Footsteps clattered out in the corridor, then a huge nurse came battering through the door. Arms like tree trunks, evil-twin goatee beard, little round glasses. ‘What happened? Is everything OK? ’

Logan jabbed a finger into the nurse’s chest. ‘You’re supposed to be keeping an eye on her! What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at? ’

‘Sorry? ’ The nurse’s forehead creased, fingers curling in and out in front of his chest as if he was playing on a tiny video game handset. ‘OK, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down, or I’m going to have to call security.’

‘THEN CALL THEM! If they’d been doing their bloody jobs this wouldn’t happen. This is supposed to be a secure ward!’

‘This is a secure ward.’

‘Oh, it is, is it? ’ Logan grabbed him by the collar and hauled him over to the bed. ‘Look underneath. Go on, LOOK!’

‘OK, OK. . . Sheesh. . .’ He dropped down on one knee. ‘What am I looking for? ’

‘The bones, you halfwit!’

The nurse reached beneath the bed, fiddled with something, then stood. Agnes Garfield’s talisman lay in the palm of his hand. ‘Is this supposed to be some sort of joke? ’

‘A joke? ’ Logan snatched the bones and held them up, dangling them on the end of their ribbon. ‘Where did they come from? ’

‘The only people who’ve been through here since I got on shift are the nurses, the consultant, and the bloke who fixed the printer. And they’ve all got security badges.’ He folded his massive arms and brought his chin up. ‘So I think you owe me an apology.’

Logan poked him in the chest again. ‘What about the catering staff? The people who came round with lunch? Or did they just magically teleport cauliflower cheese in from the canteen? ’

The nurse took a step back. A frown pulling his features inwards, one hand reaching for the call button. ‘Cauliflower cheese. . .? ’ He looked left, then right. ‘Why would they bring food in here? I mean . . . it’s the coma care ward. Everyone’s on drips and tubes.’

Logan blinked. Turned to stare at the bed again.

Samantha lay flat on her back, arms over the covers. The breathing tube fixed to the hole in her throat hissed slowly in, and out. A feeding tube in her nose. Both eyes taped shut. Her hair was a faded lacklustre red with eighteen inches of brown roots. Skin the colour of yoghurt, tattoos standing out like graffiti on a church wall.

He cleared his throat. ‘Yes. . . It’s. . .’

‘Are you feeling OK? ’

‘No. Of course.’ Logan ran a hand over his eyes. Samantha was perfectly still, lying in the same position she’d lain in for the last two years. ‘Look: when did they last clean the room? Agnes Garfield must’ve been in since then. We can pull the security-camera footage.’

The nurse shook his head.

‘What? ’