worse.”
She hung back.
“Please. Do it.” He closed his eyes.
Rosy went closer. “Okay,” she bent over him, “but if bits drop off, I’m not liable.”
A smile flickered, nothing more than the twitch of a small muscle in his cheek. She reached around his body, running her hands over his back, working out how to remove the slings. She undid various clips and Velcro fastenings as gently as she could, freed his left arm and then his right, bumping his wrist as a cascade of objects flew out—pills, wallet, keys, phone—and thudded on the floor.
“Ow.”
“Sorry. I’m not a nurse.” Being careful, she nevertheless knew he was dizzy with pain and it made her nervous. She fumbled, her hands shaking.
He smiled properly, opened his eyes and looked at her. “Perhaps that clinic in, where was it—Montreal? Perhaps they could train you up a bit.”
“It’s not my calling. I’m too clumsy, and squeamish. There, all done.” She tossed the slings onto a chair and picked his stuff off the floor. “Oh good, a phone. We can ring someone and they can come and fetch you, because this can only be a temporary arrangement. I’m going back to London in a day or two.”
“I need something for pain.”
Rosy fetched a glass of water and examined at the two boxes of tablets. “These are over-the-counter medications.”
“Yes. The taxi driver got them for me when we stopped in Saint Michel.”
“Weapon and drug shopping. What a day for Saint Michel commerce.” She held up the tablets. “Which is which?”
“Uh, the yellow and white capsules are what I need.”
She read the label. It was in French and as good as hieroglyphics to her. “Are you sure?”
“Sure. Give me four.”
“ Four? ”
“That’s what I said.”
She shrugged, tipped out four capsules and put them in his mouth, then gave him water, which he gulped like a man who’d crawled across the Sahara. She tilted the glass too far and he didn’t swallow in time. Water ran everywhere. Grabbing a handful of the hospital gown, she dried him off.
“Sorry, now this is wet. It’ll have to come off,” she said, while he coughed.
“Good. Stupid bloody thing.”
She untied the tapes at the back and removed it.
“That’s better,” he said. “Thanks.”
A please, a thanks, and a smile. Dallariva had turned on the charm to get what he wanted. She wouldn’t be drawn. He could stay here for a few hours until he had a plan. That was it and that was all. His problem was no business of hers.
He frowned, shifting up the bed toward the pillows. “I’m going to lie down.”
Resigned, she pulled back the bedding, guiding his cold legs under the covers.
“That’s a terrible bruise.” She drew back, dismayed at the ink-black mark the size of a dinner plate on the outside of his left thigh. She’d never seen anything like it.
“That’s yours,” he said.
She sat on the bed, sick and trembly. “Oh dear, that’s horrible.”
“It’s nothing. That leg’s been broken many times.”
“Th-that’s awful.”
“But a drop in the ocean of my troubles.”
She avoided his eyes, chastised. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“Yes. Accept an apology for my rudeness.”
What, all of it? He lay back and she winced, seeing how much he hurt. He didn’t look the slightest bit comfortable and he probably needed to be warmer.
“I’ll think about it. Can I get you extra pillows? For your arms?”
He shook his head. She pulled the bedding up to his chin, tucked it around his shoulders, and got a rug out of the cupboard to cover his feet. “Are you warm enough?”
He shut his eyes. She took that as a yes.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” Rosy picked up his phone.
No answer. She repeated the question.
“Uh-uh,” he replied.
“Well, people might be worried. Did you discharge yourself properly from the clinic? Do they know where you are?”
His eyes opened. He looked at her but didn’t focus. “No.”
“Marco, listen. I need
She hung back.
“Please. Do it.” He closed his eyes.
Rosy went closer. “Okay,” she bent over him, “but if bits drop off, I’m not liable.”
A smile flickered, nothing more than the twitch of a small muscle in his cheek. She reached around his body, running her hands over his back, working out how to remove the slings. She undid various clips and Velcro fastenings as gently as she could, freed his left arm and then his right, bumping his wrist as a cascade of objects flew out—pills, wallet, keys, phone—and thudded on the floor.
“Ow.”
“Sorry. I’m not a nurse.” Being careful, she nevertheless knew he was dizzy with pain and it made her nervous. She fumbled, her hands shaking.
He smiled properly, opened his eyes and looked at her. “Perhaps that clinic in, where was it—Montreal? Perhaps they could train you up a bit.”
“It’s not my calling. I’m too clumsy, and squeamish. There, all done.” She tossed the slings onto a chair and picked his stuff off the floor. “Oh good, a phone. We can ring someone and they can come and fetch you, because this can only be a temporary arrangement. I’m going back to London in a day or two.”
“I need something for pain.”
Rosy fetched a glass of water and examined at the two boxes of tablets. “These are over-the-counter medications.”
“Yes. The taxi driver got them for me when we stopped in Saint Michel.”
“Weapon and drug shopping. What a day for Saint Michel commerce.” She held up the tablets. “Which is which?”
“Uh, the yellow and white capsules are what I need.”
She read the label. It was in French and as good as hieroglyphics to her. “Are you sure?”
“Sure. Give me four.”
“ Four? ”
“That’s what I said.”
She shrugged, tipped out four capsules and put them in his mouth, then gave him water, which he gulped like a man who’d crawled across the Sahara. She tilted the glass too far and he didn’t swallow in time. Water ran everywhere. Grabbing a handful of the hospital gown, she dried him off.
“Sorry, now this is wet. It’ll have to come off,” she said, while he coughed.
“Good. Stupid bloody thing.”
She untied the tapes at the back and removed it.
“That’s better,” he said. “Thanks.”
A please, a thanks, and a smile. Dallariva had turned on the charm to get what he wanted. She wouldn’t be drawn. He could stay here for a few hours until he had a plan. That was it and that was all. His problem was no business of hers.
He frowned, shifting up the bed toward the pillows. “I’m going to lie down.”
Resigned, she pulled back the bedding, guiding his cold legs under the covers.
“That’s a terrible bruise.” She drew back, dismayed at the ink-black mark the size of a dinner plate on the outside of his left thigh. She’d never seen anything like it.
“That’s yours,” he said.
She sat on the bed, sick and trembly. “Oh dear, that’s horrible.”
“It’s nothing. That leg’s been broken many times.”
“Th-that’s awful.”
“But a drop in the ocean of my troubles.”
She avoided his eyes, chastised. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“Yes. Accept an apology for my rudeness.”
What, all of it? He lay back and she winced, seeing how much he hurt. He didn’t look the slightest bit comfortable and he probably needed to be warmer.
“I’ll think about it. Can I get you extra pillows? For your arms?”
He shook his head. She pulled the bedding up to his chin, tucked it around his shoulders, and got a rug out of the cupboard to cover his feet. “Are you warm enough?”
He shut his eyes. She took that as a yes.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” Rosy picked up his phone.
No answer. She repeated the question.
“Uh-uh,” he replied.
“Well, people might be worried. Did you discharge yourself properly from the clinic? Do they know where you are?”
His eyes opened. He looked at her but didn’t focus. “No.”
“Marco, listen. I need
Similar Books
