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Finished scribbling the last detail, I looked up from my notebook. ‘That it?’
Sue nodded, and I glanced quickly back over what I’d written. Six patients handed over, in varying degrees of recovery. I glanced out through the office door, and the pages of notes were transformed into six exhausted bodies, hemmed in with machinery and monitors. The nearest ventilator hissed steadily. Intensive Care was nearly a full house.
‘Oh … we had some lost property handed in …’ Sue added, as I clicked my pen. ‘I locked it in the drugs cupboard …’
‘What, from relatives?’
She shrugged. ‘Cleaner found it. Some sort of toy or trinket. Doubt if it’s valuable …’
The rest of the shift were already stirring. The phone at the station rang again, and Jez led the way out to answer it. Sally was helping Jean turn Mr Hall. The next eight hours began here and now.
I stood, and tucked away my notebook. Beyond the blinds and windows, the grey sky looked like porridge; it made our lights seem all the brighter. I could almost feel the chilly wind against the glass; sense the mess of slushy streets below us. But winter couldn’t reach us here.
I’d come to this hospital with my ENB 100 under my belt, and my mind on a fresh start; but it had been a bit like a homecoming as well. London was where I’d trained: where I’d grown from girl to woman. I always knew I’d return one day. The ITU qualification had been my ticket back.
Intensive Care. A whole new ballgame after A&E, but no less demanding. I’d been one of the Sisters here for nine months now – and all of them on days.
I’ll not be working nights again.
Not ever.
‘Do you want me to change Joe’s infusion?’ Sue asked, already glancing in that direction; still smoothing her polythene pinny.
I glanced down at my watch; the time had flown. She should have been gone an hour ago.
‘No, you get off home now. And thanks, Sue. I mean that.’
She gave a tired little smile – which flickered to a frown. ‘Oh, yes … That lost property. I was meaning to give it you …’
‘Look, don’t worry …’ I began, but she was already going over to the wall cupboard. The red light above the door came silently on as she unlocked it, like a warning sign. And that was how it struck me, for no good reason – even though I’d seen the like on every single working day. Red for danger: a glowing, bloodshot eye.
Then the softer yellow light of the interior bathed our faces.
‘Here. I didn’t seal it.’ She handed the envelope across, and I took it, peered inside – and curiously drew the object out.
It was the oddest thing: like a die on a small metal stalk. Something you’d spin like a top, I realised; see which side finished uppermost. Except that the sides were all the same.
All aces of spades.
I felt the faintest frown across my forehead.
A trinket from someone’s Christmas cracker, probably. Hardly worth handing in. I turned it over in my fingers one more time; then slipped it back into the envelope. And after just a moment’s hesitation, I licked the flap and sealed it.
‘Thanks. I’ll get it sent down during supper.’ I smiled then, in a mock-resigned sort of way. ‘Assuming we get any.’
As it turned out, we didn’t. The bomb went off just after half past six.
Jez and I were queuing for supper in the canteen, and heard it there. A dull but distinctive boom. The darkened windows rattled faintly, and were still.
I felt a cold little knot drawing tight inside me. Still balancing my tray, I turned to Jez – but Jez was already peering out into the night. I craned my head in turn, but there was nothing to see: no flicker of flame to tell us where.
‘Oh God, not another one …’ I muttered.
He grunted. ‘Sounded big. And not too far.’ His eyes came back round to me. ‘Bastards …’
I knew who he meant, of course. After the past fortnight, no one needed it spelled out.
Bombs in London: big deal. That’s how I used to think. But then I came to live here. Then I started travelling on the Underground. And then, two weeks ago, the year’s first bomb blew a tube station apart.
There’d been no warning; no caller with a helpful Irish accent and recognised code word. Just a suitcase load of semtex at St Paul’s. The place had been demolished, starting a fire that the underground wind had sucked deep into the tunnels. At least we hadn’t had another King’s Cross, thank God; it had been late, just the last train left, and the platforms and stairs had been almost empty.
Five people died.
And then the next bomb, and the next: set off completely at random, as though someone was playing battleships with an A to Z. One in an Oxford Street restaurant at Saturday lunchtime, leaving it a burned-out shell. One in the City, breaking windows at the Barbican. We’d waited, shaken, for the admissions – the claims – we knew were coming.
But they hadn’t come. There’d just been silence. And not of guilt or shame, for all my wishful thinking. Just an absence of human contact: an eerie emptiness. And then another awful bomb.
I could hear sirens now, reaching us fitfully through wind and windows; already wailing their despair. The lump of ice in my stomach grew sharper edges as I pictured the chaos out there. The snow would only make it worse, of course. And the night would make it far more frightening.
Disasters at night always haunt me the most. From the Tay Bridge to the Titanic, they give me the shivers. All those people lost and screaming in the dark …
‘Think they’ll come to us?’ Jez asked; but I saw I wouldn’t need to guess. An ambulance crew was sitting at the nearest table, and the bloke was already fiddling with his radio handset. His companion watched pensively, biting her lip. They were still wearing their green and yellow anoraks, the reflective stripes aglow under the canteen lights. They’d hardly had a chance to touch their coffee.
The radio crackled into crosstalk. Too distant for me to hear; but after a moment the crewman met my eyes, as if expecting to find me watching, and raised his voice.
‘Liverpool Street.’
‘Shit,’ from Jez. I shared the sentiment – but saved my breath.
I guessed I’d be needing it soon enough.
It wasn’t certain that they’d come to us; just bloody likely. If this was a big one, with lots of casualties, the units all around would be receiving. Even as we finished loading our trays – the hot food sandwiched by paper plates to keep it warm – our own A&E would be gearing up and clearing the decks. And I knew we’d need to follow suit.
‘Who can we move?’ Jez asked, as we retraced our echoing steps along the corridor.
‘Mrs Hickson, probably … if we’re pushed. But let’s see what Murdoch says.’ I turned to back in through the unit’s swing doors, held them open with my heel while he followed me through, then led the way over to our rest room. A glimpse of faces glancing round as we passed the relatives’ room; but I’d given up feeling embarrassed. Even angels eat chips.
Lucy looked up from the sagging chair into which she’d sunk. ‘Rachel, did you hear –’
‘Yep. Liverpool Street.’ I was still looking round for somewhere I could leave my supper to get cold. ‘Any details?’
Lucy – who’d worked overtime this week, and looked it – just spread her hands. No worry. Dumping my tray, I left her to her well-earned break, and went on down into the unit proper. The lights were low, now: the glow of readouts seeming brighter in the dimness. Fuller lighting was on around two of the beds, where procedures were underway – and at the desk, where Johann Meier was listening intently to the phone.
I went over and waited; a bit keyed-up, and trying not to show it. Johann’s eyes found mine, and said hello. Like most of the ITU medics he worked in shirtsleeves, and I could see sweat stains in the armpits.
After a moment he spoke again – his English calm and precise – and the conversation ended.
‘A&E are expecting two,’ he told me, hanging up. ‘One will probably go straight to theatre. The other comes to us as soon as he is stable.’
We’d get them both in due course. ‘So who’s going?’
‘Mrs Hickson. She is still under the physicians, so Murdoch is talking to them. And that is us full.’
Again. The second time in three weeks we’d closed the doors. We had the beds for more, of course; but not the nurses.
I turned away as he dialled again; reaching up into my short uniform sleeve to scratch my shoulder. Staring unhappily at middle-aged Mrs Hickson, inert on her bed. She’d improved steadily since she came off the ventilator; Dr Murdoch had been pleased with her progress on the teatime round. But she could have done with another day here. Just to be safe.
Which made me think of something else: how safe I felt in here. Well settled now – and getting real satisfaction from helping to run a specialist unit: a world within a world. A place whose informality and instant crises concealed a secret order – of patience, skill and common purpose. It had boosted my confidence no end. Even the long dark winter evenings didn’t depress me any more.
I still turned my back on the windows, though: avoiding them like eyes. Even in this overheated room, they seemed to radiate cold. As if the effort of holding the night at bay had turned them into sheets of hard black ice.
Mrs Hickson was transferred on out; the first of our two bomb victims came in to take her place. He was dead within the hour.
I knew we were on a loser from the start; it didn’t need a nurse’s intuition. He’d been close to the core of the explosion, his body dreadfully burnt. But as long as a glimmer of hope remained, we fought to save him.
Even as we struggled, a part of me found time to watch how well the team was working. Dr Murdoch – our consultant in charge – mucking in with his sleeves rolled up; another anaesthetist at his elbow, still wearing his theatre pyjamas. Michelle and I busying ourselves with drips and drug infusions, setting them up as fast as the medics could put them in. Others hovered round us; came and went. Someone’s ventilator alarm started bleeping at the far end of the room, but the problem was corrected quickly. Jez had the rest of the unit well in hand.
Our nameless – faceless – patient’s output was fading all the time. Murdoch kept at it, his own face stern with concentration; but the damage done had been too great. The spark of life grew dimmer; dwindled. Died.
We lost him. Let him go.
And kept right on working. No time for a breather. Just fenced off the bed with mobile screens, and turned our attention to the living. Oh, the frustration lingered on of course: I felt its weight inside me as I phoned down to Haematology for some more bloods. And the handset felt much too bulky as I set it down again, and turned – to find a uniformed young copper standing rather nervously behind me.
‘Er … evening, Sister. I’ve got the relatives of one of the bomb victims. James Baxter. Casualty said he’d come up to you …’
‘Oh, God.’ I glanced past him. They were clustered in the corridor outside, not speaking. ‘Couldn’t you have rung?’
He gestured helplessly: looking more out of his depth by the moment. ‘They tried, but all your phones were engaged. I thought I’d better …’
‘All right. Don’t worry …’ I grabbed Lucy as she passed, and told her to shepherd our new arrivals into the now-empty waiting room. Then turned back to the PC. ‘It’s just that he’s …’ I crossed myself ‘… and we haven’t had a chance to clean him up yet.’
‘Shit. They know he was critical, but …’
But someone was going to have to tell them the worst. Murdoch had gone off somewhere with the casenotes; and Johann was busy. Which – as per usual – left it to me.
Afterwards I went back into my office and sat at my desk: resting my mouth against my hands for a minute’s dull silence. I’d remembered to bin my soiled pinny before going in to see them – only to have them notice my cheery unofficial trappings (smiley lapel badge, and teddy bear pen-top) as I broke the news. They took the tidings numbly; and after I’d explained all the procedures – and dissuaded them from seeing him just yet – I quietly withdrew, and left them to it.
Some things you never get used to.
After a pause – and without really thinking – I leaned back and opened the top drawer. The envelope with its lost property was there where I’d left it, amid the peppermints and paper clips. And I couldn’t have licked the flap thoroughly enough: it was coming unstuck.
I picked it up, and peeled it fully open. The little top came out into my palm. I rolled it thoughtfully between fingers and thumb. The faces of the die looked worn, as if many people had done as much before me.
Something that came up ace of spades, every time; the card of ill-omen. It wasn’t a toy, I’d realized that. There was something altogether too grim about it: almost grotesque.
Something that abruptly made me put it back, and close the drawer. And wipe my hand – so recently scrubbed clean – right down my dress.
I’d phoned home to say I’d be late, and not to worry; but Nick was out in the hall to greet me before I’d fully locked the door.
‘Hiya.’ Quick kiss. ‘You must be knackered.’
‘You bet I am.’ I went through into the lounge and flopped down onto the sofa; and suddenly it seemed I’d never find the strength to rise again.
‘Hang on, I’ll get you a drink. What’d you like?’
‘Um. Horlicks, please. Lots of milk.’ I rested my head against the cushion, and turned towards the TV. Some film or other. From the spread of books and notes by his chair, Nick had been doing his homework in front of it. Naughty boy.
Still, looking at all those weighty tomes on The Criminal Law, I guessed they needed some diluting. Just like nursing textbooks did.
Nick came back from the kitchen a few minutes later, and passed me my mug; watching with some concern as I took a first, grateful sip.
‘You got some of those from Liverpool Street, then?’
I nodded; drank again. ‘Two. One died. The other was still in theatre when I left …’
‘It was on News at Ten: the bomb was down in the Underground. Four dead, and more than fifty injured, they said …’ He shook his head. ‘They’re just scum, Rachel: they really are.’
He seemed to be expecting a response to that. When I didn’t oblige, he sat wearily down beside me, slipping his arm around my shoulders.
‘Come on, Raitch. I know you want to believe there’s good in everybody, but it isn’t true. Some of the people we deal with are just plain evil …’ His tone was gentle, persuasive; inviting me to see reason for myself. ‘The ones who’ve been planting these bombs – they’re past forgiving.’
I shrugged: still staring at my drink. ‘Oh, don’t worry – I think they’re scum as well. I’m just trying not to be judgmental …’
‘Nothing wrong in judging,’ he came back evenly. ‘It’s what the bastards need. Christ, they even had the gall to make a statement denying it was their people doing it. That was on the news as well …’
I could see our old capital punishment argument looming up again. Enjoyable enough when I was in the mood – and just the kind of debate that had first brought us together, in the pub following a fund-raising five-a-side match. But tonight I really wasn’t up to it. Besides, with the eyes of five grieving people still wide in my mind, I just wouldn’t have been objective.
‘One of your lot brought the relatives in,’ I said, rather obviously changing the subject. ‘Still wet behind the ears.’ I glanced across, and managed a faint grin. ‘Reminded me of someone …’
‘Gerroff,’ he grinned back, and squeezed my shoulders. His clean-cut features were boyish enough, to be sure; but Nick had been on the beat quite long enough to know his business.
‘Oh, yes …’ he said, as I finished my drink. ‘Someone rang for you earlier. From your church. Wanted to know if you could help with the soup run tomorrow night.’
I pulled a face, I couldn’t help it. ‘Well …’
‘Don’t worry: I said you probably couldn’t. Pressure of work and all that.’
‘Thanks,’ I murmured; not even trying to feel guilty.
‘Come on,’ Nick added brightly, getting up. He turned and took my hands, his grin fading to a knowing little smile. ‘“Time for bed,” said Zebedee. BOINGG!’
Which succeeded in giving me the giggles – and so left me completely at his mercy.
And so I ended up where I’d begun – as though this long and gruesome day had never been. Deep under the soft duvet, with Nick cuddling me close: a warm, safe refuge from the night. And yet my mind just would not rest. Even after I’d screened out all the evening’s traumas, it kept on niggling.
That strange little thing: that gizmo. For some reason I couldn’t get it out of my head. Could almost feel its coldness in my fingers.
That windy night I hardly slept at all.
