its windows.
The sign outside said No Guns Allowed . It also said that Saturday was for emergencies only. A Kevlar-jacketed security guard checked Clares bag for weapons and patted her down.
She pushed the door open. The waiting room was packed. Friday night in Hangberg produced more than its fair share of emergencies. Women looking worse for a nights marital wear andtear, coughing children slumped against their grandmothers, fishermen with bandaged hands, boys in hoodies leaning their bandaged, bloody heads against the wall.
There was a scrum of people at Reception.
I need to see the head sister, Clare demanded.
So does everybody, said the receptionist, looking up at Clare. She scanned her hair, her clothes, her authority. Then she said, Let me call thesister for you.
Can I help? The nurse was immaculate in her white uniform. A plump, pretty face; tired eyes.
I need to know something: is this one of yours? Clare said, holding out the patched-together clinic card to the nurse.
It is, said the nurse impatiently. As you can see, we are short-staffed and busy.
Like the police, said Clare. But please, I need to know who it belongs to. The nameis smudged.
A ripple of silence was spreading out from where Clare stood. This was not a community that shared its secrets with outsiders. The nurses glance shifted to the watching patients, then back to Clare.
Sorry, I dont have the time now, she said.
This wont take long, Sister. Clare proffered her ID, and the nurse capitulated.
Come through, then.
She followed the nurse into an officethat doubled as an examining room. A raised bed, steel instruments, a light, lubricant, an empty box of tissues, posters about breastfeeding.
Right, Dr Hart, said the nurse. What do you need to know?
I want to know whose card this is, said Clare.
Patient information is confidential, Dr Hart, said the sister. Do you have a warrant?
No, said Clare. But a young woman has gone missing. This wasfound in a cottage on an estate near Judas Peak. Looked like people had been smoking tik there. Im hoping it was someone who can help us with the enquiry.
The gangsters dont come in here much, said the nurse. If they need attention, they go private so theres no record.
Please take a look at the card, said Clare.
The nurse scrutinised it.
This is an antenatal card. She held the card up to thelight. DesRay Daniels. Fifteen years old, weight fifty kilos, third trimester.
When last was she here? asked Clare.
Her last appointment was Friday. Yesterday. She rifled through a drawer, pulled out a file. Shes due in a month, said the nurse.
And the father, said Clare. Do you know him?
Not personally, no, but I see a version of him every day. She ran a finger down the notes and said: Theside effects of pregnancy. Nausea and tiredness: yes; black eyes and split lips: no. Two of DesRays visits have been because of assault. She pushed the notes over to Clare.
Do you know his name? asked Clare.
No, said the sister. But I can tell you where DesRay lives. Her chance of surviving will be much higher if hes in jail.
Clare stepped out of the clinic. The boy sitting on the pavementwatched as she walked by. She could feel his eyes on her, two knives in her back. A dog with swollen dugs was scavenging in the gutter next to Clares car. The boy picked up a stone and aimed it at the bitchs scrawny flank. The animal howled, then disappeared among the crowded houses. The raw sensation in Clares stomach was way beyond morning sickness. She started the car and drove up the steep cobbledstreet. Past the crèche, past the barricaded sports centre and the Anglican Church to where Vulcan Close petered out into a footpath that ascended the contour of the mountain. Number twenty-six was the last house, but there were no signs of life when Clare knocked on the door. She could feel eyes watching her from behind shabby lace curtains that hung in all the windows on the desolate crescent.At the Danielss house, someone had planted a
The sign outside said No Guns Allowed . It also said that Saturday was for emergencies only. A Kevlar-jacketed security guard checked Clares bag for weapons and patted her down.
She pushed the door open. The waiting room was packed. Friday night in Hangberg produced more than its fair share of emergencies. Women looking worse for a nights marital wear andtear, coughing children slumped against their grandmothers, fishermen with bandaged hands, boys in hoodies leaning their bandaged, bloody heads against the wall.
There was a scrum of people at Reception.
I need to see the head sister, Clare demanded.
So does everybody, said the receptionist, looking up at Clare. She scanned her hair, her clothes, her authority. Then she said, Let me call thesister for you.
Can I help? The nurse was immaculate in her white uniform. A plump, pretty face; tired eyes.
I need to know something: is this one of yours? Clare said, holding out the patched-together clinic card to the nurse.
It is, said the nurse impatiently. As you can see, we are short-staffed and busy.
Like the police, said Clare. But please, I need to know who it belongs to. The nameis smudged.
A ripple of silence was spreading out from where Clare stood. This was not a community that shared its secrets with outsiders. The nurses glance shifted to the watching patients, then back to Clare.
Sorry, I dont have the time now, she said.
This wont take long, Sister. Clare proffered her ID, and the nurse capitulated.
Come through, then.
She followed the nurse into an officethat doubled as an examining room. A raised bed, steel instruments, a light, lubricant, an empty box of tissues, posters about breastfeeding.
Right, Dr Hart, said the nurse. What do you need to know?
I want to know whose card this is, said Clare.
Patient information is confidential, Dr Hart, said the sister. Do you have a warrant?
No, said Clare. But a young woman has gone missing. This wasfound in a cottage on an estate near Judas Peak. Looked like people had been smoking tik there. Im hoping it was someone who can help us with the enquiry.
The gangsters dont come in here much, said the nurse. If they need attention, they go private so theres no record.
Please take a look at the card, said Clare.
The nurse scrutinised it.
This is an antenatal card. She held the card up to thelight. DesRay Daniels. Fifteen years old, weight fifty kilos, third trimester.
When last was she here? asked Clare.
Her last appointment was Friday. Yesterday. She rifled through a drawer, pulled out a file. Shes due in a month, said the nurse.
And the father, said Clare. Do you know him?
Not personally, no, but I see a version of him every day. She ran a finger down the notes and said: Theside effects of pregnancy. Nausea and tiredness: yes; black eyes and split lips: no. Two of DesRays visits have been because of assault. She pushed the notes over to Clare.
Do you know his name? asked Clare.
No, said the sister. But I can tell you where DesRay lives. Her chance of surviving will be much higher if hes in jail.
Clare stepped out of the clinic. The boy sitting on the pavementwatched as she walked by. She could feel his eyes on her, two knives in her back. A dog with swollen dugs was scavenging in the gutter next to Clares car. The boy picked up a stone and aimed it at the bitchs scrawny flank. The animal howled, then disappeared among the crowded houses. The raw sensation in Clares stomach was way beyond morning sickness. She started the car and drove up the steep cobbledstreet. Past the crèche, past the barricaded sports centre and the Anglican Church to where Vulcan Close petered out into a footpath that ascended the contour of the mountain. Number twenty-six was the last house, but there were no signs of life when Clare knocked on the door. She could feel eyes watching her from behind shabby lace curtains that hung in all the windows on the desolate crescent.At the Danielss house, someone had planted a
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