At the top of the staircase, the chairlift sat empty. The small landing light was on, throwing a weak yellow pool across the carpet.
And in it was Gloria, on the floor, half on her side, one arm bent awkwardly beneath her. Her nightdress was soaked through, clinging to her thighs and stomach. Beside her, a glass lay shattered, the smell of something sweet and sharp—juice, maybe—spreading across the carpet in a dark, glistening stain.
Gloria’s face was pinched with pain and fury. Her eyes snapped to Sloan the moment she saw her, bright with accusation.
“Oh,” Gloria hissed, voice perfectly clear despite the tremor in it, “so you do come home.”
Sloan’s expression drained of everything except shock. “Mum! What have you done?”
Gloria tried to push herself up and immediately winced, sucking in a breath. “I got a drink,” she snapped, as if that explained everything, “because I wasn’t going to lie there like a corpse, waiting for you to remember I exist.”
Matty swallowed hard, already scanning—where the glass had been, how she’d fallen, whether she’d hit her head.
Sloan took one step forward, then stopped, like she was afraid of making it worse.
“Don’t move,” Matty said, voice tight. “Nobody move.” Her eyes flicked to the shards on the carpet. “And you.” She pointed to Sloan’s bare feet. “Watch the glass.”
Gloria’s laugh was short and bitter. “What areyoudoing here?”
Matty crouched carefully at the edge of the spill, keeping her voice calm and ignoring the barbed jibes. “Mrs S, can you tell me where it hurts?”
Gloria’s eyes flicked to her, and something complicated flashed there—a mix of annoyance, embarrassment, and the faintest edge of relief.
“My hip,” Gloria said through clenched teeth. “And my dignity, if you must know.”
Sloan’s jaw clenched. Her gaze darted over the chairlift, the broken glass, and the soaked nightdress. “Why didn’t you wait?” she demanded, but the words trembled.
Gloria’s chin lifted, stubborn even on the floor. “Because I’m not a child.”
Matty met Sloan’s eyes over Gloria’s body—one silent message:‘We deal with this first.’
Sloan nodded once, hard, then reached for her phone with fingers that weren’t quite steady. “I’m calling 999.”
Gloria’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare.”
Sloan’s voice dropped, all the softness gone. “Watch me.”
Chapter twenty-eight
Sloan paced the corridor for the third time, all sharp edges and contained agitation. The place was chaos—voices overlapping, phones ringing, the constant shuffle of trolleys and hurried footsteps. Somewhere deeper in A&E, someone shouted for a porter. Closer by, a child cried until they were hoarse.
Gloria lay on a trolley, her nightdress swapped for a thin gown that covered nothing properly. Her hair had been hastily brushed back, but it still looked slept in. She stared at the ceiling as if personally offended by it.
“This is ridiculous,” Sloan said, voice clipped. “She’s been here an hour.”
Matty stood at the foot of the trolley, arms folded, watching the flow of staff with the same practised patience she used behind a bar when the queue was six deep, and someone still wanted to complain about too much ice.
A nurse hurried past, ponytail bouncing, a stack of notes hugged to her chest. She didn’t stop.
Sloan stepped into the walkway. “Excuse me.”
The nurse slowed and turned around, eyes already apologetic. “I’m so sorry, love, it’s manic tonight. There’s been a crash on the motorway. We’re short-staffed and we’ve got ambulances queuing.”
“My mother is lying in a corridor,” Sloan said, each word precise, “in a gown that barely covers her. She’s in pain. She deserves to be treated properly.”
Gloria snorted. “Oh, don’t start. I’m not dying.”
Sloan didn’t look at her. Her focus stayed on the nurse, staring her down as if she could coerce the entire system into behaving properly through sheer force of will.
