Stevie matched her pace, keeping an arm’s length between them. A glow of resentment surrounded the other woman, like a radiation field it would be unwise to enter. Two stretcher-laden trolleys, each with a porter at their head, exited a lift at the end of the corridor and trundled towards them. Nurse Webb hurried on, neatly negotiating the procession, but Stevie felt the same panic that sometimes overtook her at the sound of a siren when she was driving through crowded traffic. She stepped to one side, flattening herself against the wall, and let them pass. A woman of about her age lay motionless beneath a white sheet on the first trolley. The woman’s blonde hair was cut in a neat asymmetrical bob. Her lips were cracked and pale, her eyelids tinged with blue. The woman’s eyebrows were dark. Stevie caught herself noting the detail and thinking that the contrast in colours was too much. She censored the thought almost as it occurred, but she saw a blur of lipstick smeared on the woman’s mouth, mascara crusting her eyelashes, and realised that, earlier that morning, the woman had been well enough to examine her own features in the mirror and apply her make-up.
