‘Inquests are standard practice,’ I say finally, trying to reassure her. ‘They have to do them—heaps of surgeons have shit go wrong and go to inquests and then everyone forgets about it. Remember that cardiac surgeon ages ago? When that kid died? I’ll show you the articles.’

‘It’s different when you’re a boss,’ she points out. ‘They’re protected because they make the private hospital so much money. No one gives two shits about putting us in situations they know we can’t handle then throwing us under the bus.’

‘That’s not true!’ I protest, knowing even as I say it that she’s right.

We’ve lapsed into silence again when another clang comes from behind the wall, a little louder than the previous sounds. It seems to be uncomfortably close to where we’re sitting, and Estelle and I shift uneasily. The last thing we need is for anyone to overhear us discussing this train wreck.

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this here,’ Estelle whispers. ‘I don’t even know why I suggested we meet in this cupboard. I just felt so overwhelmed and I couldn’t breathe and it was the only place I could think of to hide.’

‘Well, I know number nineteen is a bit shabby, but maybe next time you should just come over,’ I tease gently.

Estelle half smiles. ‘I better go,’ she says, the horror of her situation crossing her face like a fleeting shadow.

We both stand up. I push the door open and we step into the corridor. As we walk quietly towards the stairs, I feel suddenly like we are ghosts. Shadows of ideas and happiness, echoes in time, floating through an old dimly lit hospital corridor with all the other memories of people suffering.

It isn’t until we get to the front of the hospital that I realise with dismay that I have left my keys in the utility cupboard.

‘You go,’ I tell Estelle, annoyed with myself. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

I return to the operating theatres, jog back down the hallway to the cupboard and push the door open. Using my phone light, I manage to locate my keys almost immediately. Relieved, I pick them up and turn to leave when I’m startled by the sound of a high-pitched giggle floating through the wall.

I stop.

It sounds like a woman, I think, confused. But I’m sure the cupboard adjoins the men’s change room.

Could it be the cleaner?

I hear a shuffling sound, then the giggle again. It’s definitely female. And it sounds almost familiar.

I know I should leave, but curiosity gets the better of me. It sounds like one of the surgeons is getting a little bit of extra action with a theatre nurse.

I hear a moan, and then a man’s voice says, ‘That’s it, you little slut. That’s it, take that dick.’