The Glass Wall by Clare Curzon

supermarket’s tougher bags. She was feeling a fool by then, unused to being at the reception end of heroics.
    â€˜Thank you. You’ve been very kind,’ she said firmly as he reopened the brolly and offered to carry the transferred packages. ‘I’ve no distance to go at all. I can manage now.’
    â€˜I’m sure you can.’ It was said smiling and, suspecting he was amused by her, she nodded coolly and moved away. She felt his eyes following her until the turn of the street, relieved at the nearness of the hospital. She’d likely not ever see him again.
    She left it to Bernice when Keith came in to visit Audrey. He looked terrible, drawn and grey, seeming to have aged overnight.
    â€˜Have they been in yet from Psychiatry?’ he asked before going to the bedside.
    â€˜No,’ Bernice told him. ‘They’ll leave it until she’s up. Luckily we had a free bed, since there’s no single room on offer. It would be cruel to send her to an open ward.’
    â€˜Hello, love,’ he said quietly, leaning over his wife. ‘How’s it going?’
    His shoulders blocked out a view of her face. ‘You gave us all quite a shock.’
    Audrey said nothing. Punishing him still, Alyson thought, trying not to feel anger. There was no further chance to watch events because she was needed at the young OD’s bedside to record his BP Still in coma; the stomach pump had taken out almost all that was left of life in the skinny little body.

    His name, according to a debit card on him, was Eric Allbright, but she doubted it was his own. More likely stolen. The signature on its reverse had been too adult. Suspecting the same, the police had taken it, but left the one crisp, unused note issued from a cash machine. A beat constable had found him overnight among the dustbins on a rundown housing estate. On the whiteboard the name was recorded with a query.
    His heart rate was up a little. Encouraged, she removed the urine bag and labelled it with name and time, for analysis. They might be beating this one after all.
    Bernice made instant coffee for Keith. He sat crouched at Audrey’s bedside with the polystyrene beaker at his feet, the drink going cold. It wouldn’t do much for him, Alyson reflected. Keith’s accepted fix was a double espresso, even sometimes at night. He worked hard over long hours, must be dog-tired when he reached home.
    Which was possibly at the root of Audrey’s complaint. But not my concern, Alyson warned herself, shying away from any image of the Stanfords’ intimate moments. She pulled on fresh latex gloves and went to look for the plastic sack containing the young addict’s vomit-stained clothing. There was still hope of some clue to his background. If she could trace family or friends, a familiar voice might speed his struggle back to consciousness.
    She pulled out the unlovely assortment: string vest, T-shirt, cut-off jeans and a thick, purplish sweater, socks, trainers. Surprisingly good quality, but nothing waterproof, she noticed. Usually derelicts brought in during the winter months had something to keep the weather out. She couldn’t believe he had survived sleeping rough with just this lot. So he belonged somewhere indoors; maybe with a group who would wonder what had become of him.
    There was a tapping on the glass panel of the ward door. Alyson removed her gloves, slid open the blinds and surveyed the young woman waiting outside. Through the intercom she asked for identification.
    In reply a warrant card appeared: Detective Sergeant Rosemary Zyczynski of Thames Valley Police. Pretty and slim, with dark
eyes.
    â€˜Come in,’ Alyson invited. ‘You might be the very person I’m looking for now.’
    â€˜Why? What’s up?’
    She had a warm smile, brown curls cut close, and a hooded anorak in burnt orange. About my own age, Alyson judged. And a sergeant, so – good at her job.
    â€˜Have you