Confessions of a Naughty Night Nurse Read Free Page A

you soon!
    The porter appeared. He was new, a young guy, wide and stocky with hair so short you could see his scalp through it. He had the word
love
tattooed over the knuckles on his right hand.
    ‘You got one for Rose Cottage,’ he grunted, tugging the closed, coffin-style trolley along behind him.
    ‘Yes, sideward six.’
    Luckily Mr Parslow’s skinny body was light, and within a few minutes we were heading out of the ward with him safely ensconced in the metal trolley.
    ‘Hey, Sharon,’ Tinkard called. ‘You may as well go for your break after you’ve done that, it’s just gone midnight.’
    ‘Right you are.’
    The ward door shut with a heavy click and I put some muscle into pushing the trolley along the deserted corridor. As the pace picked up I stared at the lumpy back of the porter’s head and wondered if he was the one who’d found Javier and Iceberg.
    If only I could see into his mind.
    I pondered on whether I should question him. Just come straight out and ask if he’d seen the hottest medical senior house officer since Pompeii’s hospital had got showered in ash, shagging the Wicked Witch of the West where the sun doesn’t shine.
    I thought better of it. My asking alone could become gossip, and I was keen to avoid gossip that included myself. There were too many skeletons in my cupboard, and, for that matter, in clinical rooms, sluices, linen rooms, and in that handy, unused office at the back of the pharmacy. No, I would keep quiet and do my own investigating.
    Stepping out into the night, I was whipped in the face by my hair, the band holding it in a low ponytail no match for the ferocity of the gale. I hunched my shoulders and stooped, trying to shelter my face from the needle-points of rain blasting my cheeks. The sound of the torrent of drips hitting the metal trolley was almost as loud as the wind creaking at the row of oaks leading to Rose Cottage. Their boughs strained and moaned, their leaves hissing in great waves of noise.
    The porter sped up behind the back of the canteen and put considerable energy into pulling. By the time we went past the incinerator and turned the final corner, I found myself jogging along the uneven path.
    Luckily Tom was waiting with the door to Rose Cottage held open.
    We rushed in, the trolley banging over the door-bar and a scurry of leaves whirling around our feet.
    ‘Fucking hell,’ the porter said. ‘It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey out there.’
    Tom shut the door, winked at me, then took hold of my end of the trolley and wheeled it into the bay of body drawers. I trailed along behind, tucking my wind-wild hair back into its ponytail.
    ‘Yeah, good job the VIPs in here don’t care about shitty weather,’ Tom said, stopping at twenty-six C and then opening the trolley’s lid to reveal Mr Parslow’s covered body.
    ‘Bloody hate this part of the job, me,’ the porter said, staring at the shroud-covered lump and shuddering. ‘Don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.’
    ‘You go if you want,’ I said, ‘I’ll help here.’
    He widened his eyes and took a step backwards. ‘Really?’
    ‘Sure, I’ve done it a million times. Doesn’t bother me.’
    ‘Bloody hell, thanks …’ He nibbled on his bottom lip and scanned my coat, as though searching for my name badge.
    ‘Sharon,’ I said. ‘Go, we’ve got this covered and I bet you’ve lots to do.’
    ‘Yeah, I have actually.’ He yanked his sleeves over his hands and strode back to the door.
    Tom followed and I heard him lock it shut, as was standard procedure at Rose Cottage. The NHS couldn’t risk body snatching, that’s why Tom was employed as night security here.
    ‘Poor sod,’ Tom said, wandering back in. ‘Looked white as a sheet, didn’t he?’
    ‘They all do to start with.’
    Tom pulled open the drawer and together we slid Mr Parslow onto the metal; his body, although light, was a dense weight. Tom then pushed the drawer shut and closed the door with a