I’ve had a couple of weeks back home hanging out with Lucy and Sam (who are so loved up, I can’t decide if it’s inspiring or nauseating, or possibly a bit of both) and I’ve gone straight back into two back-to-back weeks of night shifts, so I’m feeling a bit like Albany Road’s nothing more than a place to sleep before I stagger out of bed and back to work again. I feel like the living dead, but I’ll give hospital work this – it never stops being interesting. I’m doing agency work to get some money in the bank before the next semester starts. St Thomas’s Hospital is huge and confusing, and I’ve got lost about five times already. The weird thing is I know that another few shifts and I’ll have the entire place mapped in my head, permanently. I don’t know how it works, but it does.
‘Hello, darlin’,’ says a voice from the waiting area. I give a vague smile but don’t engage. I’ve got a load of overnight reports to hand over, and if I don’t get them in before the shift changes I’m going to end up hovering around for an hour like I did yesterday.
‘I said “hello”,’ says the voice, again. It belongs to a woman wearing a hospital gown and a pair of tired-looking fleece-lined slippers. Her mouse-brown hair is suspiciously flat on one side, as if she’s just got out of bed.
‘Where have you come from?’ I ask. We’ve got a wanderer, I suspect. I check her arm. ‘You didn’t have an ID band on, did you?’
‘Took it off,’ she says. ‘They make me itch.’
I can’t help smiling. She’s feisty, I’ll give her that. But we’re in a hospital the size of a small village, and I’ve got a lost soul to sort out.
‘So where did you come from – can you remember?’ I ask.
‘Not sure,’ she said, and gives a cackle of laughter. ‘These places all look the same. Don’t you agree?’
I look at the chairs, the neutral walls, and the posters urging us to wash our hands and use hand gel between patients and I think that I could be pretty much anywhere in any London hospital.
‘Yes, they are all much of a muchness, aren’t they?’
‘Are you a doctor?’ she asks.
‘Nurse.’ I frown and peer down the corridor, trying to see if I can spot anyone. Can’t leave her sitting alone when she’s clearly vulnerable, but at the same time, I’m going to get a bollocking if I go AWOL with these reports.
‘Nurse?’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Male nurses. Well I never.’ She looks pleased at this. I smile politely.
‘Excuse me,’ I say when I see a pink-clad Healthcare Assistant appear from inside some double doors. ‘I’ve got a patient here, and—’
‘She’s not one of ours, I don’t think,’ says the HCA.
‘She’s AWOL, I think.’
‘Wait there two secs,’ the HCA says, and disappears, returning a few seconds later with a hospital-issue wheelchair. ‘I bet we can relocate her.’
Before long, we’ve traced her back to the ward she’d come from. She’s not that old – pain can disorient you – and I watch as she’s installed safely back in her bed. She hadn’t gone far.
‘Turned left at the loos instead of right. Happens all the time,’ says the ward sister, wearily. ‘We’ve got massive signs, but nobody ever looks at them.’
I head back down the never-ending corridors, but the patient’s face stays with me for the rest of the shift, in that way people do, sometimes, even though we’re supposed to retain professional detachment at all times. I remember it being mentioned in one of the first classes we had – that we had to find our own way of distancing ourselves. It’s not that easy, though – especially when you see someone like her, wandering, alone – I don’t know why it got to me. Maybe just that moment of realising that the old cliché about life being short really is true?
Back home, hours later, dead on my feet and bleary-eyed, I’m in the kitchen ripping off the plastic on a microwave meal for two, tipping it onto a plate, when Rob comes in with a couple of dirty mugs.
‘That crap’s no good for you, man,’ he says. He shoves the mugs in the dishwasher and turns to look at me. ‘You need some decent food inside you when you’re working those long shifts. Believe me, I know.’
‘It’s better than Becky’s Cock Soup,’ I say.
There are still about fifteen packets of the stuff in the cupboard. It’s become a standing joke. We’ve tried adding vegetables, throwing in noodles, even mixing it with a tin of sweetcorn. It’s still absolutely disgusting, but come the week before payday, we’re not too proud to give it another go.
The microwave curry tastes pretty grim. The chicken’s somehow spongy and rubbery, and the rice has dried up in parts and is rock hard. But I’m exhausted and starving hungry and there’s nothing else to eat, so it’ll have to do. Once I’ve had a sleep I’ll nip out and get some shopping.
‘You working tonight?’ I say, looking at Rob.
‘Night off. Thought I might go and see that new Marvel film at the cinema if you fancy it.’
‘I’d love to, but I can guarantee you that within five minutes of the opening credits, I’d be fast asleep. I feel like I haven’t stopped for days.’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask what the story is. You sort things out with that Alice lassie?’ He grins. ‘Wee bit awkward getting home to find your ex standing in the kitchen.’
‘Just a bit.’ I nod. ‘Anyway, I’ve cleared the air with her, at least.’
‘So you’re just friends now?’ Rob asks.
‘Well, as much as you can ever be. Civil, I think, is probably as good as we’re going to get. She’s still not over me giving up law for nursing, no matter how much she’s tried to convince herself it didn’t matter.’
‘Aye,’ says Rob, sagely. ‘Not easy to get your head round something like that. My ex-wife couldn’t cope with my long hours working in the restaurant. Not many can. It’s a killer, but I couldn’t give it up.’
‘Did she give you an ultimatum?’ I ask, looking up with interest. I had no idea he’d been married. I don’t know much about him at all, really. Rob doesn’t talk about himself much, although I’ve found him chatting away to Becky a few times in the kitchen when I’ve got in from work. But Becky’s like that – she could strike up a conversation in a room full of statues. Probably has, knowing her.
‘No, but if she had … I cannae tell you which I’d have chosen. I bloody love my job. I spent years working in construction, and paid a fortune to retrain. You’ve got to follow your heart, haven’t you?’
These words, coming from the stocky, gruff Scotsman make me smile. He’s right, though.
Of course, what I’ve not mentioned to him, or to Becky, or to anyone – and I’m not sure why – is that it turns out that after we split, Alice had had a semi-serious fling with Paul, who I used to work with. I think it was them splitting up that was the catalyst for her getting back in touch. It’s weird because he was one of the ones from the office who’d sort of kept in touch – for a bit, at least. We’d been out for drinks a few times since leaving, and yet he’d never mentioned it. Not that I’m in any position to comment, given what happened with Emma.
God, relationships are complicated. I head upstairs, pull the curtains, and climb under the covers. Sleeping after night shifts is a killer in the summer. It’s so hot that I’ve got to leave the window open, but there’s music blaring and car horns beeping and kids off school yelling at each other in the gardens, and there’s no way I can possibly sleep with all that going on …
Weird thing is it’s not Emma or Alice who get caught up in my daytime dreams when I’m tangled in the sheets, dozing, trying to catch up after night shifts. It’s Jess. My subconscious is an awkward bugger.
When it becomes clear I’m not falling asleep any time soon, I shove off the sheet and climb out of bed, heading for the kitchen. I need caffeine, and fast.
Talking of the devil, Jess appears in the kitchen, her nose smattered with new freckles from the August sun outside, her hair in long waves around her shoulders. She’s wearing a pretty flower-patterned sundress and flip-flops, her sunglasses balanced on the top of her head. She’s standing in the doorway as a reminder that no, I wasn’t imagining it. It is her I’ve been dreaming about. God, my subconscious needs to get a grip. A second later, the universe throws an ice-cold bucket of water over my subconscious when Jess steps further into the room followed by a tall, fair-haired, Scandinavian-looking bloke.
‘Oh! Alex.’ She goes a bit pink. ‘This is James.’
I’ve only been gone a couple of weeks. Where the hell has this James sprung from? I realise I’m probably staring and extend a hand. James shakes it – firmly.
‘Hi. I’m Alex, Jess’s housemate.’ Obviously I’m her housemate – that’s why I’m standing here with bare feet and wearing track pants and a T-shirt.
‘Ah, right,’ he says, looking pleased he knows which one I am. ‘You’re the walking one.’
‘That’s right.’ Jess beams.
I make polite small talk for a few more moments, then make my excuses. I pull the door of my bedroom closed and look out of the window at Albany Road and the sea of houses that stretches out as far as I can see. My stomach contracts with something I really don’t want to acknowledge. I can’t be jealous because Jess has met someone. We’re friends, that’s all. Yes, we flirted that first night in December when we met, and yes, we’d become friends as we walked miles together over the city. That’s perfectly normal.
I think for a second about that briefest of touches, lying on the grass, staring up at the sky. I really need to get a grip. It was nothing. There’s a soft thud as Jess’s bedroom door closes, and I grimace. I’m not staying around to find out what will happen next. I grab a towel and head for the shower, determined to stand under needles of burning hot water until I’ve cleared my head, and then for as long as I can. Hopefully that way I can avoid whatever’s going on in the room next door.