LITMIR.BIZ

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feet long. Well fancy that, I’d thought.

      It hadn’t meant a thing before tonight.

      Time might have raced or crawled; in the silence and blackness I couldn’t tell. The acrid smell of hospital bleach filled my nostrils. Compared to the stench from the far end of the ward, it was a perfume.

      A footstep sounded then, outside the door. The squeak of a shoe on the lino.

      I waited, hands across my mouth; eyes huge. Trying not to tremble. Not even to breathe.

      Silence.

      Then a sudden flurry of gibberish from the other side of the panel – a hissing, distorted voice that sent a fresh bolt of panic through me. There was something eerily ethereal about it, as if the speaker was a gulf away.

      As I listened, with tears on my cheeks, the shoes creaked again; I heard the bathroom door across the way easing open. Another hiss came – wordless this time. A crackle and pop of static.

      And suddenly I realised it was crosstalk on a two-way radio. A police radio. Oh thank Christ.

      I was about to fumble for the lock when something inside me said: Don’t.

      I hesitated.

      More footfalls. The door of the toilet next to mine swung open; its unoiled hinges squealed.

      I had a cold flush then: it bathed me like melted snow and almost sent me into spasm. My reasoning mind, still insisting I should open the door and let him lead me back to safety, was suddenly choked. In uncomprehending dread I waited; and his radio squawked again.

      He murmured something in response.

      More twisted words from out of the ether – and a moment later I heard him pass my door and walk back down the ward, his shoes clicking and squeaking into silence.

       Policeman. That’s all he was. An ordinary copper …

      I closed my eyes against the darkness, and lowered myself shakily down onto the toilet bowl. And for the next hour, while all sorts of consternation came and went in the corridors outside, I just sat there, with my head in my hands, and silently wept.

Chapter 10

      The long, heavy blade came up slowly, and caught the light – reflecting it sharply back at me. I managed not to flinch. Taking another sip of strong tea, I kept my eyes on the screen; even when Nick leaned over the back of the sofa to stroke my hair, running his hand down inside my dressing gown collar.

      ‘Sure you’re up to tonight?’ he asked quietly.

      I nodded – absorbed in the news conference; watching the solemn-faced man hold the machete gingerly up by its handle and tip. The spokesman beside him looked grimly back into the cameras.

      ‘We believe a weapon similar to this was used: a machete, or possibly a butcher’s knife of some description …’

      ‘Jesus, what their wives must be going through,’ Nick murmured. His fingers tightened to a stop on my shoulder; then resumed their gentle squeezing. I drank again, the mug held tight in both my hands. Still peering warily over the rim.

       ‘… the actual weapon?’

      ‘No, the weapon used has not been recovered as yet,’ the policeman responded heavily. ‘Our conclusions have been drawn from the pathologist’s report. All three victims died from severe lacerations compatible with …’ His mouth kept on going through the motions; his strained face told it differently. Behind the formal language – the forced dispassion – I glimpsed his pent-up anger and disgust; the effort of keeping it inside him turned him white.

      Two coppers killed in the line of duty: gutted like fish in a busy, British hospital. The atmosphere under the TV lights was tripwire-taut. We could almost feel it seeping out into the room.

      Even if I hadn’t seen the carnage for myself, the shock would still have numbed me. Partly because the police we take for granted aren’t supposed to get killed: it breaks the rules. And partly – of course – because of Nick. To judge by the photos they’d shown, both men had been his age. Imagining his sheepish mug-shot in their place was far too easy.

      When I’d finally emerged from my hiding place last night, the floor had been alive with stunned policemen; dark uniforms offsetting bleached, tight faces. The ones I ran into by the stairwell established who I was as politely as their outrage would allow, and ushered me along. I was finally nodded out through the front doors at nearly half-past ten, leaving the hospital lowering behind me.

      Night castle. Black fortress. Staring after me with its hundred blazing eyes …

      The reporters on TV were demanding theories. The spokesman spread his hands.

      ‘We can confirm that the hospital patient was in police custody. We believe the murderer or murderers were primarily interested in him …’

       ‘… Is it true he was a terrorist suspect … ?’

      ‘I cannot comment on that at this time …’

      ‘Thank Christ he wasn’t in with you,’ Nick said softly; from the tone of his voice, he was as unnerved on my behalf as I was on his. This sort of horror in hospitals was against the rules as well. Was out of order.

      He didn’t know the half of it.

      The next item of news came on, and at last I leaned my head back. His face was close to mine, and full of concern. I smiled faintly.

      ‘I’ll be okay tonight, don’t worry. Been looking forward to it …’

      ‘Just ring when you’re ready to come away from there.’

      ‘No, don’t wait up. I’ll call a cab …’

      ‘You ring me, right.’ His hand closed firmly on my shoulder. ‘Please, Rachel. There’s some bad bastards around at the moment.’

      I wouldn’t dispute that, either. The murders at our hospital had made such a splash (sorry: wrong word) on the evening news that other items had been pushed aside; but as I’d listened to GLR while doing my cooking this afternoon, the local news had provided a grisly little snippet of its own. A prostitute found hanged in a bedsit near King’s Cross. The police didn’t reckon it was suicide.

      And whoever had done it had used piano wire.

      We could have done without that detail; the very thought set my teeth on edge. Learning that the body had hung undiscovered for several days didn’t help, either. Maybe she was already dead and dangling when I’d made my abortive recce of the area. Maybe I’d passed quite close, and never known it …

      ‘What time’s your friend coming?’ Nick asked, straightening up. I glanced at my watch. Nearly six-fifteen.

      ‘Seven.’ Which was plenty of time. I’d had my bath already; washed and dried my hair. Now I could spend ages deciding what I was going to wear.

      I was determined to enjoy myself tonight; leave all my cares behind me. If that meant drinking lots of wine, then well and good, but I had other reserves to draw on too. Like a nurse’s ability to distance herself from dreadful things she’s had to deal with. And – after all I’d been through three years ago – a survivor’s resolve to keep on going forward.

      Besides, for me the war was over. Surely. I’d done all that Razoxane had asked of me; it wasn’t my fault that someone got there first.

       … someone looking for me …

      Her dry, remembered words made my stomach lurch; but that was pure reflex. I was out of it now. Whatever she might be pitting her wits against this time, it was no concern of mine.

      So it was curiosity as much as anything that made me ask if there’d been any progress with the Kentish Town

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