative sort of noise, and passed her the lab coat. She shrugged herself into it. ‘Right, give us that …’ I relinquished the pistol. She grasped it with a familiarity I found quite chilling, and set about examining the coat. It didn’t take her long to find the standard slit behind the pocket. She pushed gun and fist inside it – and drew them smoothly out. My mouth was so dry I almost had to peel my lips apart to talk. ‘I can’t go up there …’ A cold glance. ‘You bloody will.’ ‘People will see me with you. How the hell …’ ‘Tell them we accosted you or somethin’. Held you at gunpoint.’ And with that she pulled at the pistol in her hand. It seemed to unlock and slide apart; then snapped together like a trap. I knew that meant she’d cocked it. For a moment I glimpsed something flicker behind her dour, determined stare. It was gone again before I had it fixed; but I knew that it was fear. A human response to what was coming: it should have reassured me. But all it did was accentuate my own. ‘Go check on Brendan.’ I turned, and eased the door open. The changing rooms were empty. I scuttled across to the main door, rubbing my palms down my uniform: trying to wipe away the pistol’s oily feel. Brendan was already waiting outside: ready to hand me his street clothes. The V-neck of his scrub top revealing matted hairs on his chest. The stubby bundle he carried was now wrapped in an old towel. The twin muzzles of a sawn-off shotgun stared vacantly out from between its folds. I pressed the call button for the lift: it lit up beneath my finger. Somewhere, floors away, machinery began to move. I stepped back, peered up at the indicator. Watched the lights come counting down towards us. Anything to avoid looking at the others. Anything. After all these hours of waiting, we were down to the last few minutes. I’d half-hoped my adrenal glands would have worn themselves out by now, but they clearly hadn’t. I felt clammy and short of breath; my heartbeat punching through my chest. The silence was tense: icy. They knew I wasn’t one of them – and that I might prove a hindrance, screw things up somehow. If things went wrong, they’d probably shoot me first. At point-blank range. I’ve had to reason with violent people more than once – especially when I worked in A&E. Sometimes they’d had knives. Almost always they’d been drunk, on drugs, or just mentally disturbed. But this pair carried guns; and whatever else they might be, they were stone cold sane. Killing me would be a swift, pragmatic act; the outcome of a tactical decision. And no amount of reasoning would stop it. The lift arrived. The doors rolled smoothly open. In we got. I waited until we were on our way up before finally mustering the nerve to say: ‘Please don’t hurt the coppers.’ Jackie glanced at me. There was the faintest sheen of sweat on her pale forehead; wisps of her fringe were growing damp. ‘Depends if they behave.’ I looked to Brendan. He stared back, his face unfriendly. The lift came smoothly to a stop. We were one floor short. The doors slid open to reveal a middle-aged couple – obviously visitors, although chucking-out time should have come and gone. ‘Going down?’ the woman beamed. ‘Going up,’ I countered, already reaching for the button. It came out sounding like a croak. ‘That’s all right; we might as well take the tour, eh George?’ They came in across the threshold before I could say anything more. And though I’d held the button down, the door was going to close in its own sweet time. Jackie had rather obviously turned her face away, and was staring hard at the wall. Brendan looked down at the toes of his scuffed shoes. All I could do was gaze out down the corridor into the Surgical Unit. It was empty, apart from a nurse at the far end. ‘Busy day, love?’ the woman asked me kindly. I managed a non-committal smile. ‘They should double your pay,’ she added, with great sincerity. ‘You’re angels, you really are …’ Come on, close, you bastard. The door finally obliged; we lurched and continued upward. Next stop Orthopaedics. With a murmured goodnight, I led the way out. The corridor here was empty. No sign of a guard. I let my breath wheeze out as I got my bearings. We were starting where I’d finished last time; the closed ward was just along the corridor. I looked down at my watch. Between five and ten past nine now. Most of the nurses would be in Sister’s office for handover. And the coppers, into the last hour of their shift, might just be caught napping. Another linen skip had been left here for emptying: the bulging laundry sack topped off with a couple of pillows. Brendan checked both ways, unwrapped his shotgun and pushed it in between them. I stiffened my muscles against a shudder. His face was quite immobile now: a mask cemented into place. Watching him, I felt Jackie close behind me – so tense that my bare nape almost tingled with the static. A thought fled through my mind, then – and blazed into a horrible conviction, like a spark setting off a blasting charge. They’ve come to kill him. No wonder they hadn’t discussed what they might do if he was bedridden, in traction, immobile. No talk of borrowing a wheelchair, or hijacking a trolley. They were here to stop him talking. Shut him up. And me? Shut me up too? I stared wide-eyed at Brendan as he wheeled the trolley forward; nodding to Jackie as if I didn’t exist. Jackie prodded me in the ribs. I jumped, swung round. Her other hand was buried in her coat’s false pocket. ‘C’mon.’ Instinctively I complied, walking on to the next set of fire-doors and pushing them open; holding them for the trolley even as I tried out-thinking my own mind. That’s mad. They’re here to free him. He’s their friend … Ward closed, said the sign ahead. No entry. ‘You go first,’ said Jackie in my ear. ‘Say we’re here to check on the patient; anything. Just give us the chance to get close …’ I came to the ward doors. The guard was there beyond them, under the light. Not the one I’d talked to; this bloke had ginger hair. We’d caught him napping right enough: he’d nodded off. Just slumped there, chin on chest; arms loosely folded. I eased the door open; the trolley slid through. One of the wheels was squeaking, but it didn’t rouse him. Three yards, two, one … And Brendan grasped the topmost pillow and lunged, clamping it over the copper’s face. Shoving the dozing man back upright, his shotgun jammed into the soft white mass – and in that moment I knew for sure there’d be no quarter: just one stifled blast, and the poor bloke’s brains all over the wall. I opened my mouth in horrified protest, sucking in air for a shout … It seemed to clog in the back of my throat. The taste was warm and rancid. Suddenly I wanted to gag, and spit it back out. Instead of which, I saw – and almost spewed. The policeman’s arms had dropped to his sides; he’d made no other move. Between the open flaps of his anorak, a clotted crimson slime was bulging outward. A chunk of it broke clear even as I gawped, and plopped to the polished floor like a stewed tomato. Brendan reacted like a man electrified: standing rigid for a stupefied moment – then flinging himself clear, still grasping the pillow. The side that had pressed against the copper’s face was already dyed bright crimson. The mouth and nose that had soaked it were streaming blood now; the rest of the face as pale as sallow cheese. The eyes had rolled right upward: two sightless, sour-milk slits. Jackie recoiled past me, knocking me to one side. Her own eyes stared like saucers. The policeman’s corpse began at last to overbalance. I felt a blow against my spine: it sluiced fear through my stomach in the moment before I realised I was up against the wall, beside the darkened office doorway. With my hand clutched tight across my bile-filled mouth, I watched the body topple to one side. Watched it fall, and strike the floor. The impact burst its belly like a blister; visceral pulp, held in place by the sheerest film of tissue, came slopping out across the lino. The smell was awful. Even as I swayed – head swimming – the side-room door began to move. Maybe the body had brushed it as it dropped; or maybe the heavy, soggy thud had set it swinging of its own volition. But all I could do was stand there, as if nailed to the wall, and wait for something in that room to come shuffling out. The door creaked slowly open … and what I saw on the bed, albeit for just a second, sent horror crashing through me like a breaking wave. I simply fled. Jackie had already bolted, back towards the lifts; Brendan followed, panting, at her heels. But in my panic I went the other way – deeper into the unlit ward. My momentum had carried me half-way down the long, hollow room before I realized my mistake, by which time it was far too late. The empty beds closed in on either side, looming out of the gloom like lurking skeletons. Almost whimpering with fright, I reached the toilet at the far end, and fairly fought my way inside; dragging it closed and locking it. It felt like a cell; a coffin on end. Darkness spiked with disinfectant. But I didn’t dare reach for the light switch. All I could do was stand there, shivering; both hands pressed hard against my mouth. I knew I mustn’t be sick. I really mustn’t. Because someone would hear, and smell it, and come smashing in through the door to rub my face in it … Oh Mary – oh Mum – pray for me. I couldn’t see a thing. But my mind’s eye stayed fixed on the ghastly mess I’d glimpsed, lying on the bed in that overlit side-room. Fixed and staring. I couldn’t close it. In the course of my nurse training, I’d learned that the human body contains nearly nine pints of blood, and has intestines twenty-eight feet long. Well fancy that, I’d thought. It hadn’t meant a thing before tonight. Time might have raced or crawled; in the silence and blackness I couldn’t tell. The acrid smell of hospital bleach filled my nostrils. Compared to the stench from the far end of the ward, it was a perfume. A footstep sounded then, outside the door. The squeak of a shoe on the lino. I waited, hands across my mouth; eyes huge. Trying not to tremble. Not even to breathe. Silence. Then a sudden flurry of gibberish from the other side of the panel – a hissing, distorted voice that sent a fresh bolt of panic through me. There was something eerily ethereal about it, as if the speaker was a gulf away. As I listened, with tears on my cheeks, the shoes creaked again; I heard the bathroom door across the way easing open. Another hiss came – wordless this time. A crackle and pop of static. And suddenly I realised it was crosstalk on a two-way radio. A police radio. Oh thank Christ. I was about to fumble for the lock when something inside me said: Don’t. I hesitated. More footfalls. The door of the toilet next to mine swung open; its unoiled hinges squealed. I had a cold flush then: it bathed me like melted snow and almost sent me into spasm. My reasoning mind, still insisting I should open the door and let him lead me back to safety, was suddenly choked. In uncomprehending dread I waited; and his radio squawked again. He murmured something in response. More twisted words from out of the ether – and a moment later I heard him pass my door and walk back down the ward, his shoes clicking and squeaking into silence. Policeman. That’s all he was. An ordinary copper … I closed my eyes against the darkness, and lowered myself shakily down onto the toilet bowl. And for the next hour, while all sorts of consternation came and went in the corridors outside, I just sat there, with my head in my hands, and silently wept. Chapter 10 (#ulink_3fc00f64-0877-5a99-9a37-730d68dd1090) The long, heavy blade came up slowly, and caught the light – reflecting it sharply back at me. I managed not to flinch. Taking another sip of strong tea, I kept my eyes on the screen; even when Nick leaned over the back of the sofa to stroke my hair, running his hand down inside my dressing gown collar. ‘Sure you’re up to tonight?’ he asked quietly. I nodded – absorbed in the news conference; watching the solemn-faced man hold the machete gingerly up by its handle and tip. The spokesman beside him looked grimly back into the cameras. ‘We believe a weapon similar to this was used: a machete, or possibly a butcher’s knife of some description …’ ‘Jesus, what their wives must be going through,’ Nick murmured. His fingers tightened to a stop on my shoulder; then resumed their gentle squeezing. I drank again, the mug held tight in both my hands. Still peering warily over the rim. ‘… the actual weapon?’ ‘No, the weapon used has not been recovered as yet,’ the policeman responded heavily. ‘Our conclusions have been drawn from the pathologist’s report. All three victims died from severe lacerations compatible with …’ His mouth kept on going through the motions; his strained face told it differently. Behind the formal language – the forced dispassion – I glimpsed his pent-up anger and disgust; the effort of keeping it inside him turned him white. Two coppers killed in the line of duty: gutted like fish in a busy, British hospital. The atmosphere under the TV lights was tripwire-taut. We could almost feel it seeping out into the room. Even if I hadn’t seen the carnage for myself, the shock would still have numbed me. Partly because the police we take for granted aren’t supposed to get killed: it breaks the rules. And partly – of course – because of Nick. To judge by the photos they’d shown, both men had been his age. Imagining his sheepish mug-shot in their place was far too easy. When I’d finally emerged from my hiding place last night, the floor had been alive with stunned policemen; dark uniforms offsetting bleached, tight faces. The ones I ran into by the stairwell established who I was as politely as their outrage would allow, and ushered me along. I was finally nodded out through the front doors at nearly half-past ten, leaving the hospital lowering behind me. Night castle. Black fortress. Staring after me with its hundred blazing eyes … The reporters on TV were demanding theories. The spokesman spread his hands. ‘We can confirm that the hospital patient was in police custody. We believe the murderer or murderers were primarily interested in him …’ ‘… Is it true he was a terrorist suspect … ?’ ‘I cannot comment on that at this time …’ ‘Thank Christ he wasn’t in with you,’ Nick said softly; from the tone of his voice, he was as unnerved on my behalf as I was on his. This sort of horror in hospitals was against the rules as well. Was out of order. He didn’t know the half of it. The next item of news came on, and at last I leaned my head back. His face was close to mine, and full of concern. I smiled faintly. ‘I’ll be okay tonight, don’t worry. Been looking forward to it …’ ‘Just ring when you’re ready to come away from there.’ ‘No, don’t wait up. I’ll call a cab …’ ‘You ring me, right.’ His hand closed firmly on my shoulder. ‘Please, Rachel. There’s some bad bastards around at the moment.’ I wouldn’t dispute that, either. The murders at our hospital had made such a splash (sorry: wrong word) on the evening news that other items had been pushed aside; but as I’d listened to GLR while doing my cooking this afternoon, the local news had provided a grisly little snippet of its own. A prostitute found hanged in a bedsit near King’s Cross. The police didn’t reckon it was suicide. And whoever had done it had used piano wire. We could have done without that detail; the very thought set my teeth on edge. Learning that the body had hung undiscovered for several days didn’t help, either. Maybe she was already dead and dangling when I’d made my abortive recce of the area. Maybe I’d passed quite close, and never known it … ‘What time’s your friend coming?’ Nick asked, straightening up. I glanced at my watch. Nearly six-fifteen. ‘Seven.’ Which was plenty of time. I’d had my bath already; washed and dried my hair. Now I could spend ages deciding what I was going to wear. I was determined to enjoy myself tonight; leave all my cares behind me. If that meant drinking lots of wine, then well and good, but I had other reserves to draw on too. Like a nurse’s ability to distance herself from dreadful things she’s had to deal with. And – after all I’d been through three years ago – a survivor’s resolve to keep on going forward. Besides, for me the war was over. Surely. I’d done all that Razoxane had asked of me; it wasn’t my fault that someone got there first. … someone looking for me … Her dry, remembered words made my stomach lurch; but that was pure reflex. I was out of it now. Whatever she might be pitting her wits against this time, it was no concern of mine. So it was curiosity as much as anything that made me ask if there’d been any progress with the Kentish Town fire-bombing. Nick shrugged. I’d wandered through to watch him prepare his supper; ever ambitious, he was doing beans on toast. ‘Nothing definite, not yet. The bloke who got savaged by the dogs is the only one who can say anything, and he’s still pretty shocked. Not making much sense at the moment …’ He paused to add what seemed a suicidal amount of West Indian Hot Pepper Sauce to the beans; then glanced back over his shoulder. ‘One word that keeps coming up is “Wiking”, apparently.’ ‘What, with a W?’ ‘Yep; it’s a bit confused … But there’s an offshoot of the BNP round there who call themselves the Vikings … silly buggers … and the gentleman was coloured. So we’ve pulled a few of them in for questioning.’ That threw a new light on things. I straightened hopefully up from where I’d been leaning against the wall. ‘And the others – the people in the house. Were they black too?’ ‘No; all white. But we thought we’d give these bastards a going over anyway.’ He grinned and turned back to his beans; not seeing the flicker of hope on my face snuffed out again. Someone looking for me. Wiking. I shook the words right out of my head, and went hastily upstairs to choose my clothes. Not wanting to get too giggly (or go to sleep), I’d decided to take it easy with the wine. Just a glass or two of white, to keep me cheerful. But halfway through my third or fourth, I just thought, belatedly, sod it; and let Murdoch top me up again. It was going well, though: I was glad I’d come. The house, up in New Barnet, was lovely – wide white rooms, deep carpets and the sort of chairs you could doze off in. Mrs Murdoch – Emma, she insisted – had prepared a delicious hot-and-cold buffet, to which we added our various contributions; Michelle and I helped her lay it all out on the long dining table. Going back through to the lounge, I’d glimpsed two young kids peering down at me through the banisters at the top of the stairs. Grinning, I gave them a little wave. The little girl returned it shyly; her brother stayed politely serious. Already very much his father’s son, I mused. Still smiling, I thought of Sandra, who I hadn’t been able to visit for a while. I hoped she’d be safely home soon as well; and that I’d have a chance to say goodbye before she went. With the ice pretty much broken by the warmth of our welcome, the evening unfolded smoothly. We ate, drank and talked at length and leisure. Sitting on the lounge carpet, next to a hi-fi system as imposing as some of the life-support equipment we worked with, I felt like someone snapped out of a trance, brought back to the land of the living. In the midst of this cheerful gathering, the dread of the past few days seemed quite unreal, like something I’d dreamed. Even the ghastly sights of yesterday were wholly dislocated from the here and now. Madness, terrorism, murder: it was all sealed off as safely as the night beyond the curtained picture windows. Maybe people coming out of schizophrenic episodes felt just like this. I took another sip of cold, sweet wine. The background music – something light and classical – blended softly with the conversations round the room; the readouts on the CD player beside me rose and fell like biorhythms. Most of the team had made it tonight; those who’d drawn the short straw to cover the Late and Night shifts would be guaranteed their place next Christmas. I was quite sorry Jean wasn’t here: her deadpan anecdotes were always a treat. I wouldn’t have minded watching her tease Lucy, either. That was me being bitchy, but I couldn’t help it. Looking across at Lucy now, I almost instinctively found fault: saw sulkiness in her smile, heard smugness in her voice. And knew this was going to get addictive if I didn’t watch out … ‘You’re very quiet tonight, Rachel,’ Emma Murdoch said lightly, easing into the unoccupied chair behind me. I glanced back at her with a smile, relieved at the distraction. ‘I’m always quiet.’ ‘Enjoying yourself, though.’ I nodded vigorously. ‘Very much, thanks. It was a gorgeous meal. And I love the house.’ ‘It is nice, isn’t it? We’ve been here three or four years, now …’ She paused. ‘I’m glad it’s going well. John said you all needed the break. I hear your hospital’s … been quite busy recently.’ She said it carefully, trying to sound casual; but I could tell from the undertone in her voice what was really on her mind. As a former nurse, the thought of murder and mutilation in a hospital would have shaken her as much as anyone. But the fact that it was the hospital where her husband worked brought the horror right home onto her doorstep. It suddenly felt like we were both sliding over a frozen black lake – spiralling in towards the thin ice at the centre. She didn’t want to talk or even think about what had happened, I guessed that much; yet still some fascination drew her in – and tugged me with her. With an effort I steered the two of us back towards the bank. ‘Never stops, does it? But you’ll remember that …’ She took the opening gladly. ‘Don’t I just? My first job was on a really understaffed surgical unit, and it was absolute hell. And the discipline was still so strict, too, with Matron and all. Whereas nowadays …’ I gently mimicked her Yorkshire accent. ‘… nurses today don’t know they’re born, right?’ And smiling she broadened it herself. ‘Aye, lass. Sheer luxury these days. Now, when I were a nurse …’ We chatted on; stepping almost subconsciously back off the ice and onto solid ground. She reminded me of Judith, a Sister I’d worked with in my last job. I’d burned a lot of bridges when I’d moved, but the two of us still kept in touch. I owed her a letter, come to think of it. Emma decided she’d better circulate, and moved on. I joined Sue in a raid on what remained of the desserts. ‘Okay?’ I asked her quietly as we made our selection, and she gave a quick, grateful nod. Coming back into the lounge with a piece of Black Forest, I joined the nearest conversation. And Jez glanced round with a smile. ‘How about you, Rachel? Would you prefer to be buried or cremated?’ Ouch. People discuss the oddest things at parties, and that one caught me unprepared. For a moment I was out on the midnight lake again, and sensing the chilly depths beneath the ice. Then back on balance – with soft, firm carpet under my shoes. I shrugged. ‘Dunno. Don’t really mind.’ I forked in a mouthful of gateau, and forced myself to chew. Rich chocolate and cherries – as tasteless on my tongue as cotton wool. ‘Any preferences about the send-off?’ Theresa asked brightly. I thought about it, still chewing. Swallowed. Then shrugged again. ‘I wouldn’t want it to be all miserable. I mean … it’s not as if it’s the end of things or anything.’ ‘And what would you want played?’ Jez wondered. ‘I’d quite like Jerusalem myself. Not that I’m religious or anything; I just like it.’ I thought again. ‘I’d like to have the Hymn of St Patrick, please. Or maybe Be Thou My Vision. I love those two. Old Irish hymns …’ He grinned delightedly, and nudged me in the ribs. ‘Bejesus, Rachel, ’tis the Catholic in ye.’ ‘Shush!’ I elbowed him back. ‘No … I went on a trip to Ireland when I was in school, and we went to see Patrick’s shrine, and where he was buried and everything. There were some pilgrims singing his hymn by the graveside, and I found that really moving. Stayed with me for a long time afterwards.’ I shook my head. ‘Don’t knock it, Jez. It’s a beautiful country.’ I’d been twelve, but I still recalled it: standing on the very top of Slieve Patrick Hill with the wind in my hair. Overlooking the sea, with the hills of the Lake District seeming maybe twenty miles off; and nothing behind me but wide green fields, fading back into the haze of the oncoming rain. That had been a special holiday; a memory I treasured. I still couldn’t marry up that countryside, those friendly people, with the violence and hatred we saw so often on the news. The mismatch just made it seem surreal. But now the killers and haters had met me face to face, like all my fears made flesh and blood. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/john-pritchard/angels-of-mourning/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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