her eyes.
I glanced at Big Ben across the river. ‘Twenty past ten.’ I turned and smiled at her.
‘What day?’ she said.
‘Friday. Welcome back to the land of the living.’
‘What happened?’
‘You got shot.’
‘That was careless. Where?’
I mentally tossed up. ‘In your leg.’
‘Oh.’
‘Can’t you feel it?’
‘All I feel is sick,’ she said.
‘My darling love,’ I said. ‘I was warned that you might feel bad due to the sedative they gave you.’
I rang the bell for a nurse who duly appeared.
‘She’s awake,’ I said rather unnecessarily. ‘Can she have anything for the nausea?’
‘I’ll see what the doctor says.’ She disappeared.
I sat down on the chair by the bed and held Marina’s hand. Only yesterday I had been required to wear a mask. Now I leaned forward and kissed her.
‘You had us all worried for a while,’ I said.
‘All?’ she asked.
‘Charles and Rosie are outside, and Jenny too.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘And will I survive?’
‘Yes, my dear, indeed you shall.’
‘What damage is there?’ she said.
‘None that will be permanent,’ I said. ‘But you emptied most of your life-blood on to the pavement outside the Institute. If it hadn’t been for Rosie’s attempts at stopping the bleeding, you wouldn’t be here.’
‘Which leg?’ she asked.
‘Can’t you tell?’
‘Both of them hurt.’
‘They had to take a piece of vein out of your left leg to repair the artery in your right, which was damaged by the bullet.’
‘Clever stuff,’ she said, smiling. There was nothing wrong with her brain.
The nurse returned with a couple of pills for her to take. ‘These will only be any good if you can keep them down so only a little water.’
‘But I’m so thirsty,’ said Marina.
‘Just little sips,’ said the nurse bossily, ‘or you’ll bring them up again and it’ll be worse than ever.’
Marina pulled a face and winked at me as the nurse poured a thimbleful of water into a glass and gave it to her to take the pills.
We waited in silence for her to leave, then laughed.
I marvelled at how a human being can be at death’s door one day and then seemingly fine and dandy the next. All to do with the need for oxygen to make things happen, and the blood supply to deliver it around the body. Cut off the current and the bulb goes out. Turn it on again and the light shines brightly. Only it’s not that simple with a brain. Once off, it stays off, because the brain also controls the switch.
‘I’ll go and get the others,’ I said.
‘What am I wearing?’ said Marina, trying to sit up a little to look down at the off-white regulation-issue hospital nightgown.
‘They’re not going to worry about what you’re wearing,’ I said.
‘Well, I do,’ she said. ‘And what’s my hair like?’
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘You’re beautiful.’
In truth, she appeared washed out and tired with the two lines of stitches from last week still prominent in her face. But, all things considered, she looked great.
I went to fetch Rosie, Charles and Jenny. They came in and gathered round Marina’s bed, fussing over her and being equally astonished at how quickly she was mending.
The bossy nurse reappeared. ‘Only two visitors at a time,’ she said.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘They won’t be long.’
I stood back by the window and looked at Marina. I had been badly frightened at how close I had come to losing her. Fear, relief, desperate fear again and finally overwhelming relief — the emotional rollercoaster of the last twenty hours had left me mentally exhausted and physically drained.
Now I began to notice a subtle change in me. The feeling of wellbeing and joy at finding that Marina would fully recover was slowly ebbing away and being replaced by a growing anger. I was annoyed with myself, of course, for not having taken the previous warning even more seriously than we had. But this was a mere bagatelle compared to the fury that was rising in me towards the person, or persons, responsible for this.
Mr Pandita arrived, wreathed in smiles.
I found that I had consciously to relax my right hand to shake his. I had been clenching my fist together so hard that my fingernails had been digging into the flesh.
‘I see she’s doing fine,’ he said. ‘But don’t tire her out too much.’
‘Hello,’ said Marina. ‘I assume we’ve met.’
‘Yes, sorry. I’m Mr Pandita and I’m the consultant general surgeon here. I operated on your leg.’
‘So it’s your fault I bloody hurt so much?’ said Marina.
‘Not all mine,’ he said. ‘You were pretty badly hurt when I first saw you.’
‘Yes,’ said Marina, suitably admonished. ‘Well, thank you.’
Mr Pandita nodded then turned to me. ‘I think she should stay here for a while longer. That leg needs to be rested in order to allow the graft to heal. I don’t want her back on the table with a rupture or an aneurysm. You were lucky, young lady,’ he said to Marina. ‘The bullet missed your knee and your femur. A couple of days’ bed-rest here where you can be monitored and then you should be ready to go home.’
Luck is relative, I thought. Marina had been unlucky to be shot in the first place and unlucky that the bullet had torn open an artery, but prompt action by Rosie, first-rate medical care, and her own strong constitution had won the day, not luck.
Mr Pandita ushered all of us away to allow Marina to rest.
‘Come back later,’ he said to me. ‘Give her at least a couple of hours to sleep.’
Rosie went back to work and Charles took Jenny off to lunch. I had urged him to stay with Jenny in London for a few days.
‘But why?’ he’d said.
‘Where you live is common knowledge,’ I’d replied. ‘And I don’t want you to get any visits from a gun-toting motorcyclist.’
‘Oh!’ he’d said. ‘Well, perhaps for a day or two. Or I could stay at my club.’
I had inwardly laughed at his dilemma. The Army amp; Navy Club had much more attraction for Charles. It had a decent bar for a start. Jenny was always complaining about the amount of whisky he drank so he was unlikely to get much of it at her place. They had decided to discuss it over some lunch.
Suddenly I felt quite lonely as I walked back across Westminster Bridge in the watery March sunshine. I called into the betting shop on Victoria Street but my friend from before, Gerry Noble, wasn’t there. Perhaps I was too early for him. I was disappointed and I hung around for a while in the hope he might turn up. He didn’t, so I asked one of the staff behind the counter if they knew if he was coming.
‘Gerry Noble?’ said the man. ‘I don’t know their names. I take their bloody money not their life histories.’
‘A big guy. Wears a Manchester United shirt,’ I persisted.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘they could all wear bloody leotards for all I’d notice. As I said, I’m only interested in their money.’
Clearly, he enjoyed his work and I was wasting my time.
Instead I continued my walk back to Ebury Street and then busied myself clearing up.
