Authors: Frederic Lindsay
Dying
came
harder.
When
she
opened
her
eyes
there
was
the
white
length
of
her
arm
and
the
tube
rising
from
it
to
the
bag
of
the
drip.
It
looked
so
strange
she
reached
to
touch
it,
and
a
hand
caught
hers
and
put
it
firmly
under
the
blanket.
'Be
a
good
girl,'
the
nurse
said.
Next
time
she
came
awake,
a
woman
stood
over
her
making
a
clenched
fist
from
which
there
stuck
out
the
glittering
point
of
a
needle.
'Don't
hurt
me,'
she
said,
before
recognising
who
it
was.
The
drip
went
into
a
junction
valve
set
into
her
arm
and
by
lifting
her
head
she
could
see
where
the
tube
entered
and
that
there
was
a
second
opening
into
which
Anne
Macleod
was
sliding
a
syringe.
'Vitamin
B
12,'
she
said.
'We
have
to
make
sure
you haven't
damaged
your
liver.’
Lucy
tried
to
sit
up
and
groaned
at
a
spasm
of
pain.
'Tummy
sore?
You
had
to
be
pumped
out.’
'What
is
the
drip
for?'
It
seemed
important
to
know,
not
to
slip
under
without finding
out
why
they
had
done
this
to
her.
'You'll
be
on
that
for
twenty
hours.
It's
an
antidote.’
'Why?'
'Against
the
stuff
you
took.’
'Like
poor
Sophie.’
'Not
quite,'
Anne
Macleod
said,
'but
very
nearly.’
Chapter 21
She
dreamt
that
she
was
on
a
stage
with
a
man
on
his
knees
in
front
of
her
lapping
like
a
dog
between
her
legs.
A
hand
brushed
the
hair
back
from
her
face,
stroked
her
forehead,
the
tips
of
fingers
traced
the
line
of
her
cheek.
She
jerked
away
and
opened
her
eyes.
Anne
Macleod
on
the
chair
beside
the
bed
straightened
and
sat
back
from
her.
'How
are
you
feeling?'
'I
didn't
know
she
killed
herself
like
that.’
'With
tablets.
Stolen
from
in
here.
Like
you.
Not
the
same
kind,
though.’
They
were
talking
about
Sophie
Lindgren,
of
course;
and
Lucy
took
it
for
granted
that
had
been
understood,
as
if
she
had
resumed
a
conversation
they
had
already
begun.
'Otherwise
you
would
be
dead.’
'I'm
grateful
to
be
alive.
I'll
never
do
that
again.’
'I've
heard
people
say
that
before.’
'Believe
me.’
'That's
not
what
I
meant.
Someone
is
found
in
a
coma,
brought
into
a
hospital.
They
get
pumped
out,
all
the
things
that
should
be
done,
I
did
so
much
of
that
when
I
was
in
emergency,
but
we
know
it's
too
late.
And
when
they
come
round
they
say,
“thank
God,
I'm
alive,
I'll
never
do
that
again.”
And
you
look
at
them
and
you
know
they
won't,
they
won't
get
any
chance,
and they’re
already
dead.
Within
days
they're
brought
in
again.
The
liver's
gone.’
'Is
that
me?'
Terror
of
dying
stilled
her.
'It
might
have
been.’
Anne
Macleod
sat
silent
and
then
her
mouth
opened
in
a
movement
like
a
yawn,
and
she sighed,
a
long
trembling
like
the
beginning
of
a
sob.
As
Lucy
stared
up
at
her,
she
looked
aside
and
her
voice
when
she
started
to
speak
was
harsh.
'Or
brain
damage.
You
were
risking
more
than
dying.’
'But
I'm
going
to
be
all
right.’
Let
doctors
be
contemptuous
or
angry
with
her,
one
of
the
self-wounded
when
so
many
others
were
injured
and
ill.
What
did
it
matter?
Let
them
feel
what
they
liked.
Her
life
had
been
given
back
to
her.
She
hardly
listened
as
Anne
Macleod
talked
about
how negligent
the
hospital
had
been
in
its
overseeing
of
drugs.
Bad
record
keeping,
unlocked
cabinets,
an
atmosphere
so
casual
that
Sophie
had
been
able
to
steal
the
drugs
which
killed
her.
'It
wasn't
the
publicity
Cadell
had
been
hoping
for,
but things
had
been
getting
worse
for
ages.
The
truth
is
it
was
a
scandal
waiting
to
happen.
And
now
you,'
Anne
Macleod
said.
'After
all
the
changes,
it
wasn't
supposed
to
happen
again.’
'Why
was
she
here?
Was
she
ill?'
'All
of
you
were
here.
Don't
you
remember?
Your
husband,
the
man
Norman,
the
little
secretary
woman,
and
the
others
with
the
Trust,
you
all
turned
up
to
collect
the
patients
for
the
theatre
visit.’
'I
don't
remember.’
'There
were
drinks,
you
were
here
for
almost
an
hour.
Doctor
Cadell
made
an
occasion
of
it.’
As
if
there
was
something
to
be
defended,
Lucy
said,
'The
Trust
has
had
connections
with
the
hospital
since
Charles
Gregory's
time.’
'They
think
she
swallowed
the
tablets
when
we
were
with
the
Great
Sovek
or
maybe
in
the
bar
at
the
interval.
But
the
tablets
came
from
here;
there
wasn't
any
doubt
of
that.
There
were
articles
in
the
papers, visits
from
the
Health
Board.’
'Sophie
Lindgren
killed
herself.’
She
wasn't
real
to
Lucy
anymore;
she
couldn't
even
remember
her
face.
'After
she
died,'
Anne
Macleod
said,
'I
couldn't
stop thinking
about
her.
I
had
seen
a
pretty
girl that
was
all
I
had
seen,
I
hadn't
seen
any
of
her
unhappiness,
and
I
had
been
trained
to
see.
It
was
such
a
waste.
Maybe
I
could
have
done
something,
I
couldn't
stop
thinking
that.’
What
was
real
was
that
she
had
been
a
girl,
only
a
girl, with
all
of
her
life
before
her.
'Poor
girl,'
Lucy
said.
What
is
real,
Lucy
Inside
said,
is
that
I'm
alive.