As a medical student I sat a lot of exams. As a junior doctor I will sit more, and to get onto specialist training more again. Doctors are examined until eternity, but this may be the most important test I ever face. I must not fail.

I scramble out of bed, pull on some clothes, grab my keys and slip out of number 19, shutting the door quietly behind me.

I hurry up North Avenue towards the hospital, which looms over the street menacingly in the dark. Whatever Estelle is going to tell me, I know it has to be bad. There’s no way we would be rendezvousing in a utility cupboard at this time on a Thursday night unless the situation had reached a crisis point.

I walk into the hospital, trying not to look too conspicuous. I rehearse in my head what I’ll say if I run into anyone I know. (‘Can you believe it? I left my wallet at work. I got so stressed out I had to come in now and look for it.’)

The hospital is deserted, the hustle and bustle of the daytime replaced with the eeriness of the dim lights of the after-hours shift. I go up the stairs and swipe myself through the door that leads to the operating theatres. As I get closer to the utility room, I see that the door is slightly ajar—Estelle has beaten me here.

I take a breath and steel myself for the worst.

When I push open the door I see Estelle sitting on the floor with a mop between her legs. She looks up and our eyes lock. For a moment I can’t say anything.

Her eyes are so puffy they’re like slits. Her beautiful thick hair is dishevelled and she is wearing a ripped scrub top. It looks as if she left the house after dressing herself in the dark.

‘It’s happened, mate,’ she says. ‘The worst has happened.’

I wait.

‘I’ve killed someone.’

I stare at her. I don’t understand what she means.

‘All interns kill people,’ I say. ‘It happens all the time. It’s just part of being a doctor. It’s not our fault.’ Estelle knows this as well as I do, and inside I know that we’re not meeting in a utility room late at night because a ninety-nine-year-old with pneumonia has died on Estelle’s night shift.

I sit down next to her, moving a mop and a bag of adult nappies out of the way.

‘Do you remember that little boy I had to intubate when we were out in the middle of fucking nowhere?’ she asks, her voice hoarse.

‘I thought that turned out okay!’ I say, feeling the panic rise.

Estelle shakes her head. ‘Apparently it went to the coroner.’

I hadn’t realised the patient died.

‘But that doesn’t mean you killed him,’ I protest loudly. ‘Every unexpected medical death goes to the coroner.’