for other reasons too. Because razoxane’s a chemo drug, one of those for people with cancer. Cytotoxics, as they call them. Cell-killers.
Kill or cure.
The last time our paths had crossed had been like one of those operations which succeed at the cost of the patient’s life. She’d come on like a medieval doctor – bleeding and butchering in her hopeless quest to heal. I scarcely dared think what she might be up to this time.
So don’t, I told myself grimly. Don’t think. Just do what she wants and forget it. I did feel a twinge of guilt at the prospect of helping a terrorist escape – but only a twinge. The cold, unpleasant instincts of survival quite eclipsed it.
It would happen anyway, and what could I do? Tip off the police? Tell them the current round of atrocities had been unleashed by an eighteenth century witch, who believed she was a reincarnated fallen angel? Oh, yeah, that would really go down well.
Besides, whatever they thought, they’d never catch her. And she’d cut much more than my vocal cords next time …
A sudden quick shudder went through me: the sort you might get if you linger too long on a whiff of vomit, and your body starts coming out in sympathy. Still grimacing, I glanced up – and found Sue leaning over the upper worktop, watching; mouth nervously half-open.
I reshaped my expression as fast as I could, but discouragement was there in hers already. I could have kicked myself. Because Sue had something on her mind, I knew it: something that had been troubling her for days. And just then she’d seemed on the brink of broaching the subject.
She didn’t now. Just swallowed, and asked me to crosscheck Mr Jackson’s next drug infusion with her. I did so, waiting for her to try again even as I compared label and drug-chart. But she didn’t; and in another moment the rhythm of the unit had drawn us apart again, with different nursing matters to attend to.
I wondered what was up. Boyfriend trouble? Or something more work-related? I didn’t think it was that poor girl’s death: Lucy’s friend in the burning car. Sue had been preoccupied before that happened. Quieter than usual; sometimes snappier, too. Something was there inside, and wanted out.
Another job for Sister.
It wasn’t one I’d shrink from. Like Lucy, she was a friend as much as a member of my staff. I wanted to see her smiling again; I’d be happy to listen and advise – when she was ready.
When I got back to the station, the BNF was still lying there open: almost mockingly. I closed it on that awful word, and glanced down at my watch. Nearly ten to one: it would soon be time for break, and a well-earned breather.
And a wander, on some vague pretext or other, to the Orthopaedic wards.
They were trying to be less obtrusive. I’d gathered there had been complaints about armed policemen parading around. But the situation was obvious enough – a uniformed copper in an unzipped anorak sitting boredly outside the side-room door. The window-curtain was drawn behind him. A rather superfluous note sellotaped against it advised all-comers not to enter without seeing the nurse in charge – a form of words more commonly used on the wards to convey the discreet message There Is A Dead Body In Here.
But not this time. At least (oh, Razoxane …) not yet.
I’d been through two Ortho wards already; it was getting difficult to keep my cool. I was in full uniform, of course – laminated ID badge and all. No one had given me more than a glance (a guilty one in the case of a Care Assistant I’d found gossiping in the corridor). But I still felt unnervingly exposed; as if the eyes of every patient and nurse I’d passed had turned to watch me.
Pure paranoia, of course. The walk down that last long ward had felt like half a mile, but the two girls doing the drug round only looked up long enough to judge, from the briskness of my stride, that I knew where I was headed. Beyond them, another nurse was perched on the paper-strewn desk, the phone tucked under her chin as she scrawled out a note. We’d exchanged a casual smile; she kept on talking. I kept on walking.
The adjoining ward was empty.
I guessed it had been shut a while ago; perhaps they were even getting round to painting it. The beds had been stripped to their metal bones, looking doubly bleak in the grey daylight. But there was a fluorescent on at this end of the room, just beyond the entrance doors. Peering cautiously through the porthole, I saw the copper sitting there.
No Entry said a hand-printed sign above the window. A bit difficult to miss, but still …
The PC glanced round as I came on through, his expression dour. ‘Sorry, this bit’s closed.’
‘Oh … right,’ I said, and nodded dutifully: trying to ignore the thudding in my chest. ‘Still at it, eh?’
He grunted, but amiably enough. ‘Yeah – but not for long. Shift change in half an hour …’ His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘You don’t work round here, do you …’
Oh God, he’s got his wits about him, this one. I felt my smile slipping.
‘Er … no. Just passing through. Shortcut …’
‘Thought I hadn’t seen you. Anyway, I’ll not be sorry to get going. Hate hospitals. Don’t know how you nurses stand it …’
Just an idle enquiry, that’s all it had been. A bored young man just making conversation. I swallowed.
‘Being good, is he?’ I ventured. Somehow it managed to come out sounding casual.
‘Who, him?’ He jerked his head towards the door behind him, the curtained window. Please speak to Nurse in Charge before entering. I couldn’t quite get the ominous connotations of that phrase out of my mind.
‘Good as gold,’ the copper was saying, a sneer on his thin young face. ‘Not much choice, really, has he? Sod …’
My heart was still steaming away. I was convinced I’d betray myself if I lingered for another minute. But I also knew I’d never have the nerve to try this again; and people would get suspicious if I did. I had to get everything I could in this one go.
‘You never know …’ I smiled (hoping it looked like a smile) ‘… he could be making a rope out of sheets right now.’
He snorted. ‘Nah. Brian’s in there with him. And not to read him bedtime stories, neither.’
I nodded; but my eyes had found his revolver now, the butt peeping out from under his anorak as he bent forward, and I couldn’t keep them off it.
He didn’t notice; he’d been picking up his paper. ‘There’s a lot of crap in the Sun these days, too,’ he muttered, folding it back onto the crossword. ‘I went down to get the Mirror, but they’d sold out …’ He sat back, and the gun was out of sight once more. The ease with which he ignored it only made its presence seem more menacing.
Two of you, then.
‘I’d best be getting on,’ I said quickly. ‘Have fun.’
‘I will. I’ll see you, Sister.’ With a grin, he got back to his puzzling.
I supposed if I’d been an ordinary member of the public he’d have called me ‘Miss’; a courtesy that always seemed to come out sounding cold. But uniformed professions can meet on equal terms; and trust each other. Oh, yes.
Retreating – walking off the ward and back towards the lifts – I hoped against hope that he was wrong: that the two of us would never meet again.
And that he wouldn’t be on duty when Razoxane came visiting.
Nick was late home; it was gone eleven when I heard his key in the door. More than a little relieved, I called hello – but if he answered at all, I didn’t hear it. When he came into the front room, his expression was wan and strained.
‘You’re not going on any more of those soup runs,’