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wound, which needs to come out. If a piece shifts it could sever the femoral . . .’
    No sooner had the words left his mouth than a fountain of blood spurted violently from the wound. Helen grabbed a towel and started to mop at it, but the blood soaked straight through, flowing over her hands in a warm, sticky crimson tide.
    Dr McKay reached for a tourniquet as Helen dropped the towel and moved to place her hands around the rim of the man’s pelvis, her thumbs pressing down on the artery, feeling the hard bone underneath. She threw her weight against it, her feet slipping on the slick of blood under her shoes.
    She’d lost the feeling in both her thumbs by the time Dr McKay got the tourniquet strapped into place and stemmed the tide of blood. Then he moved quickly to ligate the wound, tying off the two ends of the artery and bringing them together.
    ‘How is he doing, Sister?’ he asked, not looking up.
    ‘His breathing is very shallow.’ Helen felt for his pulse, leaving sticky red fingerprints on his skin. His heartbeat skittered underneath her fingertips. ‘And his pulse is irregular.’
    ‘We’ll need some blood. Telephone down to—’
    ‘I’ve already got it.’ Helen nodded to Kowalski, who hurried off to prepare it.
    ‘How . . .?’ She saw Dr McKay’s expression change behind his surgical mask. She could see he didn’t know whether to be angry that she’d defied his orders, or grateful that she had anticipated his needs. In the end, neither won. ‘I’ll give him a shot of Vasopressin, while his blood pressure is still up to it. Then we’ll pack the wound and get him down to Theatre. They can sort him out from there,’ he said shortly.
    While Dr McKay administered the drug and packed the wound with Vaseline-soaked gauze, Helen set to work in the adjoining room, filling hot-water bottles and preparing blankets to keep the patient warm and prevent him from going into shock.
    Fifteen minutes later, the young man was on his way down to Theatre, and Helen and Dr McKay were alone in the Cleansing Room.
    She cast a quick sideways look at him as he scrubbed his fingers in the sink. His surgical gown was smeared with blood, but Helen knew that was nothing to how she looked herself. Her own white gown was soaked through.
    He didn’t say a word to her, or even acknowledge her presence. But he didn’t have to. Helen knew she’d proved her worth in that operating room.
    Whatever happened, she would make Dr McKay eat his words.

Chapter Six
    THE NEW PATIENT arrived on Blake ward in the middle of the morning. By midday he was awake and letting everyone else know it.
    Frannie could hear his voice ringing the full length of the Male Orthopaedic ward as she did her rounds after lunch.
    ‘You don’t understand, I need to know!’ the young man roared from behind the screens around his bed. ‘Why won’t someone tell me what’s happened to him?’
    ‘Someone’s in a good mood,’ Mr Anderson, an arthritic patient, remarked with a grin.
    ‘Indeed.’ Frannie picked up his chart from the end of the bed. ‘Now, Mr Anderson, Nurse tells me you weren’t satisfied with your meal?’
    ‘Oh, it was right enough. There just wasn’t a lot of it.’
    ‘That’s because you need to lose weight.’
    ‘But I’m starving!’
    Frannie looked at the man, his bulk almost filling the narrow hospital bed. Starving wasn’t a word she would ever use to describe Freddie Anderson. ‘It’s for your own good, Mr Anderson. You’re putting too much strain on those joints, and it isn’t helping your arthritis.’
    ‘I know that, Sister. But have a heart. A fellow like me can’t live on that rabbit food you dish out. A nice steak and kidney pud, that’s what I fancy.’ He smacked his lips.
    ‘I’m sure you do, Mr Anderson, but I’m afraid I can’t allow it. Doctor’s orders.’
    ‘Couldn’t I at least have a biscuit or something? Just to see me through till teatime?’
    Frannie looked at his round, appealing face,