Free The Children Of The Mist by Jenny Brigalow Page B

competing with glistening silver cutlery and gleaming silver plates. She could hear laughter and happy fluting voices, melodic and cultured. A pale hand reached out, fingers slender, weighted down with jewellery. Most distinctive was a ring in the shape of a bat. And as the glass was raised, Morven realised it was filled with a brilliant red liquid, thicker than water, lighter than wine. Blood. Bright arterial blood. Ruby red.
    Morven sat up. ‘I’m thirsty,’ she said.
    â€˜No fluids,’ said the blue scrubs.
    Hands lifted her carefully and laid her on a trolley. Above were white plaster squares of ceiling, and rows of strip lights. How many lights? She got to four but the trolley took off.Even number though. Could be a good omen. Seconds later her trolley stopped in a small bay. The scrubs came in and checked her pulse. Her mother appeared and held her hand.
    The scrubs lifted her pyjama top and examined her stomach. He prodded her side. ‘Does that hurt?’
    Morven sat bolt upright. ‘Of course it hurts, you piece of pig shit.’
    She heard her mother gasp. ‘Morven, there’s no excuse for rudeness.’
    Morven tended to disagree, but buttoned up her lips. Still, if that moron invaded her privacy again she’d be seriously upset and take a large bite out of him. If she could just have a drink she’d feel better. Her throat was parched. And, to add insult to injury, she had a toothache.
    â€˜Morven, we’re going to get an ultrasound now,’ said the scrubs.
    Morven nodded, but she barely took in what he said. In the distance the harp played, and someone sang in a sweet soprano voice. Around her a forest whispered and leaves rustled. In the dense canopy the raven took to the night sky and called out a warning. She stopped, and listened. For a moment she could hear nothing untoward but then her sharp ears heard stealthy footsteps. A soft cough. And the creak of leather. Someone was in the woods. She breathed deeply and caught the whiff of smoke. Fear sprang into her heart as she spun around and took off for home. A voice rang out. And she knew she must be swift. The sounds were louder now, shouts and yells and excited laughter. Faster she ran, through thickets, streams and brambles. But when she looked over her shoulder, she could still see the flickering torch flames. With a snarl of rage, she pushed on. Home. Sanctuary.
    â€˜Morven, Morven, can you hear me?’
    Morven opened her eyes and looked into her mother’s. ‘Of course I can hear you, Mum, I’m not deaf.’
    Her mother smiled. ‘I’m sorry, you’ve been a bit out of it. They gave you a shot of morphine and it knocked you out cold.’
    Morven felt a flash of panic. She was no longer in the emergency department. She was in a corridor. Ahead was a door, its glass windows smoky. How had that happened? ‘Where am I?’ she demanded.
    Her Mum frowned anxiously down at her. ‘You’re at theatre. I can’t go with you any further.’
    Morven shook her head slowly. ‘But I thought I was going to have an ultrasound.’
    â€˜You did, but you passed out. It’s your appendix. It’s pretty angry.’
    Morven scowled. ‘Me too.’
    A nurse with a ridiculous paper hat covered in nauseating kittens cleared her throat purposefully. ‘I’m sorry, but we have to go.’
    Before Morven could muster a protest, the doors buzzed open and her mother’s anxious face disappeared from view. The clean cool room inside was just like something out of Grey’s Anatomy. The same couldn’t be said for the surgeon, unfortunately. No McDreamy or McSteamy to soften the blow. Morven thought her surgeon looked like a turtle. All skinny neck, wrinkles and baggy eyes. A definite candidate for mercy killing. The anaesthetist was a woman with pale blue eyes and sallow skin. Her whole demeanour was one of resigned boredom. Behind her mask, she