Still nothing to see, but the noise came again almost at once: a grim, metallic scrape. It sounded like a shovel. Like someone digging, just over a rise in the ground to my right.
For a moment I just stood there, getting wetter; gnawing nervously at my thumb. The shovel-sounds continued in a broken rhythm – and at least they meant that somebody was working in this waste ground.
So why didn’t I want to even see him?
But the buildings were giving me the creeps as well; I was becoming convinced that someone was lying up in one of them, and staring balefully out at me.
It was that thought that finally drove me up over the rise. Better the devil you see than the one that you don’t …
The digger was there on the other side – and closer than I’d thought: head-down over the shovel. Dressed all in soiled and sodden black, like a vagabond undertaker. And it was Razoxane.
I gasped – and her head snapped round.
The scene winked out before her face had fully registered – but as I dropped back through the dark towards my sleeping body, the palest after-image of her expression followed me down. No more than what I’d glimpsed; but I sensed a dreadful anger there – as though I’d stumbled onto something I was never meant to see.
I almost whimpered with fear … and realized I was back in my bed. My nice warm bed. The shock was almost physical – as if I really had plunged from a dizzying height, with only the mattress to break my fall.
You’ll come down to earth with a bump, my girl: that’s what Mum used to say when she scolded me. One of these days …
I tried to open my eyes. They wouldn’t.
‘Jesus, we’re losing her …’ someone snapped.
There was sudden consternation all around me: a frantic sense of movement overhead. Even as I lay there, helpless, I heard that voice and others overlap; the words seemed frighteningly familiar. Then someone’s fist slammed down onto my chest, and my eyes sprang staring open.
Even in that first, winded moment I knew I was in hospital – but not as a nurse. Not this time. The glare of striplights was mostly blocked by overhanging bodies, and faces peering down at me; a tight-mouthed doctor to the fore. But I was the one in bed now. And as the crushing pain continued, and filled my chest, I realized I was dying.
The doctor put his hand on my heart, pressed his other palm down over it, and began compressing – hard. It hurt. Cardiac massage means squeezing the heart between sternum and spine, and now I knew just what that felt like. I wanted to groan out loud; I found I couldn’t even grimace. Not a muscle of my face would move.
Someone else – the anaesthetist? – forced my slack mouth wider, and shoved an airway deep into my throat; I almost gagged. The pumping went on. I felt a needle pierce my arm, as sharp as a wasp-sting – but the pain was nothing compared to the panic. My chest was still on fire; there was the bilious foretaste of vomit in the back of my mouth. But worst of all was the icy feeling that I had only seconds left to live …
‘… defib …’ someone said; then: ‘Clear … ?’ The figures drew hastily back even as I felt the cold metal paddles – slick with jelly – pressing down against my smoothed-out breasts. Then the defibrillator buzzed.
And the agonising jolt brought me fully awake.
At last. At last. I was gasping tearfully for breath – and drenched with sweat. Nick had woken, and his arms were round me, holding tight. And as his instinctive, sleepy mumbling grew clearer and more comforting, so at last I let myself relax. My heart kept up its whamming for a minute or two longer, but that was almost a joy: proof positive that it wasn’t going to stop.
‘God, Rachel …’ I sensed his smile then, in the dark. ‘You were making more noise than when we were awake …’ He brushed the damp hair off my forehead. ‘Bad dream?’
Very bad. I gave a quick, wordless nod.
I let him cuddle me for a while longer, then peered over at the alarm clock. Just gone five. No chance of any more sleep this morning; I’d be getting up anyway in an hour. And I wasn’t about to lie here, cold and greasy, and count the minutes.
‘I’m just going to take a shower,’ I whispered. ‘Sorry I woke you.’
He murmured something, his hand sliding down my back as I got up. I heard him settling down again as I went through to the bathroom, and shut myself in with its hot, bright bulb.
For more than a minute I wavered between the shower and the toilet bowl. My stomach felt close to overspill, and even the short walk across the landing – naked in the dark – had sluiced it round some more. I waited until it was fully settled before venturing behind the plastic curtain. Then I just turned and turned the tap, until the spill became a downblast.
I stayed under it for ages. Soaped and scrubbed; shampooed and soaked. And little by little I felt myself becoming clean. But when I closed the tap again, and the roar of water dripped and dribbled into silence, the ghost of Razoxane’s face was still there in my mind. And so was the fear of her rage in my belly: as indigestible as lead.
Oh God, I didn’t mean it, I found myself thinking even as I reached for my towel. I didn’t want to see. And now I’ll forget it, Razoxane: forget it ever happened. Promise …
And maybe she heard my thoughts: sensed them from wherever she was now, out there in the night. But even if she did, I knew she wouldn’t believe my promise. Because neither, of course, did I.
I was still a bit shaken by the time I got to work – but a busy morning helped fix my mind on the here and now. Routine stuff, but plenty of it: infusions to change, effusions to aspirate and measure, observations to record. I wrote up my nursing notes in a stark spill of light from the X-ray box as Murdoch – just out of Theatre – discussed fresh films with his juniors. Then it was on to the unit round, providing casenotes and commentary as each patient’s progress was reviewed. Our newest, a bloke in his sixties, was still distressed and disorientated; not least because the ventilator patched into his throat left him unable to speak. I took time to comfort him as best I could; trying hard to understand and answer his gaspy, voiceless questions.
All of a sudden it was nearly half-past twelve.
‘Doesn’t it just fly when you’re enjoying yourself …’ Jean observed drily, on her way to the sluice to empty a bedpan. I couldn’t help a wry little smile at that; but it was true enough.
And after lunch, in the slacker time of shift overlap, I’d be doing Sue’s appraisal: a review of her professional development. Something else to get my mental teeth into. And maybe we’d get round to discussing whatever it was that was bothering her, as well. Someone else’s troubles to consider, for a change.
‘Sure there’s nothing else?’ I asked casually. I knew I was nearly there.
In my office with the door closed, we’d started off formally enough – but after an hour of honest, friendly discussion, we’d both relaxed a lot. I found I’d drawn both legs up under me where I sat, almost without realizing. And Sue’s initial apprehension had largely faded. But still she hesitated at the question; not quite meeting my eye.
‘Fancy a Polo?’ I prompted, reaching into my drawer. I felt for the packet – and found that metal spinner waiting there. It chilled my fingertips; but I managed to keep my smile in place, and fumbled out the mints.
She nodded, and reached over to pick one. Still smiling, I watched her face: and wondered. Like me, she was clearly trying to put something dark behind her; but whatever it was still kept her awake at nights – I guessed as much from the weary pallor of her features.