Four years can hold a treasure chest of happenings and usually in tragedies the treasure chest is full of dog shit or aubergines or something of that kind.


Come on over and look through this window. The air out here is cold, and black with the darkness of a moonless night, but it's warm and bright in there and there's something unusual going on. Press your nose up against the glass (but make sure not to breathe because condensation makes everyone blind) and open your ears.

A young woman with blood staining one side of her face is running along a corridor, her hair flying behind her like it's trying to keep up. That's my son, she's screaming, that's my son, let me though let me though that's my son. She pushes past the people who stand about in the corridors, she runs and runs and the light from the strip lights moves liquidly over her.

Further along the corridor medical staff are wheeling a stretcher, and lying on it are dungarees with a small person inside. Heads turn as the collection of scrub-clad people race along the hospital as if they were late, late, for a very important date, with no time to say hello, goodbye; or even time to pay attention to the screaming young woman behind them as she trips over her own feet and falls face first into the lino. That's my son that's my son that's my son, she shouts, and she pauses to scream into the floor before standing up again, running on, trying to catch up.

The stretcher meets officious looking swing doors and is pushed through them. A tall young man appears and starts shouting things, pointing and ordering and frowning down at the child on the stretcher, pressing and poking and questioning, can you hear me can you hear me.

They sweep through into the darkened corridor beyond. The doors are falling closed behind them and the young woman screams no, no, no, reaches out, runs as fast as she can. That's my son that's my son-

The doors swing closed and click and she slams against them and screams and rams her fist against the windows and presses the 'press this if doors are locked' but nobody comes back to open them again and she can see the retreating party as they move down the corridor behind the door. The doors are locked and she's pressing and pressing and shouting and screaming but nothing, nothing, they don't move. Let me in let me in let me in-

Excuse me madam, a voice says from behind her, and the woman turns around with wide, desperate eyes; excuse me madam but nobody can enter the operating room during procedure-

That's my son; and she hardly knows what she's saying anymore. The words flood out of her mouth with no meaning behind them, only terror and terror and terror. That's my son, oh God, oh God-

Come with me, madam, the nurse says, and holds out her hand. But the woman turns back to the door. She rams her fist against it, presses the button again and again, shouts, rattles the handle. More scrub-clad people appear and suddenly there are innumerable restraining arms around the woman and she is being pulled away.

Let's get you to the A & E, madam, you need some blankets or hot chocolate or something-

Let me go let me go that's my son-


She's being pulled away but there's nothing stopping us. Follow me, through the locked doors and along the dim dark corridor towards the operating theatre. Our footsteps are echoing along the hallway, resounding around in the emptiness. Open the door to the theatre. The lights are bright and stark and a tall young man with bronze hair says pass the cotton wool, please, thank you, keep an eye on those stats.


That's my son that's my son-