Alison checked to see if the probe had slipped from Grace’s finger to give a false reading but it was firmly in place and her oxygen level was reading 86. Alison pressed the emergency bell and dropped the bed and Grace’s head down. Jingle bells, jingle bells . . . The anaesthesiologist was there in a jiffy. Grace felt an oxygen mask on her face and when she opened her eye a crack she saw the fuzzy face of a man placing something into her cannula.

‘I’m sorry, Grace,’ he said, and the next thing she experienced was burning, infernal, excruciating pain. She couldn’t open her eyes, they were so heavy, it was dark and she was screaming. Oh no, I’ve died. I’m in hell. Stupid sex before marriage.

‘It’s OK, calm down, Grace,’ Alison said, and it was a relief to hear her voice because it meant she was still alive, unless Alison had died too. No, that wouldn’t happen. Would it?

‘Grace, you’re safe. I’m here.’

‘Fuckin’ hell, Alison, what did he do to me?’ Oh God, oh God, oh God.

‘The morphine dropped your oxygen levels below 88, so we had to administer a reversal drug.’

‘Oh no, I can’t. I have to have morphine. Please. It’s unbearable.’

‘I know, I know, just breathe.’

‘You just fucking breathe!’

‘OK, we’ll both fucking breathe. OK?’ Alison said in a light tone.

‘Not OK, not OK.’ Oh no, no, no, this is too familiar. Tears rained down her face. ‘This was Rabbit, when she was dying, I saw, I was there, I watched her beg for pain relief and nurses tell her it was all right.’ Her breathing became rapid, her fists clenched; the pain was mind-numbing but at least she could catch and hold onto her thoughts. ‘But it wasn’t all right, she was dying.’

‘You’re not dying, Grace. You’re a healthy woman.’

‘She died.’

‘You won’t die.’

‘But she died.’ She could feel cool wet tears trickle from her eyes, down her neck and onto the bed.

‘When did she die, Grace?’

‘Just over a year ago.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Me too,’ Grace said. Me too.

After a few breathing exercises the anti-inflammatory and IV paracetamol started to kick in.

‘Better?’ Alison asked.

‘Hmmm.’

‘Pain scale one to ten?’

’Eleven.’

‘You said it was better.’

‘It was twenty-five.’

The consultant appeared to check on Grace and to consent to another form of painkiller.

‘Twenty-five micrograms of fentanyl via a PCA with a five-minute lockout.’

‘Will that get rid of the pain?’

‘It will.’

‘All of it?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Not more than me,’ Grace said.

‘No, Grace, not more than you, but you did well, really well. I know it doesn’t feel like that now but you are looking good, lady. You can relax now. It’s over.’