Angels of Mourning - John Pritchard

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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.

      A flick of my fingers and thumb and it was off again – veering over the desktop in a black-and-white blur.

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