​​

Roisín had to admit she was kind of impressed. It seemed the celebrity party was moving towards her, Tara and Kit in slow motion, taking huge, drawn-out strides, like in a film or a music video. Patients and staff alike stood watching them go by in awe, staring at them with barely hidden adoration. For a moment, Roisín understood why people attributed God-like qualities to the members of this band. They appeared to be surrounded by a kind of vibe, an aura or so. She found that she, too, almost held her breath as the three men, preceded by Shades’s wife with the two guards, drew closer. Annoyed with herself, she shook her head briefly.

Come on, girl, she told herself. Be professional.

She glanced at Kit and Tara: Kit looked positively misty-eyed and even Tara, who usually kept a cool head, seemed a little impressed by their visitors. Well, if they were all going to be starstruck.

The group of people came to a standstill in front of Roisín, Tara and Kit. Roisín took the lead, holding out her hand towards the guitarist’s wife.

‘I’m Dr. Roisín Brady, specialist registrar in neurology’, she said in her most professional voice, she hoped.

The woman took her hand and shook it limply. She was petite, and pretty, with fine, long, dark blonde hair immaculately styled. Her green-brown eyes were red and swollen, her face blotched from crying. She looked a bundle of nerves.

‘Karen Renfrew’, she said quietly. She waited a couple of seconds, building up courage.

‘How is he?’, she managed at last, fixing her blue eyes, wide with worry and fear, on Roisín.

‘He’s alive’, Roisín said. ‘He’s stable.’

There was silence for a moment. None of the other musicians spoke.

‘That’s... that’s good, isn’t it? Stable is good?’

She sounded so hopeful, it made Roisín feel really sorry for her.

‘It’s good for now, but there are things we are worried about’, she said carefully.

‘What are those then?’

Roisín exchanged a glance with Tara. Kit was still dumbstruck, gazing at one of the three band members in particular, Roisín noticed. A short, stocky guy with slicked-back dark hair and oval sunglasses that gave him the look of a fly. He was the singer, that much she knew. She turned her attention back to Karen.

‘Let’s go in there so we can talk’, she said, motioning towards a small office just along the corridor.

Karen insisted that the band members should stay with her, so the whole bunch filed into the tiny office. Roisín could just prevent Kit from slipping in as well, giving her a firm look.

‘Get a grip, Kit’, she hissed.

‘But that’s Echo...’, Kit protested glassy-eyed.

‘I don’t care if he’s the pope. Go sit in an ice bucket or something.’