A short doctor with dark-purple bags under her eyes and a distinct list to the left, limped out of the ITU, let the door swing shut behind her, then leaned back and rested her head against it. Sighed at the ceiling tiles.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Is he. . .? ’

She blinked, her eyes pinching around the edges, as if she’d just stood on something sharp. Then came a brittle smile. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a long day. Can I help you? ’

‘Timothy Mair – the stabbing victim, is he. . .? ’

‘Ah, yes. No, he’ll be fine. They stemmed the bleeding, and patched up the hole in his lung. We’re keeping an eye out for secondary infections and oedema, but he’ll be fine.’ She stifled a yawn, then scrubbed a hand across her eyes. ‘Sorry. Roll on July. . .’

‘Thanks.’ He made his way into the depths of the hospital. A pack of gurneys had gathered around the vending machines in the corridor outside. Ready to pounce. Two old men in matching brown plaid dressing gowns shuffled past, wheeling intravenous drips on stands and arguing about whether or not Aberdeen was going to get its backside skelped by Celtic in the cup final.

Logan kept going.

A pregnant woman with her left arm in a cast mashed her thumb against the button for the lifts. He joined her. Waiting till the thing creaked and groaned its way down from the fifth floor. Ding and the doors slid open. Inside, the floor was held together with strips of duct tape – the tape’s silver surface scuffed and holey. They stepped inside.

Halfway up, the woman burst into silent tears.

‘Are you OK? ’

She didn’t answer, just kept her face to the wall, until the lift juddered to a halt, then scuffed out and away.

The doors slid closed.

Logan shut his eyes as the lift rose again. It didn’t matter how many photo exhibits they put on, or how many pretty paintings they hung on the corridor walls, Aberdeen Royal Infirmary was always going to be a sprawling concrete maze haunted by the sick and the dying.

Cheery stuff.

He took a deep breath as the doors opened again, and marched out and down the corridor. Head up. Pulling on a smile that hopefully didn’t look that forced.

After all, he’d escaped the place, Samantha would too.

Eventually. . .

Logan pushed through into the ward.

Samantha sat up in bed as soon as he walked in. Her hair was pillar-box red, the tattoos on her arms standing out against her pale skin. ‘Gah, I’m going mad in here.’

He pulled the visitor’s chair around and sank into it. Didn’t matter if his bum was lying to him or not, he was prepared to take its word for it. ‘You would not believe the day I’ve had.’

‘Cauliflower cheese again for lunch. How do you make cauliflower cheese beige? It’s not physically possible.’