John Pritchard - Angels of Mourning

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?