Four

Hunched at the desk of the paediatric consultant, her face eaten with anxiety, Jeanette briefly thought about her scream when the young doctor had told her. For fifteen months that scream had whirlpooled about her brain, making her feel like she was drowning. Next to her Simon gripped his fists, as if trying to crush the awful memories.

            Dr Bennett, the report in his hands, said in his slow, self-certain voice: ‘These are the hospitals own findings, let us not forget, and they are damning. Short-staffed, equipment missing or not working properly and, most crucially, a doctor who didn’t understand the significance of baby having different oxygen saturations, SATS, in her hand (99%) and her foot (88%). Such a difference is an indicator of coarctation of the aorta, a congenital heart condition.’

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ANGELINE’S FRIEND

Walking through the early morning mist, I remember years ago thinking I was walking on clouds. When the mist was higher it would wrap itself around me pulling me to the old mansion. 

It all started with a dare that I could not refuse: entering the local haunted house. I pulled the board from the entrance and an earthy musty smell raced out, as though it had waited too long to escape, and disappeared into the undergrowth. Opening the entrance further, I caught my first glimpse of the damage inside. Stairs were misshapen, lurching this way and that. Rustling erupted, balls scurried into the depths away from the light. Once inside the dust swirled around my feet and a breeze caressed my cheek like fingers, but I didn’t feel threatened.

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