Night Sisters

‘If you would, thanks.’ I fastened the clinking bunch of keys back on to my lapel. ‘And I’ll go find out what our latest customer wants.’

She was sitting down when I re-entered the waiting area, holding a plastic cup of coffee in both shabby-gloved hands. I guessed she was making the most of its heat; to judge by the state of her clothes, she was currently living rough – or maybe in a squat, if she was lucky. Everything looked dirty and ill-fitting: the coat nearly ankle-length; the grey jersey beneath it reaching halfway to her knees. Even her high-laced boots were stuffed with thick socks. Her cropped, easy-clean hair – suggested much the same thing. And I could smell her from here.

Another Traveller, then. Or one more real example of the destitution which our local politicians spoke about in such airy, abstract terms.

She was contemplating the drink as I came over, and didn’t look up until I was standing in front of her and clearing my throat. Close to, her grubby face looked pale and very young – but I sensed an underlying hardness in her expression: a suggestion that this girl might be young in years but was old, old beyond measure, in experience. Bitter experience. Her eyes might have told me more, but they remained hidden; the black shades were impassive and vaguely unsettling.

‘Excuse me (miss? I left it hanging) … can I help you at all?’

For a long moment I thought she wasn’t going to reply; and, as I waited, became aware of the silence of our two other patients. I felt the tingle of their watchfulness on my back – and suddenly realized they were nervous. Two healthy, previously garrulous young lads had made sure there was a wide space between them and a solitary girl – and now sat stiff and uneasy in their chairs. In a way I didn’t blame them. It was getting hard to face down that cool, eyeless gaze, and I broke the contact briefly, my attention switching to her hands, her chewed-down gloves; the glint of silver rings against her knuckles. One of them bore a pentagram sign. Another formed the double-mask motif of the theatre – except that both the faces were skulls, one leering, one grimacing: both staring emptily up at me.

I looked back to her face.

‘I’d like to see the doctor, please,’ she said in a low, slightly hoarse voice.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I’ve been sick … past few days. Got the runs too. Liquids is all I can keep down.’ She took a sip of coffee as if to prove the point.

‘Have you been to your GP?’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t have one. I’m just … passing through, you could say.’

I could indeed: we’d had her type in here often enough. The dog-handler had been the most recent example – and at least he’d presented with a genuine injury. Some of them came seeking shelter, however temporary; others hoped to be fobbed off with medication – free pills, if they could get them. In general, it was departmental policy to give such people short shrift; but then again, she didn’t exactly look the picture of health; and who knew what lurking medical condition we might be turning away?

Better to be safe than sued (to put it realistically). And it would keep Graham on his toes for a while longer. With that not unpleasant thought, I relaxed slightly. ‘All right. The doctor will take a look at you as soon as he can. In the meantime, can I just take a few details … ?’

I sensed her gaze follow me suspiciously to the desk as I walked over to get a caz-card. ‘Like what?’

‘Just your name, address, date of birth – that sort of thing.’ I had my pen poised, and was trying to be as conciliatory as possible. It was difficult. Someone else in need of a sympathetic face perhaps, but that was the last thing on my mind. She was giving me a chill.

‘McCain,’ she said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Carol McCain. No fixed address.’

‘Date of birth?’ I prompted hopefully.

She smiled then, albeit faintly. ‘I’m older than I look,’ was all she said.

I was back behind the desk making a Fracture Clinic appointment for our supposed ‘sprained wrist’ when her name was finally called. She rose slowly to her feet and followed Mike through towards the examination area, giving me a sidelong glance as she passed. I didn’t realize how fixedly my eyes were following her until the waiting youth muttered: ‘Getting to you, too, is she?’

I blinked. ‘Sorry; where were we … ?’ Returning my attention quickly to the clinic sheet; but he was still looking up the corridor, frowning slightly.

‘Something weird about that one,’ he said softly. ‘Something really … weird.’

I wondered if he’d tried chatting her up or something. He gave the distinct impression of someone who fancied himself, as well as anything in skirts. Perhaps her rebuff had been unexpectedly cold. Yet there wasn’t the tang of sour grapes about his attitude; rather a puzzlement that bordered on unease …

‘We do get some odd customers at this time of night,’ I allowed, neutrally. ‘You get used to it after a while.’

Famous last words.

I finished writing up his booking, and watched him walk off into the night clutching his appointment card, his forearm encased in plaster. The two patients who’d needed stitching up had also departed; a couple more minor injuries had joined the queue. It was proving to be an average-to-quiet night on the whole. I started back up the corridor, and met Graham halfway. He was looking tired, his plump face pale and slack.

‘Just another three,’ I told him mercilessly, and he cast a wistful glance towards the duty room, where the plasterman on call was just about to brew up.

‘What’ve we got in One?’ he asked with resignation.

‘Bad case of D&V, apparently: says she hasn’t been able to eat for a few days. She’s been sleeping rough …’

He gave me an exasperated look. ‘Rachel. She should see a doctor in town: sign on as a temporary resident. This is supposed to be a department for accidents and emergencies, for God’s sake …’

I shrugged. ‘Well she’s here now, and we’re hardly rushed off our feet, are we?’ He opened his mouth to protest further, and I added: ‘And besides, who’s to say it’s not something serious? Come on, Graham, you might as well take a look at her.’ So we can get rid of her as soon as possible, I almost added.

‘All right, all right.’ He yawned, and glanced at his watch; then again towards the duty room, where the first hissings of the kettle could now be clearly heard.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll leave some for you,’ I assured him. He gave me another look, as though – for some reason – unconvinced by the sweetness of my smile; then muttered something under his breath, and turned back towards the examination area.

I wandered into the duty room, where Dave, the plaster technician, was studying the dented kettle as if willing it to boil more quickly. ‘He’s in a good mood tonight,’ he observed drily.

‘Isn’t he always?’ I sat down in one of the low, shabby chairs, feeling the webbing sag beneath me. Unlacing my shoes, I slipped them off and leaned back, flexing my stockinged feet.

‘I’ve seen firemen with shorter ladders,’ he said, without appearing to look.

‘Piss off.’

He grinned at that, watching me crane forward to examine my tights. There was more to Our Dave (as we called him, to avoid confusion with one of the regular ambulancemen) than met the eye: a quirky sense of humour lurking behind that placid exterior. I was settling back in my chair again when Mike stuck his head round the door.

‘Hey, Raitch … How many Goths does it take to change a lightbulb?’

‘None, they all prefer sitting in the dark,’ I said comfortably. ‘Go away.’

‘Damn, she’s heard it before,’ Karen muttered in the background. The two of them wandered disconsolately back towards reception.

Dave nodded towards the kettle as it bubbled towards climax. ‘Want one?’

‘Please. Coffee if you’re making it.’

‘How about his lordship?’

‘I think he might appreciate it.’ And to be fair, the man had been on duty since nine o’clock the previous morning.

‘Tea, coffee?’

I wasn’t sure: it had been so long since he’d last deigned to take tea with us. ‘Hang on, I’ll go and ask him.’

I put my shoes back on and went through into Examination, a long, over-lit room fairly wallpapered with charts for instant reference: toxic substances, advice on Hep-B (‘All blood is guilty until proved innocent’), Wallace’s ubiquitous Rule of Nines for the assessment of burns … Ten trolley-beds formed a row down one side, individually curtained-off into examination cubicles. Only the one was in use at the moment, furthest from the door. I walked down past the sinks and the X-ray viewing boxes and the desk for writing up notes, glancing into each of the empty cubicles to check that all was tidy and in order; if not it would give us something to do if things stayed quiet. Thus occupied, I had almost reached the last cubicle before it registered that there was no sound of voices coming from behind its drawn curtains – and for no logical reason, I suddenly hesitated. And the silence persisted.

I could understand a few moments’ quiet to ponder a symptom; but an examination is more than anything a verbal process – the doctor’s questions, the patient’s replies. Yet the stillness was total: I couldn’t even hear any movement in there. And I realized then that my nerves had begun to tingle, as though sensing something ominous and threatening, separated from me by no more than the thickness of that plain green curtain.

My overactive imagination again, of course. More likely she’d wandered off somewhere and Graham had gone looking for her. I drew back the curtain anyway.