Kirsty MacLeod stretched her arms above her head and yawned. God, she was weary. Never again, she chided herself. That extra shift three days ago had totally wiped her out. Never mind, it would soon be the weekend and she had the prospect of two whole days when she could lie in bed if she felt like it.
All the patients had settled down for the night. The ones on suicide watch were usually the last to drop off, despite their sleeping pills. Peter and the others were all in place, sitting near the opened doors of the winding corridor so she wouldn’t have to worry about that part of the clinic. Upstairs the girls and women with eating disorders had long since turned in. Kirsty had checked on each patient, adjusting drips and turning the heaters up. It was a cold night and these poor souls really felt every draught in the old building. She only had to see to Phyllis and that would be that. Then she’d have supper with Brenda and a bit of a blether before writing up the evening’s notes.
It had been hard working here at first after having been out and about in the community. She’d been accustomed to her housebound patients but that could have become a problem too. Kirsty wasn’t the sentimental type but she had become close to a few terminally ill patients, and their deaths had been hard to take. Nan Coutts, for instance.
The woman’s multiple sclerosis had worsened so rapidly that the pneumonia hadn’t been too much of a surprise. And poor Dr Coutts. Now he was here as a day patient, suffering the aftermath of all that strain. Kirsty gave herself a shake. It didn’t do to dwell on the past. She’d made her choice now and the clinic was a really interesting place to work, full of challenging patients. Her training in neural disorders had made Kirsty an ideal candidate for the post here, she thought with satisfaction. Not only was she experienced with MS patients but she had nursed psychiatric cases in the community too.
The Grange only housed one patient with multiple sclerosis, however, and that was Phyllis Logan. She was in a specially designed room near the back of the house, overlooking the gardens, away from the busyness of the clinic’s everyday appointments and therapy sessions. It was peace and quiet that the woman needed now for the remainder of her days.
Kirsty closed the door to the nurses’ rest room and made her way quietly down the back stairs. Dim light shone from the uplighters cupped against the wall as she descended into the gloom. Odd, she thought. Someone’s put the downstairs light off. Kirsty fiddled with the switch at the bottom of the stair, hearing it click back and forwards. The corridor stretched into blackness and no light was visible from Phyllis’s room. It must be a fuse. She felt her way along the wall slowly, hoping her eyes would become accustomed to the inky darkness before she reached the patient’s bedroom.
Suddenly there was the noise of feet coming towards her and Kirsty felt herself relax.
‘Thank goodness,’ she began, then her eyes widened as she saw the figure loom up out of the dark.
Her cry was stifled as gloved hands seized her throat, pressing into the jugular vein. Her heels slipped on the polished surface of the floor as she struggled. Then she felt herself falling backwards into a deeper darkness than she’d ever known.
Phyllis stared at the doorway. In the darkness she could make out a shape coming towards her. The figure moved closer and closer until she could see the eyes boring into her own. Then there was a smile that chilled her bones and a slight shake of the head that she couldn’t understand. The figure leant over her and she closed her eyes in terror, feeling the weight of this intruder across her bed. A cold wet drop of some thing fell against her hand as the pressure on the bed was released. When she opened her eyes she could see the figure looking back at her from the door. He put one finger to his lips and tiptoed out again.
Phyllis shuddered under the thick covers, wondering why he’d come in the dead of night to steal one of her flowers.