Night Sisters. John Pritchard

amazingly calm, considering.

      Most of the noise stemmed from a bunch of off-duty squaddies waiting in reception while one of their mates got his hand stitched. They were all in scruffy civvies, but there was still a depressing uniformity in their cropped scalps and loud, livid faces. They were uniformly pissed, as well.

      It had been hard enough to concentrate with just that row going on; we didn’t need chatting up as well. Eventually Mike (whom no one tried to chat up) managed to usher them out along with their patched-up friend, ignoring shouts of ‘you Mick poufter’ and similar valedictions. I’d caught Brenda’s eye, and we’d shared a heartfelt sigh of relief.

      Mike came back, muttering something about the bloody IRA never being around when they were needed.

      Five minutes later, there was a dog in the department.

      Bren almost dropped the tetanus set she’d been preparing as the Alsatian stuck its nose around the utility room door before padding off down the corridor. I was trying to keep order in the cubicles, and turned at the sound of her surprised little gasp – looking in through the opposite doorway. I saw, swore, and went after it – but someone down at reception was already shouting ‘Carl! Heel!’, and the dog – it was an awfully big dog – was disappearing back in that direction even as I reached the main corridor. Determinedly I followed.

      By the time I got there it was back with its owner, sitting at his feet as he stroked its dirty fur. The man was slouched in one of the chairs – they were mostly empty now – and looked me challengingly in the face as I came through. And I stared irritably back at him, taking in the state of his clothes – the patched, faded flak jacket; his stubble beard, and unwashed hair, drawn back into a ponytail. I guessed he was one of the Travellers.

      We’d been having problems with the Travellers of late.

      Or the hippies, as some called them; or gyppos, or worse. It seemed they came and went with the seasons; wandering in and pitching camp; being evicted and moving on. Quite a crowd had decided to winter in our town this time around; people were starting to complain.

      ‘Look, if you can’t keep that dog under control, you’ll have to leave,’ I told him, tightly.

      He shrugged, didn’t reply. His eyes hadn’t left my face.

      ‘Can I help you?’ I went on: quite formally, but with no politeness at all.

      ‘You’re really welcoming tonight,’ he muttered.

      ‘We’re busy: have you got a problem or … ?’

      I felt his gaze drop to my throat, and the crucifix I wore there.

      ‘You a Christian?’ he asked suddenly.

      I blinked, and almost said None of your business; then nodded.

      ‘You could have fooled me,’ he said evenly.

      That stung.

      For a moment I was really tempted to say Well sod you, mate – even if not in so many words. I was in the wrong, and knew it, and buggered if I was going to admit it. So it took quite a struggle before I was able to draw breath, manage a smile, and murmur, ‘Sorry.’

      He held up one hand, palm outward, revealing an oozing gash. ‘Did this on some barbed wire.’

      I nodded. ‘Looks nasty.’ I picked up a casualty card from the front desk and came back. After a moment’s hesitation – I knew he’d noticed – I sat down beside him.

      ‘Don’t smell very nice, do I?’ he said drily, and glanced across.

      I met his gaze. ‘You were right: it shouldn’t make any difference, should it?’

      But it had, of course. And still I hadn’t bloody learned.

      The Sunday bus service being what it is, I decided I’d walk at least part of the way home. I knew a few shortcuts, and it was still light enough to take them – though the sun was getting lower and colder all the while. From Milston Road I took the footbridge over the ringway, and on through the Stoneham Estate towards the town centre; scenting a foretaste of dusk frost on the air, along with the cooking smells of Sunday tea that wafted out from warm bright kitchens. I missed the bus at the corner of Clarke Street and had to cut across through Lamborn. That’s one of the older parts of town: a lot of the houses are empty, boarded up. But I was halfway down Stone Road before it dawned on me that yesterday’s murder had happened here – in one of these derelict buildings I was passing. The realization brought me up short.

      I don’t think it was fear I felt, even though the shadows were lengthening on the street. Rather, it was a macabre curiosity. The news reports on last night’s TV had taken every opportunity to emphasize the gruesome nature of the killing: apparently the poor bloke had been cut to pieces. I tried to remember if they’d actually mentioned which of the empty houses the remains had been discovered in – number eighteen I decided, after a moment – and here it was just coming up on the left. I stopped again.

      It was getting chilly. There was no one on the street. I knew I should be pushing on for home, not hanging around; especially when I was lingering in the fresh footsteps of a murderer. But the house exerted its own grim fascination. Two storeys high, with slates missing from the roof and windows blocked off with chipboard: one empty slum in half a terrace of them. I stood there before it, scanning its impassive façade; trying, almost despite myself, to visualize the darkened rooms within – and what had happened there.

      And then the front door swung gratingly open, and I almost jumped out of my shoes.

      A uniformed policeman, buttoned up in his anorak, appeared in the doorway. The surge of adrenaline had left me feeling sick and giddy, and I could only stand there getting my breath back as he eyed me with some disdain. Obviously he’d been detailed to keep the place secure until the forensics and scene-of-crime teams had finished; and to discourage the morbidly curious, like me. The cold must have driven him indoors from his exposed position on the front step; he’d probably been having a cup of tea in the back or something.

      ‘Would you mind moving on, miss? Nothing to see here.’

      Actually it was Bill Roberts, who was regularly up at our department on some business or other: last week it had been an argumentative drunk. He hadn’t recognized me, and was putting on his most patronizing voice-of-authority tone. I couldn’t help smiling, in the circumstances.

      After a moment, recognition dawned, and he relaxed, grinning apologetically. ‘Afternoon, Rachel – sorry, didn’t recognize you in civvies.’

      I’d heard it suggested, rather unkindly, that he wouldn’t recognize a thief if the man walked past him wearing a mask and carrying a sack with SWAG written on it. But he was a decent enough bloke, when he wasn’t throwing his weight around, and I could at least try and find out what he knew.

      ‘They finished in there yet?’

      He shrugged. ‘I dunno. Might have. Shit, but the guy was in a mess …’

      ‘So I heard.’

      ‘You haven’t heard the half of it.’ He paused then, clearly wondering whether he should say more. I raised my eyebrows in mild enquiry; and after a moment he decided that this was one professional to another, and continued.

      ‘You remember that RTA, beginning of November?’

      I knew which road traffic accident he meant: I was still trying to forget it. I nodded.

      ‘Well this was worse.’

      Must have been bad. ‘How do you mean?’ I asked, interested.

      ‘Well, this guy had been all split open too – only not torn this time, but cut, all neat and clean. That’s what makes it worse, it was so cold-blooded: sort of clinical …’

      Clinical. The word lodged and grew cold inside my head; I felt my stomach shift uneasily. My gaze strayed to the open doorway behind him – a gaping entrance into blackness. The blinded windows