Before they went in, though, they waited for a few seconds, listening. The clinic was still silent, except for the soft persistent beeping of Natasha Kerwin’s monitor. Not even the padding of feet on the carpeted floors. ‘OK, let’s do it,’ said Michael, and they entered the room, closing the door behind them, and approached the bed. Natasha Kerwin was lying on her back, sleeping, with two oxygen tubes up her nostrils. She looked deathly pale, and she felt so cold when Michael touched her arm that he could have believed she was dead already. Yet her chest rose and fell, and the monitor indicated that her heart was beating steadily and that her blood-pressure was 90 over 60, which was low, but not life-threatening, although Michael had no idea how he knew that. With a sticky crackle, he peeled off the pad on her chest, which connected her to the monitor. Then he carefully extracted the oxygen tubes from her nostrils, lifting them over her head. ‘What about this pee thing?’ asked Lloyd.
