Angels of Mourning - John Pritchard

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not usual, y’know: people from your kind of profession supportin’ the cause. They can’t see past the violence …’ From his pensive tone, I couldn’t even tell if he was admiring my vision – or just regretting the fact that even nurses could get dragged into his dirty little war.

      Either way, I almost shuddered with disgust.

      The snack van was up ahead: an unhygienic-looking trailer selling burgers and hot-dogs as well as drinks. I went ahead and bought two beakers of muddy coffee, avoiding eye-contact throughout; turned to hand one to him – then followed him on round past the vehicle.

      To where Razoxane was waiting. I nearly dropped my drink.

      She was leaning against the corner, nursing a beaker of her own in both shabby gloves. Spots of rain still glistened on the brim of her hat, where the street light fell upon it; the face below was all in darkness.

      The Irishman walked over; I baby-stepped unhappily after him. And Razoxane raised her unseen eyes.

      ‘Evening, Rachel.’ A stripe of orange light showed up her smile. ‘How’s it going?’

      I didn’t deign to reply.

      ‘This is Frank,’ she went on calmly, nodding to my companion – and once again I was thrown by the ordinariness of the name. Maybe I’d expected him to have been called Seamus or something.

      Frank took a swallow of coffee. He looked about twenty-five, and tough: like the sort of bloke who’d start a pub fight. The press, police and politicians had poured out all their rage and frustration against a faceless enemy – but I’d looked him right in the eye. And her as well: that Jackie. Both close enough to touch. And smell …

      Razoxane tipped her head up: studying the hospital across the road. I followed her gaze towards its glowing windows – and for the first time felt like an outsider myself. Excluded. Looking in from the cold.

      ‘What have you found out for us?’ she asked.

      I told her, in a flat reluctant voice. The empty ward, the room, the guards. I’d seen a copper by the lifts, as well; another in the main foyer. When I’d finished, I just took a swig of coffee. Quite tasteless, but the heat scorched right down into my belly and made me grit my teeth.

      ‘When’s the best time?’ Razoxane wanted to know.

      ‘Um … To get to him, you mean? Probably the Late/Night handover … nine o’clock. The nurses next door will all be in Report. Out of the way,’ I added emphatically.

      Frank had finished his own drink, and was putting together a roll-up; but every few seconds he glanced up the street, and down it. A wary reaction rather than a nervous one, perhaps; but nervous was what it made me.

      Razoxane drained her beaker, and flipped it casually towards the nearby litter-bin. ‘Think they might transfer him?’

      I hesitated, keeping my face towards the wall. ‘It’s possible, yeah. Somewhere more secure …’ I forced down some more coffee – fighting the chill.

      ‘We’ll come tomorrow night, then. What shift will you be on?’

      ‘Late again, but …’ I stopped. Then, uneasily: ‘Why?’

      ‘Because first you’ll have to get hold of some hospital clothes,’ she explained patiently, ‘and then meet the visitors, and show them up to the ward …’

      ‘Oh no I won’t,’ I blurted back, my breath still steaming from the coffee. ‘You asked for information, I gave it to you, now sodding well leave me alone.’

      Razoxane seemed to absorb that in silence; the hiss of tyres on wet tarmac was very loud in the pause that followed. Beside her, Frank licked and sealed his crumpled cigarette, his gaze not leaving me now.

      Then Razoxane said: ‘Remember what we agreed – about our mutual friend? I’d really hate to come between you.’

      I knew she meant Nick, of course. The way she said it made me think of a falling shadow, a guillotine blade – but of course it would be more horribly mundane than that. A ring on the doorbell, perhaps; his footsteps going through to answer it. I might be in the kitchen, or reading a book. And then …

      I’d have thrown the last of my coffee in her face if I’d thought it would do any good.

      ‘Something for two people to wear,’ her cold voice persisted. ‘White coats, theatre pyjamas – whatever. Find them somewhere to change. Then up to the ward …’

      She was sucking me in again, and I knew it. Deep into her dark whirlpool of madness and terror. I should have bloody realised from the start.

      ‘Agreed?’

      I managed one convulsive nod. It probably looked about as agreeable as a head-butt.

      ‘Got a light?’ Frank asked.

      I simply turned to him and stared; it was Razoxane – of all people – who fished in her pocket and brought out a book of matches. Frank stooped, and lit up from the flame she’d struck; straightened a moment later with a murmur of thanks.

      Razoxane kept staring at the flame.

      It quivered and grew bluish in the restless air; she cupped the glow, and her glasses caught it. Even in my sick, numbed state, I registered surprise.

      The shades weren’t for show, I knew that much. Whether as a consequence of the witchcraft she’d used to prolong her life, or just the centuries she’d spent delving into the darkness, she hated light: it hurt her. But still she watched the burning match.

      Then the night breeze snuffed it out.

      Her head half-turned towards me, as if to catch me watching. The gesture re-awoke the fright of my dream and I looked quickly – guiltily – away, across the road.

      When I looked back, she’d moved in close: I had to swallow down a shudder before it set all my muscles off. Frank was smoking, over by the kerb: still watchful – but not quite within earshot.

      ‘It’s all part of the same favour,’ Razoxane said quietly. ‘I meant what I said before. I don’t want you involved this time.’

      I stared helplessly back at her; this icy, evil woman who treated me as she might a younger sister. And suddenly a question was rising to my mouth, as irresistibly as vomit. Something that – involved or not – I knew I had to ask.

      ‘Last week … There was a fire-bombing up in Kentish Town. People with their … eyes and tongues cut out.’ I swallowed; the question’s bilious taste remained. So I spat it out. ‘Please tell me that wasn’t you.’

      Razoxane smiled faintly. ‘It wasn’t me.’

      I felt a tiny flicker of relief.

      ‘It was someone looking for me,’ she added softly.

      ‘What’s up with her ladyship today?’ I heard Lucy mutter – unaware that I was there, outside the storeroom.

      ‘Who, Rachel?’

      ‘Yeah. Five minutes late, that’s all, and she really bites my head off. Cow.’

      I know listeners never hear good of themselves, but her tone still hurt a lot. It didn’t sound like a friend talking: not even a frustrated one. More like someone who’s bottled up her feelings for far too long.

      And I’d thought we got on well, the two of us. Her cross, unguarded whisper made me wince. On top of everything else – all the weight on my mind – I had the sudden, scary thought that maybe no one cared for me, not really; that all their smiles were just for show. Suck up to Sister and keep her sweet …

      At that moment – still only half-way through this dragging afternoon – the sense of no one

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