Night Sisters. John Pritchard

good looks tempered by the premature grey in his dark hair and beard. Brenda was more Karen’s age, very demure and quiet-spoken; but her smile was as spontaneous as sunshine, and it rarely failed to lift our spirits.

      ‘So when are we going to get you fixed up, then?’ Karen wanted to know, an impish little sparkle in her eyes. ‘No eligible young medics around? How about that Dr Wright?’

      I grinned. ‘I don’t think so, somehow. He’s a nice bloke, but …’

       But I’m not ready to get hitched yet, Kaz. Still too restless …

      Break was over all too soon. Finishing our cigarettes (you’d be surprised how many nurses smoke), we said goodbye to Anne, picked up our bags and made our unhurried way back downstairs to the department. The waiting area was still nearly empty – just a couple of people slouched in the chairs, and a girl standing over by the drinks machine, head down as if counting her last pennies. Apart from a long brown scarf and gloves, she was dressed, rather scruffily, in black from the boots up: tight jeans, long threadbare coat and a flat-brimmed cowboy hat. The Gypsy Goth look, I decided. My cursory glance took in the fact that her dark hair was cropped close to her skull, with a single braid curling down below her collar. And even indoors, in the dark small hours of a winter’s morning, she was wearing shades.

      I assumed she’d been clerked-in, but checked with Mike anyway as I retrieved my keys. He raised his eyebrows.

      ‘Far as I know we’ve just got two blokes waiting – a cut hand and a sprained wrist; plus the guy with Graham in Suturing now …’

      I glanced down the corridor towards the suturing room. ‘What happened to him?’

      ‘Argument in a nightclub – Ramon’s, I think; it usually is. Some charmer smashed a glass in his face.’

      ‘Bad?’

      ‘Pretty superficial – more blood than damage. But he’ll need a good few stitches.’

      And Dr Graham Hancock doing the needlework. Lucky man. Graham was one of our less charming doctors, short on patience and especially surly in the small hours. ‘Who’s helping him? Helen?’

      He nodded. ‘Good practice for her: how to put up with an SHO who reckons he needs his beauty sleep.’

      I smiled at that. ‘How about the sprained wrist: he been X-rayed yet?’

      ‘They should be about ready for him now. Shall I … ?’

      ‘I’ll take him round if you like.’ This from Karen, just back from locking her bag away. She still wore her blue cardigan: it was at least one size too large, giving her a slightly forlorn look.

      ‘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