Книга - Angels of Mourning

Angels of Mourning
John Pritchard


Something appalling lurks under the streets of London. Something that has survived for centuries, thriving on pain and hatred and grief.And with another terrorist bombing campaign in the City, there's plenty to fuel such an appetite for evil.Rachel Young has moved to the capital to work in one of the major hospital's Intensive Care Units: it's a desperate job at the best of times, and now is not the best of times.Despite a happy marriage to Nick and a successful three-year recovery from past traumas, Rachel senses that the skin of normality over the abyss is about to erupt, and the glimpse of an old adversary lurking among the homeless people further increases her fears.Roxanne – Angel of Death, Angel of Mourning – has returned from the Void…


















COPYRIGHT (#ulink_73bb9b3a-f7f0-55c5-a6d0-9bedc5f28588)

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)

Copyright © John Pritchard 1995

John Pritchard asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780006480136

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008219482

Version: 2016-10-26


Any similarity between characters in this story and real police officers or units is certainly not intended! Nor is Rachel’s workplace based on any one hospital.


DEDICATION (#ulink_dc7f455a-b0ba-53e6-acb0-047c492f16e9)

To

Veronique and Huw

For all their sense and humour


CONTENTS

Cover (#uf0e34e54-d2d4-51f4-aa8c-4f4d61627313)

Title Page (#u73b86b6d-bceb-5bb1-9417-9899c9008744)

Copyright (#ulink_0791a0ac-cabf-5a4b-97e4-e1293b4857d8)

Dedication (#ulink_87234d4e-2967-5249-9cde-6da5e66ade73)

Part 1: The Mercy of Angels (#ulink_ae5692ba-def5-5993-b5a1-9b2be944d2b7)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_79a76831-2214-5d62-85fd-b8f94d33c1b4)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_462b15db-cf45-55bb-aa14-96cd53ab28fa)

Chapter 3 (#ulink_1e1a958c-347f-5bee-bd5d-49c5cbab41d3)

Chapter 4 (#ulink_bf8e0c51-3bde-51b3-8175-0677d5d17492)

Chapter 5 (#ulink_16e3c502-d626-589c-9850-32d79e4219ce)

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part 2: The City of Crows

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Part 3: Death is Sweet from the Soldier of God

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Keep Reading (#ulink_b4fae7eb-6853-5ae0-8c0a-e21df1d4af85)

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher


PART 1 (#ulink_2e52715a-8ca3-5903-820c-02417b42efcc)

The Mercy of Angels (#ulink_2e52715a-8ca3-5903-820c-02417b42efcc)


Chapter 1 (#ulink_dd4a4d1f-240d-5673-9f36-af67467601a1)

I remember waking up on that first, awful Friday, and thinking how good it felt to be alive.

I’d come to the surface in my own sweet time. No need to grope for my alarm clock through the darkness – nor meet my pasty-faced reflection in the bathroom mirror, the window beside it still black from the night outside. No call to venture out into the pre-dawn city chill.

No more Earlies for me this week. I wasn’t on until one.

So I just lay where I was, content and clear-headed from a full eight hours, and soaked up the duvet’s warmth. With bed and bedclothes all to myself, I’d snuggled deep into a cosy little nest: the hardest sort of all to quit. And maybe I’d started building it when I should have still been sharing – at least if Nick’s usual complaints were anything to go by.

But Nick was long gone now; out before six to catch his shift-change. His turn to tiptoe to the bathroom, and dress in the dimness, and let himself out into the darkest hour.

I hadn’t woken.

Sleep – at long, long last – was somewhere I felt safe.

The light through the curtains was pale and flat; they were going on about snow on the radio news. But it didn’t really register until I’d gone through, yawning, to open the front door – and couldn’t find the milk bottles.

The doorstep was a shapeless heap; our street was blanketed. I started delving – then stopped again to listen to the hush. It seemed unreal: like the sallow, sick-rose pink of the sky above the rooftops. For a moment I just knelt there, not feeling the chill that came gnawing through my nightshirt. Knelt, and stared in wide-eyed wonder, and couldn’t stop the grin spreading over my face. Because I’ve always loved the early-morning snow: loved the way it can turn a dreary winter city to another world. From back when I was a girl growing up in the Midlands, to now, in drab North London, the magic hadn’t changed. It still made me want to play snowballs.

Even the prospect of the chaos I’d face getting in to work didn’t dampen my mood.

A note on the cork board caught my eye as I came back in with the bottles. Raitch. I’ll get some more bread on the way home. Love, Nick. Which probably meant he’d finished the loaf; no wonder there were all those kisses at the end. I blew him one back, and carried the chilled milk through into the kitchen.

After breakfast, with a couple of hours left to kill, I wandered round the house for a while. Some stray bits of dirty washing to be rounded up (Nick!); a few fastidious flicks of the duster. But it had been a lived-in sort of place from day one, which was what I really liked about it. Overlooking Clissold Park: two bedrooms – one damp – and it had cost us. But it was ours now. A place of our own. A place we’d begun to call home.

Ours. Something special: something shared. Something to make the past seem very far away.

Sometimes.

And sometimes it seemed like yesterday. Three crowded years just fled away, and the dark was so close it made me catch my breath. But such moments were more fleeting now; much fewer. I might still dream the dreams, but I couldn’t recall them. And they didn’t wake me, sobbing, in the night.

Ready to go – bag packed, and travelcard ready in my purse – I wrapped up warm, and picked my way out into the silent street. The snow was slick and icy underfoot – I almost slipped – but there was a narrow, gritted gap down the middle, like the safe path through a minefield, and I followed it carefully towards the main road. This was busier, and already mostly slush. A queue of people were waiting by the bus-stop, and I’d joined them just long enough for my cheeks to start stinging when the number 73 came rumbling into view.

I rode the bus as far as King’s Cross, then changed to the tube for the rest of the journey; watching the snow melting off my boots as we banged and rattled southward, from tunnels into canyons open to the slaty sky.

Someone was waiting for me at the other end.

Coming up out of the station, I found him right in my path – huddling on the stairs like a survivor of Stalingrad. A beggar wrapped up in a hospital blanket, his stubbled face pinched tight with the cold. His grey eyes hungry.

And survivor he was, I thought numbly: straggling in retreat from an undeclared war. A man defeated. But I was the one who spread my mittened hands, as if in surrender.

‘Sorry, mate … No change …’

He’d asked as I said it; the appeal stayed frozen to his face. And all I could do was pass him by, my helpless hands still empty; giving him a small, regretful smile.

Big help, of course. But with shock still thumping dully in my chest, it was as much as I could manage. Hardly his fault, poor bloke – but some things still brought the worst of it back. And try as I might, I couldn’t keep my nerves from reacting.

After a moment I raised my face again – and the hospital was there before me, looming up like a tenement block; sombre as stone. But its windows leaked light and warmth from the world within: a place protected from this bitter day. A refuge in refugee city.

I waited for a gap and crossed the road: hunching my shoulders against the cold.

Finished scribbling the last detail, I looked up from my notebook. ‘That it?’

Sue nodded, and I glanced quickly back over what I’d written. Six patients handed over, in varying degrees of recovery. I glanced out through the office door, and the pages of notes were transformed into six exhausted bodies, hemmed in with machinery and monitors. The nearest ventilator hissed steadily. Intensive Care was nearly a full house.

‘Oh … we had some lost property handed in …’ Sue added, as I clicked my pen. ‘I locked it in the drugs cupboard …’

‘What, from relatives?’

She shrugged. ‘Cleaner found it. Some sort of toy or trinket. Doubt if it’s valuable …’

The rest of the shift were already stirring. The phone at the station rang again, and Jez led the way out to answer it. Sally was helping Jean turn Mr Hall. The next eight hours began here and now.

I stood, and tucked away my notebook. Beyond the blinds and windows, the grey sky looked like porridge; it made our lights seem all the brighter. I could almost feel the chilly wind against the glass; sense the mess of slushy streets below us. But winter couldn’t reach us here.

I’d come to this hospital with my ENB 100 under my belt, and my mind on a fresh start; but it had been a bit like a homecoming as well. London was where I’d trained: where I’d grown from girl to woman. I always knew I’d return one day. The ITU qualification had been my ticket back.

Intensive Care. A whole new ballgame after A&E, but no less demanding. I’d been one of the Sisters here for nine months now – and all of them on days.

I’ll not be working nights again.

Not ever.

‘Do you want me to change Joe’s infusion?’ Sue asked, already glancing in that direction; still smoothing her polythene pinny.

I glanced down at my watch; the time had flown. She should have been 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.

I knew we were on a loser from the start; it didn’t need a nurse’s intuition. He’d been close to the core of the explosion, his body dreadfully burnt. But as long as a glimmer of hope remained, we fought to save him.

Even 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.


Chapter 2 (#ulink_bc4f9a95-e2ec-56ca-9d1a-3f4198a00037)

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

I watched it, mesmerized, chin in hand: my pen laid aside on the sheaf of Off-Duties; the requests ledger forgotten at my elbow. My turn to do the rosters this month, a chore at the best of times – but this was more than just distraction. The thing had virtually found its own way to my fingers; they’d itched to make it move. There was something morbidly compelling about its inevitable progress: it held my attention like a hook.

It spun like an ordinary top at first; then with the weird, wobbling motion of a gyroscope, leaning out at forty-five degrees for longer than I’d thought was possible. But finally it fell, and rolled, and came to rest in front of me.

The Ace of Spades, of course.

So what game of chance could you possibly play? No matter how you spun it, you’d never beat its bias towards bad luck.

I halfway reached for it again – then changed my mind, and let it lie. It almost felt like a test of my resolve: being able to leave the bloody thing alone. In (and out of) my desk five days already, and I still hadn’t got round to handing it in. No one had rung to enquire, but even so … This afternoon, then, I decided. This time I won’t forget.

Maybe my fingers just needed something to keep them busy; maybe it was nerves. Like when I sometimes caught myself fiddling with the rings on my fingers, or the cross round my neck: an unconscious, edgy reflex.

The sort I knew I’d shown this morning, while I listened to Lucy weep.

It’s not just the relatives who need a quiet cry sometimes; the stress can wear the best of us down. I’ve needed a good, hard hug myself before now. But poor Lucy had more than the workload or the death of a patient on her mind. She’d just lost one of her friends.

Quite horribly.

I hadn’t known the girl myself: she’d worked over on one of the surgical wards, and our paths hadn’t crossed. Anna Stubbs, her name was. And yesterday she’d got into her car, just round by the nurses’ home; turned the ignition – and been burned alive.

No warning: no hope. The car had been a fireball in seconds. We’d known nothing at the time – all sirens sound the same on a busy day – and it wasn’t until I got home and saw the TV that I realised where the commotion had been coming from. There’d been a fleeting clip on South East News: the gutted hulk that had once been a trim Mini Metro. ‘… a tragic accident,’ according to the voice-over ‘claimed the life of a young nurse in London today …’ And watching, I’d lost my appetite completely.

How much worse for Lucy, who’d been sitting on a birthday present, ready-wrapped, for Anna’s twenty-third: next Thursday. She’d come in this morning with a brave enough face, but couldn’t hold it. And when I suggested a quiet chat in my office, it wasn’t long before she let herself go completely.

In between sobs and sniffles she’d tried her best to talk it all out – and I’d done my best to help it come. An awful, awkward job; but one I felt oddly at ease with. Perhaps because I knew just how she was feeling.

‘Really I do,’ I’d insisted, while she watched me miserably, and wiped her reddened eyes. ‘I mean … I lost my parents when I was just your age. That was an RTA. And then … a couple of years ago … my flatmate was … was murdered by her boyfriend …’ And oh, there’d been more to it than that, of course. Much more. But it was enough to sit her up, quite startled – then sympathetic herself.

‘Oh, Rachel. I’m so sorry …’

I shrugged, and quickly steered the conversation back to her. Her problems. I felt guilty dwelling on my own.

And really didn’t want to.

But they’d already started stirring again, at the back of my head. The memories of darkness, and burning, and bloody death. Stuff it had taken me months to get over; and years to begin to forget. As Lucy talked on, her voice getting slowly stronger, I fingered my crucifix – feeling its ends digging in under my nails – and tried very hard just to follow her words.

‘Did you … ever get depressed or anything?’ she’d ventured after a while; having said all she’d felt necessary on her own account. Ready to listen in turn now: the first step back up the ladder. I was grateful for that, at least.

‘Well …’ I hesitated. Then: ‘Yes, I was – for quite a while. Reactive depression, you know?’ And she nodded, the term familiar to us both. Except that mine had been the reactive depression more commonly associated with surviving fires or train crashes. The sort that gives dreadful dreams – and waking weeks of utter hopelessness. I’d been fine for a while, too – coping really well, or so I’d thought. Then the tears from nowhere had begun. The conviction that getting up in the morning would not be worth the trouble. The thoughts of suicide.

Not active suicide, of course: not really. More the passive variety. Like, if a car had mounted the pavement, out of control, I wouldn’t have bothered getting out of the way. Suicide with a clear conscience, if you prefer.

And I still think the only thing that kept me going through it all was Jenny. Her face in my dreams. Jenny, who’d been my best and closest friend. Jenny, who’d died before my own nightmare even began.

Jenny, who’d reached out from her grave to save me from a fate far worse than death. And in all the weeks that followed, I’d felt her with me still: even in the darkest, longest nights. Beckoning me on towards the breaking of day.

I’d met with her murderess, too: the witch-like woman who’d risen from her deathbed to strangle her. We’d faced each other in an overcast cemetery, over Jenny’s last resting place – and the old woman had just smiled a toothless smile, and gone her way. Perhaps to find a resting place herself; but maybe she was out there still.

Whatever, it was an end between us. I’d sensed that much, that day.

And so life had gone on, as it always must. And as I moved on too – new job, new town, new home, new friends – so the past had faded into the background. But sometimes, even now, I’d feel an emptiness: the strangest yearning for what was gone – like someone who’s been somehow left behind.

Oh Jenny. What about me?

‘Penny for them, Rachel,’ Murdoch said quietly.

I came back to myself with a start – to find him in the office doorway, watching me. Dressed in a charcoal-dark suit, as always: it gave him a sombre aspect, despite his crimson tie. His long, thinly-bearded face could often look severe, as well – which made his smile now all the more engaging.

‘Oh … It’ll cost you a good deal more than that, Dr Murdoch,’ I said airily – already feeling just a little better. And Murdoch’s smile grew wider.

‘I’ll be starting the round in a moment: any problems?’

I shook my head. ‘Nope. They’re all being very good. Jez’ll go round with you.’ Even Murdoch called him that now. I guessed only his mum still called him Jeremy.

‘Good. I’ll speak to you later.’ He gave me a courteous nod and went on towards the station. I sat back, still smiling myself. Some of our anaesthetists were temperamental as hell: perhaps it went with the territory. But Murdoch – though one of the youngest – was probably the calmest of them all. And the softest-spoken.

Which, when he did get angry, made his rages all the more unnerving. They were cold: controlled. I’d got on the wrong side of him once, and he didn’t even raise his voice – but left me shaking.

I hadn’t made the same mistake again.

But today he seemed in sunnier mood – which brightened up mine in turn. As a unit we worked well together: we got on. Sue had once even ventured the opinion that Murdoch was ‘kind of a handsome man’. And added (a few drinks later) that ‘he could put me under any time’ – politely ignoring our cheerful, pop-eyed stares of disbelief.

Well, now. Sue could go on the Early with Jean. Jez had requested a day off. So who could I put on the Late? I pondered – or tried to. But the real question was, could I find an excuse for not doing the soup run again this week?

Getting into bad habits, and I knew it. Knew, and didn’t much care. Not that it had ever been my favourite way to spend a cold winter’s evening: doling out soup to the street-sleepers. The temptation to let it go had always itched beneath the surface. But there was something more than apathy or mere distaste involved this time. I’d really had a fright.

An awful shock.

And all in the mind, as I’d realised soon enough. A last, stray echo of things left well behind me. But still – sitting here, pen poised – I could feel the way my guts had clenched inside me. I wasn’t about to go through that again.

It had been a fortnight ago; we’d been bringing soup to an enclave of the homeless near Waterloo. Quite a crowd had gathered round our van, to slurp from steaming beakers in the dimness. I’d started out by making conversation – and ended up quite absorbed. Chewing the fat with a wryly funny Scotsman not long out of a psychie unit – and a well-spoken accountant type, who’d ended up on the street with what sounded like petrifying suddenness.

‘Gissa hand, will ye?’ the Scots bloke asked at length, taking a fresh beaker in each hand and jerking his head towards the people still crouching in the shelter of the nearby bridge. ‘Some o’ yon lads’re too tired to bloody stand …’

I nodded, grabbed a couple more helpings of oxtail and followed him over. Hands reached up gratefully from the foxholes of cardboard and blankets. I glimpsed someone sitting apart from the others, almost submerged in the deeper gloom beneath the arch, and made towards him with my last beaker.

I was only a few feet short when I suddenly stopped dead. So suddenly that the soup slopped out, scalding my wrist between sleeve and glove. So dead, I scarcely felt it.

The person ahead of me was squatting with their back against the brickwork: wrapped up in an old black greatcoat. A battered, wide-brimmed hat was pulled right down to cover the face beneath; black as the coat, but smudged and smeared with ashy grey.

I suddenly felt like a knife was being pushed into my belly. Pushed and twisted. My skin grew instantly cold. I took a tiny step backwards.

The bowed head never moved.

‘… one over here, lassie …’ the Scotsman said cheerfully. He sounded a long way off.

The shadow-shrouded figure didn’t stir. Probably asleep, of course. Exhausted, hungry, and about to miss his chance because of my ridiculous unease. Yet all I could do was back away, my heart now racing like a drum-roll.

The Scotsman had to clap me on the shoulder to snap me out of it: the casual grip of his grimy hand was more welcome than I’d have ever dreamed. With a last, wary look towards the shape beneath the bridge, I turned towards the faces I could see, and made an effort to return their smiles and quirky greetings. But all the time I could feel the chilly sweat of that moment: trapped under my clothes, and slowly soaking in. And even after I’d got home, and showered, and scrubbed it all off, my jumpiness remained. My stomach felt sick and sore. Even though I told myself, again and again, that it couldn’t have been her. It couldn’t have.

And of course, it hadn’t been: I surely knew that now. Not Razoxane.

Because Razoxane was dead and gone – to Hell.

Three years ago, I found out what Hell meant.

I’d been just another nurse; an A&E Night Sister getting on with her job. Then she had come in off the street, and Hell had followed with her. I’d thought she was a psychie case at first, which was scary enough – but then she’d revealed the magic in her madness; opened my startled eyes, and made me see. Comfortable certainties had crumbled to dust. And then she’d dragged me into her feud with a firm of Physicians as evil and old as she was: and the blood-bags really hit the fan …

I found the top was in my fingers once again: I’d fished it up from my drawer without thinking. Turning it over in my free hand, I put Michelle down for the Late – then gave in to the temptation, and set it spinning one more time.

Maybe I should just tell them I can’t spare the time, I thought glumly, watching it move. Maybe I’ll even manage not to make it sound too selfish …

Maybe.

The little top toppled, and spiralled to a stop before me.

Ace of bloody Spades.


Chapter 3 (#ulink_41131922-e999-5316-b26b-b9dfd40eb6eb)

The next day I passed a uniformed policeman in the downstairs corridor: a bag of sandwiches from the foyer shop in one hand, a coffee in the other – and a huge black revolver in a holster at his belt. He seemed not to notice my startled double-take. So I was left to speculate – until Jez broke the news at the gossipy tail-end of Report.

‘Heard who they’ve got down on Ortho? Only one of those bloody terrorists …’ You could tell he was pleased with our reaction: his freckled face lit up. ‘Under armed guard. One of the porters was telling me.’ Which made it gospel, of course.

‘I heard it was some gang leader or someone,’ Lucy countered equably. ‘Got shot, and they’ve had to give him armed protection.’ She hesitated. ‘Or maybe he was stabbed …’

The hospital grapevine was obviously working well. I smiled to myself, still writing.

‘Well he wouldn’t be on Bones if he’d been stabbed, would he, Lucinda?’ Jean pointed out beside me: putting on her most sententious tone. The sort with nearly thirty years in nursing to back it up. And I, with less than twelve, might be Sister to her Staff Nurse – but it still sometimes felt like she was the headmistress, and I was just head girl.

Most of it was just an act, of course – though her sense of humour was too dry for some people, who took it all seriously. But Lucy knew the score, and they got on well. No one else would dare call her Lucinda: she hated that.

‘Now, Mr Clarke,’ Jean continued, fixing Jez with shrewd grey eyes. ‘If you would be so kind as to expand upon your information … ?’

He was glad to. ‘Well, according to Bob, he was brought in after the Liverpool Street bomb: leg and back injuries. But something about him didn’t fit. The cops who interviewed him got suspicious. Now they reckon he probably planted the damn thing, and didn’t get clear fast enough …’ His smile had faded now. Like the rest of us who’d been on that night, he was clearly recalling the mess that bomb had made of two hapless human beings.

The second victim had survived his emergency op, and come through to us in the small hours of the following morning. He was still with us now: still struggling. Scarcely a square inch of his skin visible between the bandages, IV sites and ECG electrodes.

‘Bastard,’ Sue muttered, with a glance towards the bed. Hardly an original sentiment; but a sincere one. I added a rider, something about them probably not being sure yet. But I knew it lacked conviction.

I taxed Nick with it when I got home; he confirmed Jez’s version in a roundabout sort of way. Terrorist suspect under guard. There’d been nothing about it on the news as yet. But give it time, I thought.

What most unnerved me was the thought of armed police around the hospital – for all that they were trying to keep the profile as low as possible. I couldn’t forget the look of the pistol that PC had carried – strapped snug into its holster, but still full of latent threat: seeming much bigger and heavier in real life than the guns you see in films. I’d stepped much further aside than I’d needed to let him pass; but while one part of me had shied away, another had stared in morbid fascination.

It would have to be loaded, of course. Live ammunition. And what would happen if someone made a try for their charge? Would they draw those guns in a hospital ward, and start to shoot, with helpless patients all around (and nurses, come to that)? It almost made me shudder just to think it.

So I was glad I had other – happier – things to occupy my next day off. Besides, it was worth it just to see Nick’s face when he walked drowsily into the kitchen to find me having breakfast with a giant yellow teddy bear.

‘… who’s it for?’ he asked again, still eyeing it warily while he poured his coffee. Propped up in the chair at my elbow, it seemed to stare affably back at him through its cellophane wrappings.

‘Sandra. You know, that girl we had in with us the other week. Meningitis …’ I had another spoonful of cereal while he came and sat down. ‘She’s still in the kids’ ward, and … I don’t know, I just wanted to brighten her day.’ Which was the only way I could express it, really. I’d been thinking about her a lot of late; and buying this had suddenly felt right.

‘Fair enough.’ He made a show of leaning forward, face set, as though intimidating a suspect. The bear remained unfazed. ‘Got a name, has he?’

I shrugged, grinning.

‘Utilising his right to remain silent, eh? I know his type …’ He snorted; then reached across to take my free hand, and squeeze it. ‘That was a really nice idea, Raitch. I hope she loves it.’

‘Me too. She’s a nice kid.’

He gave me a half-suspicious look. ‘Not getting broody, are we?’

‘No, we are not.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘Any more questions?’

‘Are you wearing anything at all under that shirt?’ he asked conversationally.

‘Nick. I’m having breakfast.’

‘So. We can improvise.’

‘Sod off.’

He met my smile with a look of injured innocence; then sighed dramatically, and spread his hands.

‘Well, then: can I interest you in some toast?’

At least his hope for the afternoon was realised; and mine as well. Sandra liked her present lots.

I sat back in the bedside chair and watched her hug it – pressing it up against her cheek. It looked about to smother her.

‘Oh, Rachel … he’s lovely. Thanks ever so much.’

‘Thought you’d like him,’ I murmured, feeling almost as delighted as she looked: enjoying the glow of warmth that grew inside me. Nothing to do with broodiness, despite Nick’s suspicions; just the simple, heady buzz of making somebody’s day. Someone I’d seen at death’s door, and helped nurse back to health. She was still a little pale, but her fine brown hair had its sheen back now – and her eyes their sparkle. She looked like an eight-year-old girl was supposed to look: carefree, and full of fresh life.

And I’d been her age once, of course – but I couldn’t imagine it. Not any more. Couldn’t dream of seeing the world with such unclouded eyes.

I felt my smile becoming wistful, and glanced away: around the bed-bay. The colour scheme was insistently cheerful – bright paint backing up an agreeably scrappy wallpapering of kids’ drawings. Toys and televisions vied for attention. All trying – against the odds – to make the place a little bit less scary; a little more like home.

It still smelled like a hospital, though. And no child’s bedroom was ever this clinically clean.

‘Has your mum been in to see you today?’ I asked, looking back at her. And Sandra shook her head, still cuddling her present.

‘Not yet – she’s coming tonight.’ She said it quite matter-of-factly; but I saw her squeeze the bear a little tighter as she spoke, as if seeking reassurance.

I knew what the problem was, of course. Her dad had walked out years ago, leaving her mum to manage on her own with three small kids. So the poor woman had to work her guts out to make ends meet. I’d learned as much when Sandra was in with us – her mother almost frantic with worry, yet unable to spare the time she wanted to: time that was money her family needed. It had taken me a lot of quiet talking to convince her she was leaving her daughter in safe and loving hands; and a whole lot more to persuade her that she needn’t feel so guilty.

Now that Sandra was back on the ward, I’d taken to visiting her regularly: trying as best I could to fill the gaps when her mum couldn’t make it. It would take more than giant teddy bears to manage that, of course; but she was always glad to see me, and the feeling was mutual.

‘Did you see the snow?’ I asked her, looking over towards the window. It was tall, and much in need of cleaning; the rooftops I could see through it were more grungey grey than white.

‘Oh yes. We can’t see much from up here, but Nurse Janet told me all about it. She promised to let me throw a snowball at her … if it’s still here when I go.’ Her small face fell. ‘But I bet it won’t be.’

Someone had appeared at the end of the bed: a sandy-haired young man with a serious, bespectacled smile. He acknowledged me with a nod, then turned his attention to the patient, and leaned forward to examine the bear. ‘Hello, Sandra. Is this your new friend, then?’

She stared up at him, eyes narrowed in childish suspicion. ‘Yes, he is. Are you a doctor?’

His smile widened. ‘I certainly am. Look …’ He unslung the red stethoscope from round his neck. ‘And this is my badge, see …’ It was pinned to his check shirt. ‘My name’s Dr Miller.’

She didn’t appear convinced. ‘You’re not a proper doctor, though. You haven’t got a white coat.’

Dr Miller glanced at me again. I just rolled my eyes.

‘When mum takes me to see Dr Hughes,’ Sandra went on firmly, ‘he usually wears a suit, but sometimes he’s got his white coat on. So I know he’s a proper doctor.’

So much for the medics on the kids’ ward not wearing white coats in an effort to make the place seem homelier. I grinned, and got to my feet.

‘I’m sure he’s a proper doctor really, Sandra: he looks like one to me. So I’ll leave the two of you to have a chat …’ Dr Miller winked gratefully; he’d already unhooked the clipboard of charts from the bed-end. I leaned down and ruffled Sandra’s hair.

‘Listen, I’ll try and drop in tomorrow, okay? Take care. Say hello to your mum from me.’

She nodded brightly, and gave me a wave. As I left, I could hear her proudly introducing Dr Miller to her very newest friend.

I was still smiling as I left the children’s unit: off the ward, past reception and out through the double doors. They swung closed again behind me – and I heard the automatic locks click into place. There was a keypad next to them for staff, but otherwise it was admission via intercom only. You can’t be too careful these days.

Well, that’s your good deed done for the day, Rachel Young. And now there was the shopping to be thinking of – and getting home before the rush-hour started. I paused in the corridor to plot my course: idly scuffing at the lino with the toe of my boot while I thought the options through. After the brightness of the ward, it seemed very dim out here: no natural light for a dozen yards. The corridor’s whole length would be well enough lit come nightfall, of course; but it was daytime now, and electricity could still be saved. Energy policy and all that. I’d seen a memo somewhere …

So: Safeway or Sainsbury’s? I turned pensively towards the distant lifts. There was a cleaner mopping the floor half-way along the corridor, working in a pool of wintry sunlight from the nearest window. I’d taken the first step in her direction when I realized someone was behind me.

There’d been no sound; not even a shifting of air. Just that sixth-sense tingle you sometimes get, when some prankster tries tip-toeing up.

I turned round quickly.

The corridor was empty.

I stood quite still for a moment: puzzled. I’d been mistaken … and yet the nape of my neck was still cool and itchy.

The gloom was deeper in this direction: the corridor leading to an unlit stairwell. The paint on the walls – already cheerless – had been sullied by shadow, like a coating of dirt. Even the air seemed grainy and begrimed.

But no one was there. I could see that much, at least.

Even as I stared, I felt unease creep up, and slip its arms around me. Despite myself, I almost squirmed – then turned sharply on my heel, as if to shake it off completely. But it clung on by its fingernails, and dogged me all the way back down to the lifts. The cleaner smiled a greeting as I passed her, and I managed one back – but it was just my face going through the motions. Something – out of nowhere – had spoiled my mood: some hidden concern, intruding to cast its shadow. Now, of all times. I could almost taste my disappointment.

That, and something else: something much more bitter on the back of my tongue.

Just before I got to the lifts I glanced over my shoulder one more time: I couldn’t help it. Beyond the cleaner in her splash of sunshine, and the signs announcing Paediatric Wards, the corridor lay in dingy silence. A hospital thoroughfare like any other.

Of course. But it still took an effort to turn my back on it again; and a still greater one to stop thinking of all that darkness between myself and Sandra’s cheery smile.

Through the rest of the afternoon it kept on coming back: that queasy, churned-up feeling in my stomach. Sometimes so acute that I even began to wonder – hopefully – if it wasn’t just something I’d eaten. Or some other easy explanation I could cope with.

But as I trailed round Sainsbury’s, trying to focus my mind on budget and bargains, I couldn’t out-think the other possibility. I prevaricated for ages over which washing powder to go for; read and re-read each label in turn; but it didn’t help. Words just failed to sink in: my head was far too full of grimmer matters.

I knew I was … sensitive to certain things around me: I’d found that out before. A common gift, apparently – but in my case strong enough to give me revelations: dreams and nightmares; and the awareness – sometimes – of presences not seen.

It wasn’t a gift I’d ever wanted. After … the last time … I’d studiously ignored it: tried to school it out of my head. And as time had passed, I’d even started to forget it – and put my occasional flashes of insight down to female intuition. Or whatever.

But what I’d felt this afternoon had been something more than that.

So the hospital’s got ghosts. So what? It’s an old enough building … I made for a mental shrug, and – as usual – plumped for the Persil.

By the time I got off the bus at the bottom of my road, I was feeling better. Still a bit delicate – the prospect of cooking tea aroused no enthusiasm at all – but my leaden mood had lifted somewhat. Maybe it was just tiredness, after all: things had been pretty hectic of late. I reckoned I could do with an early night.

I let myself in, and lugged the two full carriers through to the kitchen; not bothering with lights, although the place was awash with winter dusk. I was back on home ground now: familiar territory, made more intimate by shadow. Here even the dimness had its comforts. But I liked the way the glow from the fridge spilled out around me as I loaded the shelves.

I checked the kettle and clicked it on, then wandered back into the hall. The house was quiet: Nick wouldn’t be back until late. I was just shrugging out of my coat when I noticed the footprints.

Smeared grey footprints, on my freshly-hoovered carpet: leading upstairs, and out of sight.

For what seemed like a minute I studied them in silence – but that silence was full of all the sounds I’d just been making, coming back to me in waves: the rattle of the lock, the opening door; my tired little sigh, and footsteps through to the kitchen. Each mundane noise magnified a hundredfold by the knowledge that someone else had heard them too: that someone was in here with me.

Nick, I thought, and opened my mouth to say it. But the dusky air flowed in and dried it up. My throat as well. Suddenly I couldn’t even croak.

Because I knew it wasn’t Nick, of course; knew before the thought had barely formed. A stranger’s boots had made those marks. And even as I stared upstairs – and strained my singing ears against the hush – a fist of foreboding closed inside me.

A burglar. Still here. I’ve surprised him. Upstairs.

My eyes flicked to the phone on the wall. The overfull pinboard beside it seemed almost insultingly cheerful.

So how fast could I grab it and dial 999? Faster than a shadow could come racing down the stairs towards me? And how long after that would a police car turn up? How many minutes?

A minute’s a long time in rape. A very long time.

I took a quiet, cautious step back towards the door – the one I’d closed so noisily behind me. All my attention was on the motionless murk at the top of the stairs; but as I passed the doorway to the front room, something just grazed the corner of my eye – and clicked in my mind a moment later. My head snapped round.

A woman was sitting on the sofa, hunched uncomfortably forward: watching me from the dimness with cold, dark eyes.

I rode the bitter wave of adrenaline, and just stood there staring back. She looked about my age: her face pale and taut. The eyes stayed steady; but they couldn’t belie the wariness – and hostility – in her expression.

After an awful pause – a dozen painful heartbeats – she opened her mouth and said: ‘Rachel.’

I swallowed. ‘… What?’

‘You’ve no need to worry. Listen …’ Her voice was low, and carefully emphatic. There was an accent there, but my mind was still too slippery with shock to grasp it.

I wavered; her obvious edginess was hardly reassuring. Whoever she was. I made to ask the obvious. She cut me off.

‘Just sit down a minute, why don’t you?’ She was rising even as she said it. Shabby donkey-jacket, I noted; worn black jeans. And for all her attempts at a conciliatory tone, she was still watching with eyes as intent and unforgiving as a beggar’s.

‘All right …’ I’ murmured meekly, glancing down – then made a lunge for the front door. The lock, which Nick was always promising to oil, seemed to stiffen under my frantic fingers – stiffen and jam. I was still fumbling with the sodding thing when she grasped my collar, hauled me back hard, and sent me lurching off into the breakfast room. I turned around, teetering – and found she was pointing a gun at me. A pistol, held out at arm’s length. The face behind was livid.

‘Sit down,’ she hissed; and now I caught it right enough. Her accent – thick enough to slice.

Sit doyne.

Oh … shit shit shit.

I took a helpless step backward – and once more had that spine-tingling feeling of somebody behind me: close enough to kiss my neck. I spun around. And this time there really was.

She was watching from the kitchen doorway; I’d been in and out and missed her in the dusk. All the time I’d been filling the fridge, she’d been one of the shadows behind me, muffled in her long black greatcoat – her face masked with gloom beneath the brim of her hat. But the hat was in her hands now, her close-cropped head uncovered, and her face stood out as bleakly as a newly-risen moon.

‘Hello, Rachel,’ said Razoxane softly. ‘Welcome home.’


Chapter 4 (#ulink_b85e69cf-5618-52ae-8df3-7651a2acedeb)

I might have fainted then – but my body refused to opt for such a cop-out.

Razoxane straightened up from her slouch against the door-jamb: smiling thinly. I flinched, and swallowed a moan, but couldn’t step back: not with that gun behind me. All I could do was gawp.

She hadn’t changed a bit. From the state of her clothes she hadn’t changed those, either. Maybe she looked a little paler; and thinner, to judge by the hang of her scarecrow coat; but still not a day over twenty-five or so. And the smile was all Razoxane: all razor. It cut me to the quick.

My hand crept up to cover my mouth. I made a small, scared sound behind it. No point protesting I was seeing things, hallucinating horrors; still less in wondering how she’d got here – because here she was before me.

Flesh and cold blood.

The day outside was almost dead – but she still wore those shades of hers, the lenses cupped like goggles to the sockets of her eyes to exclude all trace of sunlight: the light she couldn’t stand. I tried to return her blindwoman’s gaze, but it was hopeless: like trying to out-stare a skull. Dusty-mouthed, I glanced aside; and realised I’d begun to shake.

‘Jackie’s right,’ came Razoxane’s voice. ‘You look like you could do with a good sit down.’

It was the edge of dry amusement in her tone that brought my head back round – and pushed fear past the flashpoint into anger.

‘For Christ’s sake leave me alone!’

The words came out like a stream of spittle. I’ve even heard that spit can drive back demons – but perhaps it’s the vehemence behind it that counts; the hate that really matters. And hate was what I tasted now: it filled my mouth like bitter medicine. Hate for the past I thought I’d left behind me. And hate for Razoxane – who’d brought it with her.

Not being a demon, Razoxane stood her ground – and clicked her tongue in mild admonishment.

‘Rachel. Is that any way to greet your long-lost sister?’

‘You’re no bloody sister of mine …’ I managed grimly.

‘Not in this life, maybe.’ Her thin smile hadn’t faltered; it was still so horribly knowing. ‘But we still belong together, Rachel. Believe it. We’ve walked apart too long.’

I almost choked. ‘Listen, I’m not following you anywhere … ever … again. All right?’

Behind me, the Irish girl shifted impatiently. Unsettled. ‘McCain. You said we could trust her …’

That lifted the hairs on the back of my neck: made me think of twitchy trigger-fingers, and bullets in the spine. I swallowed so hard it hurt my throat.

Razoxane looked past me. ‘She’s had a shock; it’s only to be expected. Thought I was dead, didn’t you Rachel?’ (Hoped, I thought back viciously, still glowering.) ‘Listen, give us a few minutes alone: I’ll talk her round.’

I risked a glance behind me; the girl met my eyes suspiciously, before lowering her pistol with exaggerated slowness. There was a message in the gesture as much as in the gaze: a barely-veiled threat.

Jackie. That’s what Razoxane had called her. I found a moment to wonder if that everyday name – this young, unsmiling face – was one of those behind the atrocities of recent weeks. The thought was dizzying. I really hoped she wasn’t.

And was really afraid she was.

Then Razoxane was beside me, her hand on my shoulder: her bloody hand – however many times she’d washed it.

I didn’t even try to shrug it off. Suddenly I didn’t have the strength.

So we went upstairs to our bedroom – Nick’s and mine: retracing Razoxane’s dirty bootprints to the place I’d once felt safest. Once inside, I went straight to the window and just stared out – at the cherry-red streetlamps coming on, and the ashen sky beyond them; stared, while our bed creaked behind me. There were kids still playing, down there in the park: scampering and shouting through the gathering grey.

I left it as long as I could; then let go of the outside world, and turned reluctantly around.

She was reclining comfortably against the pillows, her booted feet crossed on our nice clean duvet. The black leather was withered and grey with grime; her jeans were tucked into the tops. The grubby combination of her greatcoat and her grin made me think of some Victorian ragamuffin in a long-faded photo.

‘I was quite looking forward to that cup of soup, you know …’ she said, reproachfully.

‘Why’d you come back?’ I hissed. It sounded almost petulant: the last stab of someone who’s lost the argument already. Which of course I had.

Razoxane shrugged. ‘It’s a round world, Rachel. Even if we walk away, we always end up back in the same place.’

I mulled that over dully for a moment, then ventured: ‘You … cheated the Void, then?’

She nodded. ‘In the end. It almost had me …’ Her gaze slid away as she said it, her voice growing raw. She paused, and her silence spoke the rest – or some of it.

I waited nervously.

‘Melphalan got out,’ she continued after a moment, her unseen eyes now roving the room. ‘Bastard. I couldn’t hold him …’ The shades fixed me once more. ‘But you stopped him, Rachel. You really did. I was impressed.’

An image of cremation lit my mind – and filled my nostrils with its stench. I grimaced, instinctively rubbing my fingers over my pinched-shut lips. Then something else occurred to me, and almost froze them into place there.

‘But … If you got out …’

Her smile was back again, still faint; she shook her head. ‘The other two didn’t. They hadn’t the strength: they hadn’t the will. They’ll still be sinking now, Rachel. The Void goes on forever.’

And you almost dumped me there, didn’t you?

Another pause. She’d returned her attention to her hat: was turning it idly between her fingers. I noted the circlet of old, discoloured iron pushed down around the crown.

‘So what do you want now?’ I asked.

‘Your help,’ she answered simply.

‘What?’

‘It’s true,’ she insisted. ‘Believe me, Rachel, if I didn’t, I’d have left you in peace. You’ve already been through enough.’

I could agree with her on that, at least. More than enough. Again I waited.

‘I’ve things to do in this city,’ Razoxane said slowly. ‘Things you don’t want to know about …’

‘Oh, God,’ I blurted. ‘Not more Clinicians?’

She shook her head. ‘Not this time. My business with them is finished.’ She settled herself back. ‘I’ll say no more about the wherefores: it’s best you don’t know. But it’s work I’ve recruited some help for.’

I thought of the restless woman downstairs; could almost picture her pacing up and down in the hall. ‘That girl – Jackie or whoever. She’s …’ I hesitated, half-aware I was stating the obvious. And half afraid to. ‘She’s a terrorist, isn’t she?’

‘That’s an emotive word,’ said Razoxane mildly.

‘Razoxane. Jesus!’ I could feel my frightened outrage beginning to seethe. ‘What the hell are you doing, bringing her to my house?’

‘I thought it would cut out some of the small talk,’ was her unperturbed response. ‘Explanations and such. Much easier to let you see for yourself.’

‘I’m living with a policeman, for God’s sake.’

‘Well, she doesn’t know that, does she?’

I found I was hugging myself. Gripping my shoulders tight. ‘All those bombings … Liverpool Street and places. You did those?’ My voice had sunk to a disbelieving whisper.

‘Not personally, no. But I’m involved. There are reasons, Rachel.’

I stared back at those uncompromising shades. The face below had hardened; like the voice.

Open-mouthed, I just shook my head. Fractured images of mutilation seemed to rattle round inside it. And then all the rest came crowding in; the other injuries and deaths. The tearful faces. The creeping fear we’d all begun to feel – and our revulsion for the people who made us feel it.

One of whom was staring at me now.

‘No reasons, Razoxane,’ I said, still whispering. ‘Not for that …’

‘You’ll understand them someday,’ she told me evenly. ‘Some fine day …’ She paused then, and glanced back down at her hat; picking her next words carefully. ‘But in the meantime, one of my … co-workers has managed to get himself injured. He’s in your hospital, under guard. We need your help to get him out.’

Just run that by me again is one of those Americanisms I pick up from time to time. I almost used it then.

Instead I just said, incredulously, ‘Fuck off.’

‘Language, Rachel,’ she chided amiably.

‘Just go away,’ I snapped, not looking; my fingers sliding up into my hair to grip my skull and squeeze it. As if that would somehow stop the pounding in my head. ‘Please, Razoxane … whatever you’re up to … for Christ’s sake leave me out of it.’

‘I’m sorry: it has to be done. This isn’t something primitive like politics, Rachel; it’s much more serious than that.’

‘Razoxane. I don’t want to be involved.’ I stressed it like a string of full stops.

‘But you’re already involved,’ she pointed out softly. ‘You’ve seen her face, now: one of my terrorists – as you call them. An excitable young woman, as you’ll have noticed. If she finds you won’t co-operate … Well.’

I felt my stomach lurch, and looked up quickly. She was fingering the occult-looking amulet she wore at her throat; her pale smile had grown sly.

‘What if she was to find out you sleep with a policeman?’ She glanced over at the dressing table. ‘That him, is it?’

There was a photo of the two of us in a frame there. Nothing fancy; just a snapshot by a friend. Nick in a chair and me sitting in front; his hands resting gently on my shoulders.

I nodded wordlessly.

Razoxane’s smile grew chilling. ‘What a very nice couple you make.’

My eyes were suddenly stinging wet: tears of sheer frustration as much as anything. She’d do it, all right – and nothing I could say would stop her. I was past feeling scared for myself now; but fear for Nick yawned inside me like a bottomless pit.

‘Please …’ It came out sounding like a sob.

‘No need to get upset,’ she murmured. ‘It’s all so straightforward, Rachel. No risks. I just need you to find out the layout of the ward he’s on; where the guards are. That sort of thing. All right?’

I sniffed, and managed a reluctant little nod.

‘Excellent. I knew we could count on you.’ And with that she clicked on the bedside lamp, and turned her attention to the bookshelf beneath: the things I sometimes browse through on the downslope to sleep.

I rubbed my sleeve across my cheek, and watched her study the selection. I tried to focus my frustration into rage again, but it wouldn’t gel. I was too demoralised for that. All I could think of was house and home and happiness now balanced on a knife-edge: the steel of her razor smile …

‘Glad to see you’ve still got both feet on the ground,’ she remarked drily, pulling out a book to read the back. The Radical Tradition; I recognised it from here. Saints standing up for the poor. Most of my religious books were the same sort of thing. Social awareness; justice and peace. None of that trite evangelical stuff.

‘Still believing in saints then, Rachel?’

I nodded again, feeling the smallest spark of defiance inside me. But it wasn’t kindled. Her smile was thin, but not mocking.

‘And guardian angels too?’

‘Maybe, Razoxane,’ I said dully. ‘Maybe. But you’re not one of them.’

She shrugged, and picked another book.

‘Ah, yes …’ There was satisfaction in the word. ‘Mother Julian of Norwich. The visionary. The Anchoress.’ She looked at me again. ‘You know her story, then?’

Once more I nodded; warily now. ‘She walled herself up inside a church – to meditate on God. A lot of people did things like that in the Middle Ages. Hermits and such …’

‘So they did. Withdrawn from the sight of the living … that’s what the name meant. Anchoress. Anker. Ankerite …’ There was an edge to the way she pronounced that last word, but I couldn’t grasp why; and Razoxane just went on thumbing through the book.

‘Cheer up,’ she said a moment later: her smile sardonic. ‘See what she says here, Rachel. All manner of thing shall be well.’

She had, too. All manner of thing. But right now I couldn’t believe it.

After a pause I said: ‘Your … terrorists. They don’t know what you’re doing either – do they?’

She put back the book, still smiling. ‘Not entirely.’

‘So what … ?’

‘They’ve got fire-power in all its forms: I need it to finish this work. I need their bullets and their bombs. But most of all I need their blindness. Once someone’s started killing for a cause, they’re so easy to use. So easy to snare and to seduce. I promised them power, in the context of their sordid little war; they came scuttling to me for what they thought they could get. And now they’re mine.’ She flicked dust – or ash – from the brim of her hat, and watched it filter downward through the lamplight; then raised her sombre gaze to me. ‘We’re going to put the terror back into terrorism. Believe me, you’re well out of it.’

‘Will I be, though?’

‘Yes, you will. One small favour, and then you can forget you ever met us.’

‘Witch’s promise?’ I asked bitterly.

Razoxane grinned.

I swallowed. ‘And what if they realize … ?’

‘They won’t: at least, not in time. And a little more time is all I need.’

My mouth was still dry, but I found the saliva somewhere. ‘I might tell them.’

Razoxane’s smile grew almost fond. ‘Yes, Rachel, you might. But I wouldn’t recommend it. Not unless you want your vocal cords cut.’

I didn’t. So I shut up.

When we came back downstairs, the girl – Jackie – was waiting in the hall, her pistol out of sight again and both hands in her jacket pockets. She hadn’t turned on any lights, and her face was smudged with dimness, but I could read the impatience written there – and the unease.

‘All right?’

‘Sure,’ said Razoxane calmly. ‘No problem.’ She turned to me. ‘I’ll be in touch, Rachel. Soon.’ Her smile showed up palely in the shadows. ‘Keep the faith till then.’

I almost hit her.

Jackie opened the door – so easily, after all my struggling – and peered out into the street. The air that wafted in smelt of frost. After a moment she glanced back at Razoxane.

‘Okay.’

Her gaze switched to me – a mistrustful parting shot – and she slipped out. Razoxane followed. I shut the door behind them.

Silence fell.

I listened to it for what seemed like ages: the stillness of a truly empty house. Then I went slowly into the unlit front room, sat gingerly down, and just waited for the rising night to swallow me whole.





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