Angels of Mourning. John Pritchard

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      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.

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