John Pritchard - Night Sisters

Copyright

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.

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

Copyright © John Pritchard 1993

Lyrics from Ribbons © 1990 reproduced by kind permission of Eldritch Boulevard Ltd/EMI Songs Ltd

A version of the opening chapter of this novel first appeared in The Dark Side magazine under the title On Her Deathbed .

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

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HarperCollins Publishers 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: 9780586217696

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008226909

Version: 2016-10-26

Praise

‘A good old-fashioned tale of battling evil, which turns into a roller-coaster ride to heights of gut-churning suspense and real terror’

RAMSAY CAMPBELL

‘A taut and fast-moving tale with bags of authentic detail and a slam-bang finale’

STEPHEN GALLAGHER

‘ Night Sisters is one of the creepiest and most shocking novels I’ve read in a long, long, time. The writing is superb. The story is brilliantly eerie, marked by stunning shocks of violence’

RICHARD LAYMON

Dedication

TO

THE COMPANY OF BRIGHT ANGELS

(sweet dreams …)

Epigraph

Don’t be afraid now:

Just walk on in.

The Sisters of Mercy

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Epigraph

PART ONE: Night Casualties

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

PART TWO: Night Watchmen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

PART THREE: Night Sisters

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

PART ONE

Night Casualties

One

They told me afterwards that when Mrs Lennox died, Jenny – who had the reputation of being the most cheerful, most patient, most loving nurse on the gerry unit – had been heard to say, quite clearly, ‘Thank Christ for that.’

You might find that a shocking sentiment; but the girls who told me it didn’t think so, and neither did I. We knew well enough what Jenny had gone through; had seen how that grim old woman had worn down her patience, and turned her bright-eyed enthusiasm into bitterness and tears. And we’d seen more. We’d seen her fear. For all her cool professionalism, she had come to dread that darkened room and its occupant at the far end of the ward. Uncomprehending, her friends and colleagues had shrugged it off: ignored the signs. Only now did we realize that Staff Nurse Jenny Thomas had been truly afraid of entering that room alone, even after its occupant had died. In fact, especially after its occupant had died.

It had been a sombre winter afternoon when the doctor was called round to certify Mrs Lennox dead. By all accounts he’d done so as quickly as possible, and left the small, malodorous room with some haste. Jenny had described the old woman to me once, and I could picture her lying there, with that waxen immobility that immediately distinguishes death from sleep. A gaunt face staring up from the pillow, its lines of age contrasting bizarrely with the jet-black of her dyed hair. Eyes still half-open; jawbone slack.

There were no relatives to inform, so at least they’d been spared that thankless duty. The problems began when Jenny refused to lay the body out.

Sister accepted that the patient had not been noted for her personal hygiene: nightdress and bedclothes were stained and stinking. The body was still damp with the patina of sweat raised by the final struggle against death. Of course it wasn’t going to be a pleasant job, but it had to be done, and besides, they needed the bed.

Still Jenny had refused.

She was reminded of the staffing situation – two trained nurses including herself (Sister was about to go off) and a completely inexperienced student, to run a twenty-bed ward. The other staff nurse was starting the drug-round; Jenny would have to do the body, and do it on her own.

A third time she’d refused. The Sister must have been quite nonplussed, getting this from an experienced nurse like Jen: a girl she knew and liked. But she had no option now but to threaten disciplinary action. And finally, reluctantly, Jen had relented, and turned back towards the room where the body of Mrs Lennox lay waiting for her ministrations.

Laying-out is standard procedure, of course. The body is washed, the limbs straightened; the orifices plugged with cotton wool. Not a nice job at the best of times, but when you’re doing it alone it can be quite unnerving. Me, I’ll find myself talking to them sometimes – explaining what I’m doing, apologizing for the indignities. I still remember that time I rolled a body over and the air trapped in its chest escaped in a long, sepulchral sigh. That was back when I was in my second year. I was shaking for hours .

So I knew how Jenny must have felt, washing that cooling corpse in the grey winter dusk; all alone in the room. At one point she’d emerged for a breather, and was talking with the student when abruptly she’d shivered and turned round sharply. The rather startled first year had asked her what was wrong, and she’d said, nothing; but I reckoned I knew otherwise. With her back turned to the body, she’d felt something – some shift in the air behind her, some coolness on the nape of her neck – that made her feel she was being watched. Maybe she was half expecting the corpse to have moved, be it ever so slightly, since she’d seen it last.

Either way, she’d returned to the job in hand; and after a while the porters arrived with their clanking tin trolley to collect the deceased. The body in the room, shrouded now and wrapped in a sheet from head to foot, was unceremoniously loaded aboard and wheeled off towards the lifts and, via them, the mortuary fridge. Jenny couldn’t have been the only person to have thought, good riddance .