Two a.m. the hour of the night shift where there is a glimmer of hope; the dawn is in sight. Except the night the clocks go back. Two a.m. a moment of relief till the clocks spring back to  one a.m. We frown and sigh, our bodies groan. This echo hour of the night is like the equivalent of an extra shift. We moan about it; we make it worse. No matter how much of an old hand you are, this hour hits you hard. Autumn has officially begun, marking the start of darkness and the mischief season. It happens as the clock strikes one a.m., again.  

Whichever, ward you are working in, the bells will ring. Each patient sits upright in a macabre synchronised dance. They stare across the bays, soundlessly, expectantly. They look like corpses, as though having an extra hour of time has moved their souls into a liminal land. We nurses move, in harmony, through the bays, our bodies silent, the flat black shoes squeaking on linoleum floors, as we lay hands gently on each patient, assessing their breathing.  

It is the worst kept secret that a few of them will pass as the clock strikes one. We help those still breathing to lie back in the hospital bed. The dead will also need our help. We expect a chorus of souls will sing to mourn the passing. We cleanse the patients with as much dignity as we can as we listen to the strange, eerie choir.  Scattered body tissue is gathered for future use. When we finish the ritualistic preparing of the dead, we see an indistinct figure take each body and walk it through the door into a vacuum. We call it the ghost walk.  

As the last body leaves, we check our watches and it’s two a.m. After closing the door, we put the kettle on.