A number of years back, Nancy read a couple of fascinating medical academic articles detailing a procedure whereby a paralysed patient, unable to move apart from a single blinking action, could begin to communicate with medical staff via the use of a letter board.

Nancy can’t ask whether the hospital owns such a letter board, for fear of drawing attention to herself. She can’t discuss her idea with any of the doctors either, because they’re all convinced that Joanne Deacon is brain dead and it suits Nancy for their opinion to remain as such, just for a couple more days.

Firstly, Nancy needs time to coax Jo into relearning the action of blinking so that she can perform it at will. Nancy had witnessed that single blink and this is proof enough that Jo has the capability to repeat the action.

When she gets home after her shift, Nancy feeds Samson, makes herself two slices of buttered toast and a coffee and sits down with her laptop. Samson purrs and rubs against the bottom of her legs. She reaches down and scratches his ears, his warmth and loyal affection slowly easing the tension of the day from her bones.

‘Sorry, buddy, you’ll have to wait for your fuss tonight,’ she says regretfully, booting up the laptop.

She googles ‘letter boards’ and finds a simple and suitable idea that will serve her purpose – at least to begin with.

She has brought home a small sheet of white card she found on the ward desk and now she proceeds to draw a clear, neat grid with the use of a black marker pen and a ruler.

She holds the grid at arm’s length and studies it.

This is it for now.

This is all she can do.

---

The next day, when she gets up to the ward, DI Manvers and two uniformed officers are already in Jo Deacon’s room. She hovers outside the door.

‘Dr Chance is in there with them,’ another nurse tells her, with only mild interest. ‘They want to question a patient in a vegetative state, how crazy is that?’

‘I suppose they have to at least try,’ Nancy says. ‘There’s a lot at stake.’

‘Well, in my opinion, the sooner they turn her off the better,’ her colleague whispers. ‘As far as I’m concerned, that so-called woman in there is a waste of a good respirator.’

Presently, the door opens and the officers come out. Nancy nods to them and stands aside.

‘Regretfully, there’s very little prospect of anything changing,’ Dr Chance explains. ‘It’s more a case of how long we leave things the way we are.’

‘Do keep us informed.’ DI Manvers shakes his hand. ‘We’ll try and track her sister down, as you suggested.’

‘She only came to visit once, as far as I’m aware,’ Dr Chance replies. ‘There must have been some kind of mix-up when her details were taken. We’ve been unable to contact her since.’

They walk away down the corridor and Nancy slips into Jo’s room.

‘It’s just me,’ she says, closing the door softly behind her. ‘It’s Nancy.’

She walks over to the bed and leans over Jo Deacon’s face.

‘I’m going to be honest with you, Jo, I think you’re more than just a reactive blink. I think you’re still in there, that you understand everything that’s being said to you.’ She studies the patient’s glassy eyes, the pale, slightly clammy skin. ‘I want to try something. It’s just between you and me. I promise I won’t mention it to anyone else for now.’

Nancy wonders what, if anything, is happening inside Jo Deacon’s head. Are her thought processes the same as before she had the stroke? Does she speak out loud inside her head and answer Nancy’s questions? All she can do is assume that this is the case, assume Jo can hear everything she tells her.

‘OK, I’m going to be straight with you, Jo. They’ve all written you off. You probably know that, right? If you can hear everything that’s being said around you, you’ll already know that things are pretty serious.’

Nancy pauses. It’s important she says exactly the right thing.

‘But I’m not judging you. Not yet. It’s important you understand that.’ Nancy glances over at the door and moves her face a little closer to Jo’s. ‘But I need to know the facts. I’ll let you into a little secret, Jo. I’ve worked out a way we can communicate, you and I.’

She watches the patient’s face for the slightest flicker of a reaction.

Nothing.

‘I don’t know if you know what happened to Evie Cotter. You had a photograph in your bag showing Evie at least a couple of years older than when she was taken from her family, so you must know something.’

Nancy pauses, watching Jo’s face for a short time before she begins speaking again.

‘I need you to tell me where she is, Jo,’ Nancy says softly. ‘Whether she is alive or dead, you have to give Toni Cotter some peace. Can you do that?’

There is no reaction.

‘I’ve found a way for you to do it. In order for it to be able to work, you have to be able to blink. Just blink, that’s all.’ Nancy gives an exaggerated blink over Jo’s face. ‘It doesn’t even have to be that big. Just a flicker will do. If you can blink, we can have a conversation. Try now, try to blink.’

Jo’s face remains completely still.

No twitch, no blink, nothing.

‘I want you to take all your energy to your eyes,’ Nancy whispers. ‘Imagine it just like lightning, channelling up from your toes, from your fingers, collecting behind your eyes. Think about your eyelids coming down like shutters. The energy is forcing them closed.’

Nancy glances at the door again.

It’s just before ten and soon the cleaner will be doing the morning ward rounds, mopping the floor with disinfectant to fight the dreaded norovirus that has swept through so many hospitals in the UK in recent months.

‘Just keep practising, Jo,’ Nancy urges. ‘Keep imagining that energy sweeping up behind your eyes. I know you’ve blinked before – you can do it again. You can.’

Nancy waits, talking Jo through the process again and again.

Then suddenly, it happens.

Jo blinks. Just the once.

‘Brilliant, you did it!’ Nancy swallows down her euphoria and tries to keep her voice level. ‘You blinked, Jo! You really did it. Now try again. Try again and again until it happens.’

She watches and waits.

By the time Nancy leaves the room, Jo Deacon has blinked three times.