Feeling more disoriented than jet lag had ever left her, Lindsay walked slowly towards a bank of pay phones on the far wall. Her legs felt out of her control, as if her knees had been replaced with some flexible rubbery solid which left her out of touch with her feet. Every step was tentative, in case the place where her knees used to be suddenly rebelled and deposited her in a crumpled, helpless heap on the floor. But she made it to the phone without incident.

By some miracle, she still had her backpack. Awkward fingers fumbled some change out of her wallet and she punched in Helen’s number. It rang five or six times without reply, then the answering machine clicked in. Lindsay leaned against the wall and waited for Helen to stop giving her instructions. She couldn’t understand why no one was picking up the phone. She knew it was late, but there was an extension in the bedroom, right next to Helen’s bed. They couldn’t sleep through this, could they?

The machine beeped and Lindsay said, “Helen? Kirsten? Is anybody there? Can you pick up? It’s Lindsay? Hello? . . .” She waited for a moment, but no one answered. She sighed. “Bit of a problem. Um . . . I’m at the Royal Free. In casualty. Had a bit of an accident. Nothing to worry about, but if you get this message, can you come? I’ll . . . I’ll speak to you later,” she ended up, unable to think straight.

She replaced the receiver and wobbled over to the nearest vacant chair. She slumped into it and looked around vaguely. There seemed to be a lot of people here, considering it was nearly one in the morning. They mostly looked stunned with pain or indifference, especially those who were only accompanying someone more obviously damaged. Lindsay closed her eyes and sighed. Where could Helen and Kirsten be? Helen hadn’t said anything about plans for the evening, and she’d have been too desperate to hear Lindsay’s report on her mission to consider going out on the spur of the moment. She couldn’t believe they’d turned off the phones and gone to bed either. Helen’s eagerness to hear that Stella and Guy had been stitched up would never have allowed her to go to sleep. Besides, Helen would be conscious of the possibility that things might go wrong. She wouldn’t leave Lindsay hanging on the telephone needing help.

It was a mystery, but right then it seemed to Lindsay about as intractable as Penny Varnavides’ murder. Before she could worry about it too much, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes to see a nurse’s uniform containing a stocky redhead who looked about twelve years old. “I’m the triage nurse,” she chirped cheerily in a harsh Belfast brogue. “If you’d like to come through to a cubicle, I can assess your injuries there.”