“I told you the reception is bad in here,” she said. She didn’t add, “And I had more important things going on,” but Steph obviously got the gist, because she gave Jem a look that would have curdled butter. She took a file from her briefcase and threw it onto Rosie’s chair.

“A team of psychologists and social workers tried to interview Ava Reynolds and Chloe Harrison this morning. Neither girl would cooperate, and they’re demanding to speak to you.”

“To me? Why?”

“To both of you, and I don’t care why. I just need answers to the questions on the front sheet of that file.” Steph snapped the latches on her briefcase. “They’ll be down to see you in the next half hour. I’ve spoken to your doctor, Ms. Pardon, and she’s given her permission, albeit reluctantly.”

Rosie wished she’d been a fly on the wall for that conversation. Harriet had stayed late into the night, and she’d been back on the ward at shift changeover.

Rosie managed to retrieve the file without leaving the bed and found a bullet-pointed list of questions. “Am I recording the interview?”

“Audio only.” Steph set a small Dictaphone on the overbed table. “Ring me when you’re done. If you can find somewhere with reception, that is.” Evidently satisfied with her parting shot, she strode to the door, almost colliding with the nurse as he returned with a tray of brews and mid-morning medicines.

“Who pissed on her chips?” he asked as the door closed behind her.

“No one. That’s her default setting.” Rosie passed Jem her tea and a small cup of tablets.

“I like it better when you call me ‘Ms. Pardon,’” Jem muttered, and Rosie laughed over the rim of her mug.

“Down the hatch,” the nurse told Jem. “Then you’re getting a couple of visitors, so chair or bed?”

“Chair.” Jem reached behind her head to untie her gown. “And do I have any clothes that don’t come with ‘West Penn’ stamped on them?”

“Not as such,” Rosie said. “But I’ve got a spare T-shirt and a pair of tracky bottoms, if the price is right.”

Jem’s payment options were limited to a malted milk biscuit and a cache of small red tablets. She shrugged and offered both.

“I’ll stick to the biscuit, thanks,” Rosie said.

“Wise choice,” Jem said, and necked the tablets in one.

* * *

Resting her hands on the sink, Jem studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her complexion sat somewhere between catastrophic hypovolaemic shock and day-old corpse, while her eyes were encircled by blue-black shadows. The nebs had left her lips dry and cracked, and she’d caught her chin on something, probably the balcony, tearing an uneven laceration through its centre.

“Bloody hell,” she said, scratching her nose where the oxygen tubing was chafing it.

A knock on the door preceded Rosie’s singsong, “Are you decent?”