came out in low garbled English, and the nurse looked at him blankly, not understanding.
‘Don’t take off my foot,’ he was still saying when he saw the big lights, the surgeons all gowned up, rows of gleaming silver saws and hammers lined up at the ready. A mask came down over his face.
‘Don’t—’
And then he was gone.
Chapter 24
When he came round he was by a window, and the sun was beaming through onto the bed where he lay. He was very hot. He lay there drowsily for long moments, staring out of the dusty window, seeing rooftops, chimneys, a brilliant blue sky.
Then he remembered, and the fear clamped hold of him all over again.
Oh Jesus, his foot.
They’d cut it off.
He couldn’t face it, not life as an invalid, not him.
He whooped in a panicky breath and felt the compression of his ribs beneath their robust strapping. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t: his arm was in plaster and he couldn’t get a grip on anything. There were pulleys, ropes, things tying him to the bed.
He daren’t look down. He couldn’t. Some things were just too fucking awful to face head-on.
He kept his eyes on the rooftops, the blue sky. Easier to look out there. Pigeons soaring along, flying free. He envied them that. Here he was, tied to a bed, unable to move. He had a sense then that he was a very fit man in everyday life. His body was well-honed, muscular; obviously he looked after himself.
Yeah, but who am I? he thought again.
He didn’t know.
Maybe he was just a miserable, stinking coward, because he couldn’t look at what they’d done to him.
He ought to look. Whatever had been done was done, what was the point in averting his eyes?
He steeled himself. He was going to look. He had to look.
He looked.
Both feet were still there.
All the breath left him in a rush and a half-hysterical laugh burst from him as he stared at what they’d done to him in surgery. There were huge bolts through both his ankles – right through. The bolts protruded by three inches on either side of the mangled flesh of his feet. And hooked up to the bolts were pulleys, with weights attached. The weights were pulling his legs out straight, to prevent atrophy. The bed itself was sloping upwards at the end, so that his feet were higher than his head. It felt strange. And . . . there was no pain.
After discovering he still had both his feet, that was the best part: no pain.
He lay back, and his eyes closed. He slept.
Brother Benito came in to visit.
‘My friend, you look better,’ he said in near-perfect English. Seeing the man’s confusion at the arrival of this stranger he said: ‘One of the goat boys found you on the rocks. I came with you to the hospital. Do you remember?’
The man in the bed didn’t remember much at all. He just stared at his saviour. Brother Benito was a big man, dressed in plain, coarse monk’s robes, with a tonsured head of grey hair, bushy white eyebrows and a big-featured, almost lumpish face. It was not a patrician face by any means; in fact, the monk looked if anything like an old trooper, battle-scarred and buffeted by wars, but his clear grey eyes were astonishingly gentle and good-humoured.
The man in the bed stretched out his one good hand. ‘Thanks.’
Brother Benito shook it. He was surprised at the strength in the man’s fingers. Here was a grip that could crush, easily.
‘Who’s paying for this?’ asked the man. He hadn’t been asked for cash and he was grateful for that – he didn’t think he had any – but he was anxious that there was going to be a huge bill waiting for him upon his eventual departure from the hospital.
And then where would he go? He had no idea where he lived or what he did in life. His mind was as clear as a blank sheet of paper. How did he earn his living? He hadn’t a clue.
‘The brothers are paying,’ said Brother Benito.
‘I can’t let you do that,’ protested the man.
But Benito only smiled serenely. ‘My son, it is our duty to
‘Don’t take off my foot,’ he was still saying when he saw the big lights, the surgeons all gowned up, rows of gleaming silver saws and hammers lined up at the ready. A mask came down over his face.
‘Don’t—’
And then he was gone.
Chapter 24
When he came round he was by a window, and the sun was beaming through onto the bed where he lay. He was very hot. He lay there drowsily for long moments, staring out of the dusty window, seeing rooftops, chimneys, a brilliant blue sky.
Then he remembered, and the fear clamped hold of him all over again.
Oh Jesus, his foot.
They’d cut it off.
He couldn’t face it, not life as an invalid, not him.
He whooped in a panicky breath and felt the compression of his ribs beneath their robust strapping. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t: his arm was in plaster and he couldn’t get a grip on anything. There were pulleys, ropes, things tying him to the bed.
He daren’t look down. He couldn’t. Some things were just too fucking awful to face head-on.
He kept his eyes on the rooftops, the blue sky. Easier to look out there. Pigeons soaring along, flying free. He envied them that. Here he was, tied to a bed, unable to move. He had a sense then that he was a very fit man in everyday life. His body was well-honed, muscular; obviously he looked after himself.
Yeah, but who am I? he thought again.
He didn’t know.
Maybe he was just a miserable, stinking coward, because he couldn’t look at what they’d done to him.
He ought to look. Whatever had been done was done, what was the point in averting his eyes?
He steeled himself. He was going to look. He had to look.
He looked.
Both feet were still there.
All the breath left him in a rush and a half-hysterical laugh burst from him as he stared at what they’d done to him in surgery. There were huge bolts through both his ankles – right through. The bolts protruded by three inches on either side of the mangled flesh of his feet. And hooked up to the bolts were pulleys, with weights attached. The weights were pulling his legs out straight, to prevent atrophy. The bed itself was sloping upwards at the end, so that his feet were higher than his head. It felt strange. And . . . there was no pain.
After discovering he still had both his feet, that was the best part: no pain.
He lay back, and his eyes closed. He slept.
Brother Benito came in to visit.
‘My friend, you look better,’ he said in near-perfect English. Seeing the man’s confusion at the arrival of this stranger he said: ‘One of the goat boys found you on the rocks. I came with you to the hospital. Do you remember?’
The man in the bed didn’t remember much at all. He just stared at his saviour. Brother Benito was a big man, dressed in plain, coarse monk’s robes, with a tonsured head of grey hair, bushy white eyebrows and a big-featured, almost lumpish face. It was not a patrician face by any means; in fact, the monk looked if anything like an old trooper, battle-scarred and buffeted by wars, but his clear grey eyes were astonishingly gentle and good-humoured.
The man in the bed stretched out his one good hand. ‘Thanks.’
Brother Benito shook it. He was surprised at the strength in the man’s fingers. Here was a grip that could crush, easily.
‘Who’s paying for this?’ asked the man. He hadn’t been asked for cash and he was grateful for that – he didn’t think he had any – but he was anxious that there was going to be a huge bill waiting for him upon his eventual departure from the hospital.
And then where would he go? He had no idea where he lived or what he did in life. His mind was as clear as a blank sheet of paper. How did he earn his living? He hadn’t a clue.
‘The brothers are paying,’ said Brother Benito.
‘I can’t let you do that,’ protested the man.
But Benito only smiled serenely. ‘My son, it is our duty to
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