Sunniva Rød ran up the last few steps and hung her coat in her locker. She took out her uniform and heaved a sigh as she put it on. She had worked at the hospice for almost eight years, and, to begin with, she had found it quite appealing, the tight-fitting, old-fashioned uniform, but by now she was fed up. And not just with the uniform but also with her job.
Sunniva sighed again, and went to the staff room to make herself a cup of coffee.
Fiji.
Azure sea, palm trees and freedom.
They had been saving up for almost a year, and she had been so excited about it. All last winter, nothing but cold and darkness, no time off; they had even gone without a summer holiday and she had taken all the extra shifts she could get, but she had not minded because the following January they would be going to paradise. For a whole month.
And then the bastard had done it again. Gambled away their money. Got drunk and lost everything. Again. But this time she had had enough. She truly loved Curry, no doubt about it, but she could not live like this.
No. It was the last straw. She had thrown him out, and now she felt only relief. The flat belonged to her. Her father had given them the money some years ago when they decided to move in together. And now it was all hers. She felt free.
Sunniva took her cup of coffee from the staff room and joined her colleagues for the morning briefing. The night shift had finished, the day shift was about to take over, and everyone would be updated on the previous night’s events. St Helena’s Hospice was where the very old came to spend their last days, weeks or months, and it was generally an uneventful place. A doctor would visit. There might be a change of medication.
After the morning briefing she treated herself to a second cup of coffee before starting her round. She needed it. Because Torvald Sund was on her list today.
The mad vicar.
There was something about the old man and the darkness in his eyes which gave her the creeps.
Sunniva put on a smile and took his breakfast tray into his room. Luckily, the vicar was asleep, so she set it down on the bedside table. A salmon and caper sandwich. Camomile tea with honey and a glass of orange juice. They knew how to look after their patients at St Helena’s.
Sunniva was about to leave when the vicar suddenly opened his eyes.
‘I won’t get into Heaven!’ the old man exclaimed, staring at her.
‘Of course you will.’ She smiled.
‘No. I’ve sinned.’
The old man looked distressed.
‘Oh, God, forgive me. Oh, Father, I didn’t know, I didn’t know. Please let me atone for my sins.’
The man raised his scrawny arms up in the air and was practically crying out to the ceiling.
‘Why does no one listen?’
According to his drugs chart, the vicar received three dosages each of 10mg of diazepam and 0.5mg of morphine every day, which were administered intravenously. Sunniva checked the IV and discovered that it was empty. The night shift had failed to top up his medication. She shook her head with mild irritation and removed the bag from the stand.
‘No,’ the old man protested.
Sunniva looked down at him.
‘No, no,’ the vicar said again, pointing a crooked finger at the bag in her hand.
It took a few seconds before she realized what he was trying to say.
‘You don’t want your medication?’
The old man shook his head and pointed to a book on his bedside table.
‘The Bible? Would you like me to read to you?’
The vicar shook his head and looked at her with eyes that seemed more lucid now.
Then he mumbled that he wanted her to open the cupboard in his bedside table.
She reattached the IV bag to the stand, walked around the bed, knelt down by the bedside table and opened it. There was an old newspaper inside.
‘This one?’
The old man nodded. He was smiling faintly now.
‘Her,’ he said, pointing.
‘Who?’ Sunniva said.
‘The children are burning,’ the vicar whispered, his gaze no longer so lucid.
‘Torvald?’ Sunniva said, placing her hand on his forehead. It was very hot.
‘Torvald?’
No response.
The old man was no longer awake; his eyelids slowly closed and the crooked finger which had pointed to the newspaper hung limply beside the bed.
Sunniva Rød put the newspaper back where she had found it, tucked the old man in, went to the drug cupboard to fetch a fresh IV bag and hooked it up to the frail, wrinkled hand. She checked that the old man was sound asleep, softly closed the door behind her and continued her morning round.