No Escape by Josephine Bell

left?”
    â€œNo. I couldn’t get away to the ward till after lunch-time.”
    â€œNor me. She was out of the place, baggage and all, before ten, Sister told me. Taxi to Paddington. She’ll be home by now, but I bet we don’t hear from her again, any more than this chap.”
    He tapped the envelope under Jane’s arm.
    â€œI almost hope we don’t,” Jane said. “Except—”
    She was going to tell him about the film, which she would have to send on, somehow, but she checked herself. Forgetting it the way she had made her look such a fool. She did not want Tim to think her totally inefficient.
    â€œExcept what?” he asked, looking at her curiously.
    â€œNothing.”
    All the time they were talking they had been moving along corridors and down stairs in the direction of the front hall of the hospital. Now it was in sight, just ahead, and they both stopped.
    â€œI’ll just see if he’s still in the hospital,” Jane said. “If not I’ll give this to Simpson.”
    The head porter, she knew, would see that the package reached the surgeon somehow.
    â€œO.K.,” Tim answered. “Be seeing you.”
    He turned away, feeling a little disappointed that the conversation had come to an end. A nice girl, he decided, not wildly exciting, not madly beautiful, but someone you could talk to without wondering what she thought of you and whether you were making an ass of yourself.
    Jane continued on her way to the front hall. Mr Beech-Thomas was ‘In’, the consultants’ board told her.
    â€œHe really is, do you think?” she asked Simpson.
    â€œMr Thomas never forgets to clock out,” the latter told her, reprovingly. “Some of the others, I have to do it for them. Not him.”
    â€œHave you any idea where he’ll be?” she asked, wearily.
    â€œAs a rule at this time he’s in the theatre this day of the week.”
    â€œI’ve been there. He’s finished.”
    â€œHe don’t take tea. Is it that emergency admission, miss? Name of Parker?”
    â€œYes, it is.”
    â€œThen I should say Mr Thomas is having another look at him. Proper upset he was. And no wonder. Silly ba—”
    Simpson swallowed the epithet. Jane smiled.
    â€œI agree,” she said. “Which ward?”
    â€œVictoria, miss.”
    â€œThank you very much.”
    Simpson nodded genially and leaned forward through the window of his office.
    â€œWhat can I do for you, sir?” he asked, politely.
    Jane, who was moving away, looked round. There was no mistaking the plastered locks, the fuzzy beard, the dirty sweater, the greasy corduroy trousers and broken-down suede shoes. It was the so-called artist who had spoken to her after the party last night.
    She was so astonished that she stopped and he recognised her.
    â€œIt was you I came to see,” he said, moving forward eagerly.
    â€œOh? Why?”
    Feeling Simpson’s astonished gaze burning into this recognition, Jane flushed angrily.
    â€œHas she gone? Oh, say she hasn’t gone!”
    â€œIf you mean Sheila Burgess, of course she’s gone. Early this morning.”
    â€œDid you see her? Was she all right when she left?”
    â€œI didn’t see her. I couldn’t. We were too busy in the department. Sister could tell you if you go up to Alexandra Ward.”
    â€œNo,” he said. “Pointless. Too late. Oh, God !”
    He turned and stumbling a little, went out through the big doors and down the steps, leaving Jane staring after him.
    â€œBeatnik,” said the head porter, with pursed lips. “Screw loose, I should say. Friend of yours, miss?”
    It was said politely, but Jane felt it as an insult.
    â€œCertainly not. I met him, or rather he spoke to me for the first time, last night”
    â€œYou want to be careful,” Simpson advised. “The types that get around these days. Not fit to be on the