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The alarm stops abruptly.
‘Martini,’ I say, my voice loud in the sudden silence.
The nurse doesn’t even look up. If Lottie’s name means anything to her, she gives no sign. ‘Any allergies?’ she asks. ‘Penicillin, anything like that?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No allergies.’
She asks for details of Lottie’s vaccinations, how long she’s been sick, when she last ate. Has she visited a farm in the last two weeks? Been exposed to any chemicals? Travelled to sub-Saharan Africa?
I answer every question, trying to conceal my mounting frustration.
‘When can I see my daughter?’ I say, finally.
‘The doctor will come through and update you soon.’
Order has finally been restored in the waiting room and the two young men are now sitting on opposite sides of it, glowering at each other. I take a seat as the nurse suggests, but I’m soon back on my feet again, pacing the corridor. My little girl is fighting for her life in there and I’ve no idea what’s going on.
My mobile rings.
‘No phones in here,’ the receptionist says, from across the room.
I pull out my mobile to silence it. Quinn’s name is on the screen. A text message.
Only a few words are visible:Call me ASAP! Flora …
But before I can tap through to the full message, I hear someone call my name.
Two uniformed policemen are coming towards me. Leading the way is the nurse in yellow scrubs who took down Lottie’s details.
So, shedidrecognise the name, then.
‘Mrs Martini?’ one of the policemen says again. ‘We’d like a word.’
And then I read Quinn’s text.
