Night Sisters. John Pritchard

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      We found her slumped in one corner of the cubicle, all huddled up: her face pinched and wretched with fear. All attempts to resuscitate her proved unsuccessful. The post-mortem results pointed to death from heart failure; the precise cause remained uncertain.

      I turned to Mark. ‘Remember how cold that cubicle was, when we went back in? And back to normal a few minutes later?’

      ‘So you said,’ he came back, a little guardedly; he’d never actually admitted to feeling it himself. ‘So what?’

      Not having told him about the eeriest aspect of my road-crash experience, I just shrugged. ‘Just seemed strange, that’s all.’

      But he’d begun to pick up on it now. ‘So what are you suggesting? That she saw a ghost? That she was scared to death? Come on …’

      ‘Look, I’m not suggesting anything. Okay?’ It came out sharper than I’d intended.

      He held up his palms. ‘Sorry. But that girl was suffering from the early stages of septicaemia …’

      ‘It doesn’t kill you that dramatically.’

      ‘Okay, point taken. We don’t know why she died so suddenly. But you can’t let it obsess you like this. Same goes for those other cases. Maybe there are some things we can’t explain; but we just have to carry on. I know you’ve had a rough time recently, but …’

      He tailed off awkwardly, but I knew his unspoken thought was that Jenny’s death was getting to me. And so it was – but I still reckoned I was rational. We see it all in this place: all the misery and mess. But I hadn’t seen fear like those three showed before.

      Something was wrong, I knew it. Out there. In our town.

      Something was wrong.

      But dawn was creeping up on us now, fading in through the double entrance doors; and it seemed that the hospital, an island universe through all the long hours of the night, was joined to dry land once again. A last dark thought dripped down against the stone of my scepticism; and then the mental tap was closed. I screwed it tight. It stopped.

      I checked my fob-watch and managed a smile. ‘Soon be time for bed.’

      He seemed to accept that the previous subject was now closed. ‘Glad to be through your first night back?’

      ‘You bet I am.’ I pressed the exit key, and the VDU screen cleared as data – and dark memories – returned to the disks where they’d been stored.

      The night ended as quietly as it had begun. With handover completed and the early shift of day staff settling in, I stopped off in the toilets to splash cold water on my face: clearing the muzziness that was settling over me – and snapping me out of my more disturbing night thoughts. The sun was fully up now; the outside world alive and awake once more. Back to the world of dreams, Sister Young.

      I studied myself for a moment, there in the mirror. Fatigue didn’t do me any favours, but I reckoned I still looked the professional I sometimes didn’t feel. You might think of Sisters as older women, with years of experience behind them, but I’m twenty-six, and Ravensfield General is my first senior post. I’ve been a Trauma or Surgical nurse ever since I qualified, and I’ve seen a lot; but actually running the place is a different proposition entirely. Sometimes it scares the shit out of you.

      While I was at it, I decided I wasn’t looking too bad altogether. Maybe a little waif-like, what with my pale complexion and wide blue eyes, offset by the dark straight hair that hung to my collar; but I’d heard my smile called winsome, and I knew that I was pretty. In my own quiet way.

      On to the changing room, where I divested myself of my uniform dress, tights and sensible shoes, in favour of blouse, sweater, jeans and trainers; chatting with Fran as she shrugged out of her own work clothes. She seemed to have settled in well over the last couple of weeks; a pint-sized and perky young Scouser, blessed with the essential A&E prerequisites of cool head and keen sense of humour. I reckoned she’d make a good member of the team, which was a relief: your face has to fit, in a department as close-knit as this one.

      Outside in the corridor, Mark called goodbye as he went through to a meeting with Kessler; and as I left, Steve – one of the night porters who’d covered us for the shift – made a point of mentioning how good it was to see me back. I was feeling tired but happy as I walked across to the bus stop. The thoughts that had gnawed at me through the night seemed distant and insubstantial now – fading back into my subconscious beneath the bright cold morning sun.

      Behind me, the buildings of Ravensfield General Hospital loomed up dour against the sky: great blocks of sixties concrete grafted on to dark Victorian brick. Row after row of windows watched me: ward-floors stacked up one on top of the other. We had beds for nearly six hundred patients here – though the cutbacks meant that some were never used. That wouldn’t have been obvious to the rather awestruck casual observer, of course – unless they passed the hospital at night, and saw that while the windows overlooking the road were brightly aglow, or showed at least the muted glimmer of night lights, the upper floors of the old north wing remained in darkness. We had several wards and a couple of theatres closed up there: slowly gathering dust behind locked doors.

      I knew myself that it made for a vaguely ominous sight: that slice of shadow and silence cut into the brightly-lit evening bustle of the hospital. And of course there were staff who’d claimed to have seen ghosts up there, and heard old, shuffling footsteps in the gloom. But it was daytime now, and I was going home to sleep in a flat with sunlight pressing against the drawn curtains, and the ordered life of a quiet, leafy suburb going on around me.

      Whatever vague unease still lurked within me, it could wait until dark.

Four

      The next two nights were nearly as quiet. Minor injuries: cuts and cracked bones. Bread and butter stuff for us. The high point (relatively speaking) was Adrian Bell asking me out again.

      That was Friday – or Saturday’s small hours. He’d been chargehand porter for the shift, and come down to keep an intimidating eye on one of our more aggressive customers. After the latter had wandered sullenly off, back into the night, I’d returned to my office to catch up on some reading; and was halfway through the accompanying cheese and pickle sandwich when Adrian stuck his head round the door.

      ‘Caught you.’

      ‘In-flight refuelling,’ I pointed out, mouth impolitely full. He made a show of nodding, his eyes amused. ‘All okay now?’

      ‘Fine,’ I told him gratefully. ‘Thanks for coming down.’

      ‘No problem.’ He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful; not quite meeting my eye. Then: ‘Listen … what are you doing next week?’

      ‘Oh. Well …’ I smiled, and let my own gaze drift while my mind went into fast forward. ‘I’m not sure of my Off-duty yet …’

      The nursing equivalent of I’m washing my hair, and he knew it. Accepted it too, with a rueful smile of his own, and left it lying. ‘Fair enough. By the way … how’s Danny getting on?’

      Our departmental porter. I pulled a face which probably spoke volumes.

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