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together well.

      Alison Jane Scott, twenty-two years old, known prostitute, self-admitted with suspected post-operative infection. Died in department 02:20.

      This one had been the least messy, but in its way the most shocking of all. She’d wandered in just after midnight, looking dazed and haggard. Complaining of a high temperature, sweats; an unpleasant discharge. An examination revealed she’d recently undergone a gynae op of some kind, and it seemed she’d developed an infection.

      She wasn’t wilfully unco-operative most of the time; just listless, staring back at me or Mark (he’d been on that night as well) with dull, wary eyes. But when it came to the matter of the operation itself, she’d refused point-blank even to acknowledge it had taken place. Mark had pushed her a bit, clearly suspecting an illegal abortion, but got nowhere. And I’d had the distinct impression, as she’d relentlessly stonewalled, that her silence was born of fear: that the prospect of even mentioning her op was so frightening as to be quite simply unthinkable. It was looking more and more like a backstreet job. I assumed the person who’d performed it had threatened her – terrified her into silence.

      I’d been right, too. In a way.

      Anyhow, at length we’d given up trying to find someone we could pin the blame on, and Mark decided to get a second opinion from the gynae registrar. While he was out of the cubicle, I rechecked her pulse, and was making conversation in a perfunctory sort of way when her hand suddenly shot out and grasped my wrist: squeezing so tight it hurt. I turned in surprise – and the look in her eyes killed my word of remonstration stone dead. Her face was ashen and gleaming with sweat: I tried to tell myself it was the fever, but those haunted, hunted eyes assured me otherwise. Worst of all was the cold intelligence in them: the fact that she knew exactly what she was saying made the words that followed all the more unnerving.

      ‘Tell them I must be cremated,’ she whispered. ‘As soon as possible – so there’s nothing left for them.’

      Somewhat taken aback, I’d opened my mouth and shut it again, before managing: ‘Don’t be silly – maybe a few days on the gynae ward and a course of antibiotics, and you’ll be fine. Nothing to –’

      ‘Forget it. They’re here. They’re here already. And I can’t run any more.’ She looked at me earnestly. ‘Just leave me alone – or they’ll do for you too.’

      There was a pause. ‘How do you mean?’ I asked carefully.

      Her patience snapped then: there was an edge of hysteria in her tone. ‘You stupid bitch, just leave me alone! Please …’

      I kept very calm. ‘Who is it you’re afraid of ?’

      ‘Them. The Clinicians.’ Her voice had faded to a dry whisper again. ‘Can’t you feel them?’

      Clinicians. Again that word. And though I didn’t answer her question directly, it did indeed occur to me that the temperature in the cubicle had altered. It hadn’t dropped, exactly; but it had … subsided. The air felt cooler on my skin. As I stared at her, I realized it was becoming cold.

      ‘Clinicians: you mean doctors?’

      ‘I mean Clinicians. Now for fuck’s sake leave me be.’

      ‘All right,’ I relented, ‘I’ll just go and see how the doctor’s getting on. Back in a minute, okay?’

      I found Mark writing out an X-ray request form over by the desk. ‘You know that woman in cubicle two … ?’

      ‘Alison Scott? The gynae reg. is coming down to take a look at her: they’ll probably want to admit …’

      ‘I think you should speak to the duty psychiatrist as well. She’s really coming out with some weird things.’ And even as I was speaking, I knew she wasn’t a psychie case. I just needed someone to assure me that she was.

      ‘Want me to talk to her again?’

      I shrugged. ‘Might be an idea.’

      By the time we’d got back to the cubicle, Alison Scott was dead.

      We found her slumped in one corner of the cubicle, all huddled up: her face pinched and wretched with fear. All attempts to resuscitate her proved unsuccessful. The post-mortem results pointed to death from heart failure; the precise cause remained uncertain.

      I turned to Mark. ‘Remember how cold that cubicle was, when we went back in? And back to normal a few minutes later?’

      ‘So you said,’ he came back, a little guardedly; he’d never actually admitted to feeling it himself. ‘So what?’

      Not having told him about the eeriest aspect of my road-crash experience, I just shrugged. ‘Just seemed strange, that’s all.’

      But he’d begun to pick up on it now. ‘So what are you suggesting? That she saw a ghost? That she was scared to death? Come on …’

      ‘Look, I’m not suggesting anything. Okay?’ It came out sharper than I’d intended.

      He held up his palms. ‘Sorry. But that girl was suffering from the early stages of septicaemia …’

      ‘It doesn’t kill you that dramatically.’

      ‘Okay, point taken. We don’t know why she died so suddenly. But you can’t let it obsess you like this. Same goes for those other cases. Maybe there are some things we can’t explain; but we just have to carry on. I know you’ve had a rough time recently, but …’

      He tailed off awkwardly, but I knew his unspoken thought was that Jenny’s death was getting to me. And so it was – but I still reckoned I was rational. We see it all in this place: all the misery and mess. But I hadn’t seen fear like those three showed before.

      Something was wrong, I knew it. Out there. In our town.

      Something was wrong.

      But dawn was creeping up on us now, fading in through the double entrance doors; and it seemed that the hospital, an island universe through all the long hours of the night, was joined to dry land once again. A last dark thought dripped down against the stone of my scepticism; and then the mental tap was closed. I screwed it tight. It stopped.

      I checked my fob-watch and managed a smile. ‘Soon be time for bed.’

      He seemed to accept that the previous subject was now closed. ‘Glad to be through your first night back?’

      ‘You bet I am.’ I pressed the exit key, and the VDU screen cleared as data – and dark memories – returned to the disks where they’d been stored.

      The night ended as quietly as it had begun. With handover completed and the early shift of day staff settling in, I stopped off in the toilets to splash cold water on my face: clearing the muzziness that was settling over me – and snapping me out of my more disturbing night thoughts. The sun was fully up now; the outside world alive and awake once more. Back to the world of dreams, Sister Young.

      I studied myself for a moment, there in the mirror. Fatigue didn’t do me any favours, but I reckoned I still looked the professional I sometimes didn’t feel. You might think of Sisters as older women, with years of experience behind them, but I’m twenty-six, and Ravensfield General is my first senior post. I’ve been a Trauma or Surgical nurse ever since I qualified, and I’ve seen a lot; but actually running the place is a different proposition entirely. Sometimes it scares the shit out of you.

      While I was at it, I decided I wasn’t looking too bad altogether. Maybe a little waif-like, what with my pale complexion and wide blue eyes, offset by the dark straight hair that hung to my collar; but I’d heard my smile called winsome, and I knew that I was pretty. In my own quiet way.

      On to the changing room, where I divested myself of my uniform dress, tights and sensible shoes, in favour of blouse, sweater, jeans and trainers; chatting with Fran as she shrugged out of her own work clothes. She seemed to have settled in well over the last couple of weeks; a pint-sized and perky young Scouser, blessed

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