John Pritchard - Night Sisters

‘Hey, Raitch … How many Goths does it take to change a lightbulb?’

‘None, they all prefer sitting in the dark,’ I said comfortably. ‘Go away.’

‘Damn, she’s heard it before,’ Karen muttered in the background. The two of them wandered disconsolately back towards reception.

Dave nodded towards the kettle as it bubbled towards climax. ‘Want one?’

‘Please. Coffee if you’re making it.’

‘How about his lordship?’

‘I think he might appreciate it.’ And to be fair, the man had been on duty since nine o’clock the previous morning.

‘Tea, coffee?’

I wasn’t sure: it had been so long since he’d last deigned to take tea with us. ‘Hang on, I’ll go and ask him.’

I put my shoes back on and went through into Examination, a long, over-lit room fairly wallpapered with charts for instant reference: toxic substances, advice on Hep-B (‘ All blood is guilty until proved innocent ’), Wallace’s ubiquitous Rule of Nines for the assessment of burns … Ten trolley-beds formed a row down one side, individually curtained-off into examination cubicles. Only the one was in use at the moment, furthest from the door. I walked down past the sinks and the X-ray viewing boxes and the desk for writing up notes, glancing into each of the empty cubicles to check that all was tidy and in order; if not it would give us something to do if things stayed quiet. Thus occupied, I had almost reached the last cubicle before it registered that there was no sound of voices coming from behind its drawn curtains – and for no logical reason, I suddenly hesitated. And the silence persisted.

I could understand a few moments’ quiet to ponder a symptom; but an examination is more than anything a verbal process – the doctor’s questions, the patient’s replies. Yet the stillness was total: I couldn’t even hear any movement in there. And I realized then that my nerves had begun to tingle, as though sensing something ominous and threatening, separated from me by no more than the thickness of that plain green curtain.

My overactive imagination again, of course. More likely she’d wandered off somewhere and Graham had gone looking for her. I drew back the curtain anyway.

In that first split-second I glimpsed enough: the white-coated figure on the floor beside the trolley, the black-clad figure bending over it, and straightening as I came through; the glint of a drawn knife in the harsh light. And I’d been on the Control & Restraint courses, knew all about how to reason with a knife-wielding patient – but as those sombre shades came round all I wanted to do was turn and run. I got as far as the turn. Before I could run, or even shout for help, her fist was in my hair and dragging my head back, stretching my throat so I choked on my cry and could only gawp soundlessly as she hauled me back into the cubicle. Desperately I threshed at the end of her arm, struggling to get free, to stop the white, ripping pain in my scalp: arms bent back, both hands scrabbling at hers now, trying to pry those fingers loose. But effortlessly she drew me in. From the corner of my eye I caught the gleam of the knife, and with a last frenzied effort managed to twist half around and lash out, knocking the glasses from her face.

I glimpsed eyes that were a cold and bleached-out blue, in the instant that the bright light struck them. The pupils reacted immediately, contracting to pinpoints, and with a snarl that was partly pain she jerked her face away.

Photophobia: she couldn’t stand the light. And before I could even think to take advantage, she’d wrenched me right round by the hair and slammed me bodily against the back wall. Winded, I gasped aloud. The fingers in my hair loosened and withdrew; I felt her grasp my shoulder and turn me slowly round to face her.

And a quick, sickening punch to my midriff dropped me in a heap at her feet.

For a moment everything was just a queasy blur; my head echoed and spun, and I didn’t even have the strength to retch. Then I became aware that she was sitting on her heels beside me.

She’d put her shades back on and pushed the wide-brimmed hat to the back of her head. The knife was cradled in both hands now, as though she was doing no more than idly weigh it, testing its balance. I managed to focus on the weapon, and it was a vicious-looking switchblade: cold, clean steel, and grips that looked like they’d been carved from bone. And for all the easiness with which she handled it, the point was still angled down towards me.

‘I had questions for your doctor,’ she told me, in the same dust-dry monotone she’d used before. ‘He wouldn’t answer them. I was about to show him the error of his ways, but …’ She inclined her head, studying me thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you will answer them for me.’

Oh shit , I thought. Aloud I managed to ask: ‘What … questions?’

‘A young girl was brought into your department this evening: she’d overdosed – tried to kill herself. What happened to her?’

I swallowed. ‘She was admitted …’

‘Which ward?’ And as I hesitated, with the instinctive reticence of someone for whom patient confidentiality was second nature, she leaned forward and hissed: ‘Don’t even dream of lying: I’ll see it in your soul .’

I believed her, too: the shock of that icy gaze still throbbed within me. It was fortunate that I was in a position to answer her, having browsed through the admissions ledger earlier in the evening. ‘She went to Jenner Ward: that’s Medical … second floor …’

She absorbed the information in silence for a moment; then reached slowly out with the knife and used the point to snag the silver chain of my crucifix, and lift the pendant clear of my collar. She spoke again, even more quietly than before.

‘This. Is it just a trinket … or something more?’

Again I swallowed, trying to lubricate a mouth gone bone-dry. ‘It’s what I believe in. Who I believe in …’

She nodded, and let it fall back into the hollow of my throat. ‘You’ll need to,’ she promised softly – and even her breath felt cold.

And with that she rose swiftly to her feet and was gone.

For a long moment after the curtain had flopped closed behind her, I just slumped there, eyes wide with disbelief. Then reaction set in – a sick and chilling surge that left me shivering. But despite the weakness that came with it, I began struggling to my feet.

I was halfway there when Mike stuck his head round the curtain to see how we were getting on: the shock that blanked-out his cheerful expression was so abrupt it was almost funny. ‘Rachel – what –’

My legs nearly gave way at that point and I had to clutch at the trolley for support. He moved quickly forward but I waved him away: ‘Okay. I’m okay. What about Graham … ?’

There was the sound of movement from the floor on the far side of the trolley, and a stifled groan. I leaned over. Graham was trying to sit up: his face paler than ever, and streaked with blood from a gash on his temple. I never thought I’d be so relieved to know he was still with us.

‘What happened?’ Mike was asking, even as he stooped to help the doctor up.

‘That girl – she’s a nutter, she’s got a knife.’ I paused for a gulp of air. ‘Need to fast-bleep the porters, tell them she’s after the girl on Jenner – the OD – ring the ward too. And the police …’

Karen was approaching by then, and detoured straight to the wall-mounted phone. I returned my attention to Graham, seated on the chair now, as Mike set about examining his wound; but when I glanced back at her, I saw the worried little frown creep over her features. She punched in the emergency number again.

‘I can’t get through – something’s wrong with the phone, it’s just whining …’