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seven, but there was a severe shortage of experienced theatre nurses and at the last moment, she had been asked to assist Professor Tankerley with a postmortem in the mortuary. It was not a duty she cared for, but it had to be done.
    In the preparation room, she quickly pulled a fresh white gown over her habit and adjusted her cowl, checking herself in the mirror. She was twenty-three and slightly built with a grave, steady face. One of those plain faces that, for some reason, most people found themselves looking at twice. Only the eyes betrayed her, full of a kind of restless searching that showed that any visible repose had to be fought for.
    When she went into surgery, Tankerley was already there, a small intense man in a white gown that, from its condition, had already seen considerable service. There was no one else there except for the corpse under a sheet.
    Tankerley pulled on rubber gloves impatiently. ‘Do get a move on, Sister. I've got a ward round in an hour.’
    He was three years past the retirement age, had only stayed on because of the war; a fine surgeon and convinced atheist who had little time for nuns at the best of times and certainly not in hospital.
    An assortment of surgical instruments was laid out on a trolley beside the operating table. Sister Maria pulled the sheet away and folded it neatly. The body was that of a middleaged man who had obviously been in remarkably good condition, with powerful shoulders and strong, muscular arms. The eyes were closed, the face peaceful.
    ‘The general staff shortage being as bad as ever and no shorthand writer available, I'm going to have to do the report from memory later,’ Tankerley told her. ‘He was found on the pavement near a bus stop in Lime Street at five-thirty. Age around fifty, good physical condition, no evidence of external bruising, so obviously not the victim of an assault. What would your diagnosis be, Sister?’
    ‘Coronary?’ she said.
    ‘Yes, I'd go along with that. Everything fits, including the age, so in the circumstances, we'll dispense with the whole works and go straight for the heart.’
    He held out his hand. She passed him a large scalpel and he opened the body from throat to belly with one practised stroke. A living patient was different but this was something she had always found difficult to take. She swallowed hard as Tankerley started to break the ribs with a pair of large cutters.
    ‘Raw meat, Sister.’ He was, as usual, unable to resist taunting her. ‘That's all there is to a man at the end of the day. Where's your God now?’
    She passed him a small scalpel. ‘A superior piece of engineering. Totally functional. There seems to be no task a human being is not capable of, wouldn't you agree?’
    ‘Except learning how to live for ever.’
    ‘No, but it is people at their most extraordinary I am interested in,’ she said. ‘Is that all that's left, a body on a mortuary slab? I don't think so. Christ, Professor, was once only a man dying on a cross. Two thousand years later he is a visible presence to millions.’
    He glanced up and halfsmiled in grudging admiration. ‘Oh, you have a way with the words, I'll say that for you.’
    And then, as the first stock of bombs fell across the docks, there was an explosion close at hand. The whole building shook, there was the crash of breaking glass. The lights dimmed for a moment and, somewhere, a woman screamed in fear.
    ‘They certainly pick their time,’ Tankerley said. ‘On your way, Sister. They'll be needing you in Casualty. I'll finish up here on my own.’
    As she reached the door, another stick of bombs dropped across the docks. The steel instruments rattled on the tray as the building shook again. Tankerley reached for another scalpel and continued with his task while Sister Maria wrenched open the door and hurried out.
    There was a tremendous hubbub in Casualty, people running up and down the corridor and a smell of burning. The bombing had stopped and Maria