gone an hour ago.
‘No, you get off home now. And thanks, Sue. I mean that.’
She gave a tired little smile – which flickered to a frown. ‘Oh, yes … That lost property. I was meaning to give it you …’
‘Look, don’t worry …’ I began, but she was already going over to the wall cupboard. The red light above the door came silently on as she unlocked it, like a warning sign. And that was how it struck me, for no good reason – even though I’d seen the like on every single working day. Red for danger: a glowing, bloodshot eye.
Then the softer yellow light of the interior bathed our faces.
‘Here. I didn’t seal it.’ She handed the envelope across, and I took it, peered inside – and curiously drew the object out.
It was the oddest thing: like a die on a small metal stalk. Something you’d spin like a top, I realised; see which side finished uppermost. Except that the sides were all the same.
All aces of spades.
I felt the faintest frown across my forehead.
A trinket from someone’s Christmas cracker, probably. Hardly worth handing in. I turned it over in my fingers one more time; then slipped it back into the envelope. And after just a moment’s hesitation, I licked the flap and sealed it.
‘Thanks. I’ll get it sent down during supper.’ I smiled then, in a mock-resigned sort of way. ‘Assuming we get any.’
As it turned out, we didn’t. The bomb went off just after half past six.
Jez and I were queuing for supper in the canteen, and heard it there. A dull but distinctive boom. The darkened windows rattled faintly, and were still.
I felt a cold little knot drawing tight inside me. Still balancing my tray, I turned to Jez – but Jez was already peering out into the night. I craned my head in turn, but there was nothing to see: no flicker of flame to tell us where.
‘Oh God, not another one …’ I muttered.
He grunted. ‘Sounded big. And not too far.’ His eyes came back round to me. ‘Bastards …’
I knew who he meant, of course. After the past fortnight, no one needed it spelled out.
Bombs in London: big deal. That’s how I used to think. But then I came to live here. Then I started travelling on the Underground. And then, two weeks ago, the year’s first bomb blew a tube station apart.
There’d been no warning; no caller with a helpful Irish accent and recognised code word. Just a suitcase load of semtex at St Paul’s. The place had been demolished, starting a fire that the underground wind had sucked deep into the tunnels. At least we hadn’t had another King’s Cross, thank God; it had been late, just the last train left, and the platforms and stairs had been almost empty.
Five people died.
And then the next bomb, and the next: set off completely at random, as though someone was playing battleships with an A to Z. One in an Oxford Street restaurant at Saturday lunchtime, leaving it a burned-out shell. One in the City, breaking windows at the Barbican. We’d waited, shaken, for the admissions – the claims – we knew were coming.
But they hadn’t come. There’d just been silence. And not of guilt or shame, for all my wishful thinking. Just an absence of human contact: an eerie emptiness. And then another awful bomb.
I could hear sirens now, reaching us fitfully through wind and windows; already wailing their despair. The lump of ice in my stomach grew sharper edges as I pictured the chaos out there. The snow would only make it worse, of course. And the night would make it far more frightening.
Disasters at night always haunt me the most. From the Tay Bridge to the Titanic, they give me the shivers. All those people lost and screaming in the dark …
‘Think they’ll come to us?’ Jez asked; but I saw I wouldn’t need to guess. An ambulance crew was sitting at the nearest table, and the bloke was already fiddling with his radio handset. His companion watched pensively, biting her lip. They were still wearing their green and yellow anoraks, the reflective stripes aglow under the canteen lights. They’d hardly had a chance to touch their coffee.
The radio crackled into crosstalk. Too distant for me to hear; but after a moment the crewman met my eyes, as if expecting to find me watching, and raised his voice.
‘Liverpool Street.’
‘Shit,’ from Jez. I shared the sentiment – but saved my breath.
I guessed I’d be needing it soon enough.
It wasn’t certain that they’d come to us; just bloody likely. If this was a big one, with lots of casualties, the units all around would be receiving. Even as we finished loading our trays – the hot food sandwiched by paper plates to keep it warm – our own A&E would be gearing up and clearing the decks. And I knew we’d need to follow suit.
‘Who can we move?’ Jez asked, as we retraced our echoing steps along the corridor.
‘Mrs Hickson, probably … if we’re pushed. But let’s see what Murdoch says.’ I turned to back in through the unit’s swing doors, held them open with my heel while he followed me through, then led the way over to our rest room. A glimpse of faces glancing round as we passed the relatives’ room; but I’d given up feeling embarrassed. Even angels eat chips.
Lucy looked up from the sagging chair into which she’d sunk. ‘Rachel, did you hear –’
‘Yep. Liverpool Street.’ I was still looking round for somewhere I could leave my supper to get cold. ‘Any details?’
Lucy – who’d worked overtime this week, and looked it – just spread her hands. No worry. Dumping my tray, I left her to her well-earned break, and went on down into the unit proper. The lights were low, now: the glow of readouts seeming brighter in the dimness. Fuller lighting was on around two of the beds, where procedures were underway – and at the desk, where Johann Meier was listening intently to the phone.
I went over and waited; a bit keyed-up, and trying not to show it. Johann’s eyes found mine, and said hello. Like most of the ITU medics he worked in shirtsleeves, and I could see sweat stains in the armpits.
After a moment he spoke again – his English calm and precise – and the conversation ended.
‘A&E are expecting two,’ he told me, hanging up. ‘One will probably go straight to theatre. The other comes to us as soon as he is stable.’
We’d get them both in due course. ‘So who’s going?’
‘Mrs Hickson. She is still under the physicians, so Murdoch is talking to them. And that is us full.’
Again. The second time in three weeks we’d closed the doors. We had the beds for more, of course; but not the nurses.
I turned away as he dialled again; reaching up into my short uniform sleeve to scratch my shoulder. Staring unhappily at middle-aged Mrs Hickson, inert on her bed. She’d improved steadily since she came off the ventilator; Dr Murdoch had been pleased with her progress on the teatime round. But she could have done with another day here. Just to be safe.
Which made me think of something else: how safe I felt in here. Well settled now – and getting real satisfaction from helping to run a specialist unit: a world within a world. A place whose informality and instant crises concealed a secret order – of patience, skill and common purpose. It had boosted my confidence no end. Even the long dark winter evenings didn’t depress me any more.
I still turned my back on the windows, though: avoiding them like eyes. Even in this overheated room, they seemed to radiate cold. As if the effort of holding the night at bay had turned them into sheets of hard black ice.
Mrs Hickson was transferred on out; the first of our two bomb victims came in to take her place. He was dead within the hour.