So - here we are, brand new shiny chapter, a chapter that I really enjoyed writing and I hope that translates when you read it. I'm so thrilled about all reviews I've had from you, especially all the ones about how my very delayed chapter 6 was worth the wait. It means so much - and I write for you guys to read so if you're all enjoying it, then that's all that matters.

I hope you like this chapter, I do but then I biased! It's got a bit of angst and troubles for Turnadette, but persevere - things can only get better in the words of D:Ream!

Enjoy

"Morning Mel, I hear you've got a Jane Doe for me. Mugged on the Powell Estate last night?"

"Oh morning Peter, yeah – she's been pretty badly beaten up, some real bastard laid into her. Poor girl, someone else in the building rang it in, recognised her but didn't know her name or where she lived."

"Any driving license or credit cards on her when she was found?"

"What do you think; she was cleaned out, no mobile, no purse, no-nothing. However, there was a work ID in her handbag."

"Oh good – might help."

"Ha, yeah – I think this one might, she works here, in the maternity department!"

"A midwife? What's her name?"

"Don't worry, it's not your missus, ummm it's a Shee-largh, is it, McDonald – know her?"

"Shealgh McDonald? Oh Christ, yeah I know her – she's a lovely girl, right, I'll go on up and tell the girls – give me a bleep when she's fit to give a statement."

"You'll be waiting a while, she's stark out, but she's being transferred up to B2 in a bit – so I'll tell them to grab you when she's fit."

"Thanks Mel, God – I'm not looking forward to this one."

2 days later

Shelagh McDonald was laying in the sun, on a soft grassy hill that cushioned her as the strong hot sun warmed her skin and heated her hair, Boris Yeltsin was smoking a cigarette and dancing with himself, the music was faint but she was sure it was Oasis, Boris walked towards her before sitting beside her and taking her hands in his own. She could smell the tang of tobacco on him, but as he opened his mouth to speak instead of his own deep Russian tones a familiar voice came out instead.

"I'm sorry … so sorry, I shouldn't have been uncertain. Thinking I'd lost you was just as … as heart breaking as losing Clair. I've made a mistake … I'm sorry." Her head felt heavy and her brain ached as she tried to reply to Boris Yeltsin's tender words, "I love you – and I should have told you sooner." she tried so very hard to reply, she tried to tell him that she loved him too, but her head felt as though she had filled her skull with lead and her brain was a water balloon full of custard that stuck and moved in a gelatinous mass. Boris leant down and gently kissed her on the forehead, again she tried to turn to him and speak but still she found that she couldn't. As Boris Yeltsin retreated away from her, across the soft grass that she lay on, she blinked feeling the sun and the grass disappeared and was replaced by cold strip lighting and a white room.

"My soul slides away, but don't look back in anger. Don't look back in anger, I heard you say, at least not today. That was Oasis with Don't look back in anger, released in 1996. Which was a very long time ago – I mean obviously I was but a boy back then, as you all know I'm only 25! This is Ken Bruce on the Ken Bruce show on BBC radio 2 …" Turning her head Shelagh caught sight of the radio in the corner of the room, blinking slowly and turning back to the foot of bed as slowly as she could to not dislodge the custardy-balloon that had replaced her brain, her eyes struggled to focus as they fell on the small figure at the foot of the bed.

"Cynthia?"

"Hello Shelagh, I wasn't sure if you were going to wake up yet."

"Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital, you were mugged three nights back."

"I was in a field …"

"A field?"

"With Boris Yeltsin … he was dancing …"

"Sounds like him! Do you want some water?"

"Mmmm … what happened … when I was attacked …"

"Here you are, take it slowly. No-one really knows what happened to you, apparently it was on the ground floor of the building – someone just beat the hell of you, stole your purse and your phone, it was only because of your work ID that they knew who you were and Peter Noakes came and told us. We've been worried sick! Do you remember anything?"

"Mmm … I remember … I … I got out of the car … and we'd argued …"

"Who'd car, who did you argue with Shelagh?"

"Patrick … Patrick Turner … he wouldn't tell me that he liked me … and I stormed off … I think … and then … I don't know … I don't remember … I don't – don't know … you need to feed Bernadette, promise you'll feed Bernadette."

"I promise, I promise … but I don't understand, what's this about you and Patrick Turner? I mean …" But Shelagh had already fallen back asleep, her breaths deepened and evened out and somewhat confused Cynthia stood up and slowly walked upstairs to the Maternity department, her head spinning, was this just the painkillers and concussion – like the dancing Boris Yeltsin, was she actually having a relationship with Dr Turner? Reaching the maternity ward, Cynthia quickly slipped in through the main doors and took a minute to survey the ward. Trixie was writing up a patient's name on a wipe clean board outside a birthing room, while Jenny was bent down fishing through a set of storage drawers.

"Jenny, Trixie – come here a second."

"Cynthia? What's up?" Asked Jenny, picking up her collection of equipmen, and pushing them into the pocket of her tunic she wondered over to Cynthia.

"You call Baby girl – what can I do for you?"

"I just saw Shelagh, she's fine before you ask, still out of it and no-idea what happened to her. But then … she started to say these things and I don't know if she was just concussed and spouting nonsense or …"

"Come on Cynthia, what is it?"

"It's …" Casting a quick look around again, she dropped her voice slightly, "She was saying what she remembered from that night, she said she remembered being dropped off in a car after she'd had an argument and that was it …"

"Who'd she have an argument with baby girl?" asked Trixie leaning in closer to the pair.

"That's just it, she said it was Dr Turner, she called him Patrick, and said that they'd had an argument because he wouldn't tell her how he felt about her … I mean – what do you think?"

"That can't be true, she must have just been dreaming and confused, who knew Shelagh was having such kinky dreams! … I mean Dr Turner's great but he's not exactly the type to be having an illicit affair with a midwife is he."

"Mmhm – but, let me say this to you, two month back Shelagh asked me what I would do if I were in love with a man who was still in love with an ex … so – I gotta lady in 5 who needs me, but I'll leave that info with you two girls and let you make up your own mind!" With a raised eyebrow, Trixie turned on her heel and stepped back into room 5 where her lady in labour awaited. Exchanging a glance with each other, Jenny and Cynthia both leant back to peer into the staff room where Dr Turner was absentmindedly stirring a cup of tea despite the fact that it had cooled so much that the mug was no-longer steaming. He carried on stirring regardless and watching nothing out of the window, exchanging a glance between them the pair of midwives stood up and walked over to the nurses station.

"So – what do you think, I mean there's definitely something on his mind, he's not usually that distant and distracted."

"You know he's been out for about 10 cigarette breaks this morning, he barely makes time for one normally … you don't think … do you?"

"Oh I don't know Jenny, I mean it doesn't seem likely, she's so quiet, she just spends time at home singing, baking and talking to Bernadette."

"Well he's hardly a social chameleon is he, maybe they're perfect for one another!"

Shelagh closed the front door and gave a sigh of relief, once she had come round they had let her go fairly soon, aside from a few bruises and a total of 32 stitches around her body from, what the police thought was a cricket bat. The painkillers meant that she was, at least for now not in agony, and so she stepped into the kitchen and found a note from Cynthia.

Hey –

I've bought you eggs, cheese, ham, bread and milk, so you're good for omelettes and tea, I've been feeding Bernadette and gave her lots of strokes and fuss so she's much more chilled now after you went AWOL!

Speak soon – we're all worried about you

Cynthia xxxx

She smiled and refolded the note, putting it back on the table she clicked on the kettle and wondered into the living room, it had been six nights since she had last walked into her building but it felt like six months, Bernadette had heard someone walk into the flat and came running out of the bedroom to see who it was, clearly delighted by who she found she began to purr wildly and wind her way around Shelagh's ankles.

"Hello lovely girl, how have you been? Sorry about that – I didn't mean to spend so long away." Stiffly she bent down and picked up the cat who decided that forcing her head into Shelagh's chin violently was the best course of action. Slowly on her stiff legs, she returned to the kitchen and having torn up some of Cynthia's ham onto a plate, and decanted a bowl of milk she made her way into the living room again, leaving Bernadette to enjoy her treat next to her on the floor, she sorted through her post – finding a selection of bills, a letter from the bank, a post card from a uncle on holiday in Tunisia that was sweet but fairly standard in terms of content – he was sun burnt, his wife was sun burnt, they had drunk too much and were enjoying the hotel, and finally a letter, addressed only to her, but with no address, stamp or postmark. She opened it cautiously as Bernadette, having finished the ham and milk jumped onto the sofa, and curled up on Shelagh's lap.

17th September

Shealgh,

I'm sorry, I have no idea what I should be saying right now. Writing this is like speaking German, I have no-idea how to articulate myself, I know what I feel and what I think but how do I say it, how are you meant to say anything when you don't know what to say.

I'm sorry, firstly for what happened that night, I was stupid, you walked away and then this happened and I'm sorry, so so sorry. But I'm also sorry – because I wasn't honest with you, I was never honest about how much I was still struggling to get over losing Clair, I wasn't honest about how I felt about you. And I'm afraid to say that it took me almost losing you to make me realise that you might not be Clair, but you are Shelagh, you are different and wonderful and fabulous and I love you, and I'm sorry I didn't have the courage or brain to tell you sooner.

Patrick.

The mewling of Bernadette brought Shelagh out of her reverie; she smiled down at the letter and picked up the landline phone, pausing momentarily before ploughing on she dialled the number and waited for the ringing to end.

"Hello?"

"Oh – hello, is that Tim? It's Shelagh."

"Hi Shelagh! How are you?"

"I'll live, nothing too bad – is your Dad about?"

"Umm well he's in the kitchen doing work, so he's a bit busy … Who is Tim?... Shealgh Dad I said you were working … WAIT! I'm coming now – don't hang up… Sorry Shelagh, he's coming now."

"Thanks Tim."

"Shealgh?"

"Patrick, I just got home."

"I wrote to you."

"I know – I read it."

"I don't know if I said too much or not enough."

"I think you said just what I needed to hear."

"I'm glad to hear that … I came to visit you too, when you were out cold."

"I remember – I thought you were Boris Yeltsin."