partner, and worked out energetically for an hour. Bashing somebody over the head with a split bamboo cane meant loosely to simulate a katana, the long sword, while being hit as little as possible yourself was an excellent way to restore equanimity.
After the session, he bathed and went back to work refreshed. The Spider's observations he stored in the back of his mind. The pile on his desk had become even higher. There was work to be done.
5
ConnemaraRegionalHospital:
Intensive Care Unit
January 4
A terrible feeling suffused him.
He could not identify the feeling, nor did he understand where he was or what had happened. Tears coursed down his cheeks. He opened his eyes. He had no sense of place or time or reason.
Brightness. Noises. Electronic noises. Strange breathing sounds. He was not breathing! Terror; absolute terror. Darkness. Sadness. Blackness. Nothing.
A little peace.
A time for nightmares. He awoke again, choking, and knew only despair. He fainted.
Dr. Linda Foley was working with the senior intensive care nurse, Kathleen Burke. Fitzduane would have one-to-one attention until he left ICU. If he left ICU.
Linda Foley had a sense of unease when she looked at her patient. Something was definitely wrong, not just the physical things but something else. Dr. Foley tended to feel this kind of thing. It was a gift and it was a burden.
Working together, they checked his BP and blood gases through the arterial line; checked his CVP; checked his oxygen levels; checked his air entry with a stethoscope; watched the monitors.
Linda Foley noticed that Fitzduane had high blood pressure and a fast pulse rate. 'He's in serious pain,' she said, 'poor sod.' She prescribed morphine in the form of Cyclimorph.
Kathleen, concerned about his body temperature, added some blankets. She checked his wounds for oozing through the dressings, and changed them where necessary.
Foley looked around the futuristic-looking room as if for inspiration, and moved her neck to try to release some of the tension. Her muscles ached. She was bloody tired and too much black coffee was fraying her nerves, but she was not going to quit on this one until it felt right. And so far, it did not. No, something was decidedly wrong.
He had been drifting in and out of consciousness. He was gradually regaining some – albeit drug-laden – awareness. It was going to be a frightening awakening. In her opinion, the intensive care unit was about as un- people-friendly as could be. It was a monument to hygiene and advanced technology, but it did nothing for the human psyche. It was overlit and cold and sterile and full of cables and bleeping monitors, and it was truly terrifying to wake up in, even if you knew you were being treated.
In Fitzduane's case, he would have no sense of continuity. He had been ripped from his normal life, massively traumatized and then cast ashore in this alien environment. He would be paranoid and disoriented. All his systems – cardiovascular, respiratory, renal, immune – had mounted an immense physiological response to his injuries, and the effect would be total mental and physical exhaustion. To make matters worse, the first people he'd see would be masked and gowned.
He would see only eyes.
His main reassurance would come from the ICU staff's voices. Voices in ICU were vital. They provided the human element, the link to the human spirit. In Linda Foley's experience, recovery was only partly physical; it was predominantly a matter of the mind… shit, that was it. This patient's spirit was damaged in some way. How she knew it, she could not say, but that was it. He lacked the will to recover.
In consideration of his high blood pressure and low body temperature, Foley had kept him on the ventilator, the life-support machine, for a further six hours after surgery and then had gradually weaned him off. He was now breathing for himself with an oxygen mask over his face. He had been wearing it for two hours. It would soon be time to remove it.
Fitzduane opened his eyes again. Kathleen leaned over him and spoke: 'Hello, Hugo. I'm Kathleen. You've had an operation, and all went well.'
Fitzduane eyes filled with tears. His vision was blurred and his throat was dry and sore. He tried to speak. No sound came out. Kathleen moistened his lips with a small sponge.
A gasping sound came out. Kathleen bent closer. He spoke again, and then consciousness faded.
'What did he say?' said Linda Foley.
Kathleen looked puzzled. 'Boots or roots,' she said. 'He said he – they – were dead, I think. He's still drugged to the eyeballs. He's just rambling.'
Linda Foley looked down at Fitzduane. Desecrated though his body was, he was a striking-looking man. He did not look like someone who would surrender life so easily, and yet the fighting spirit was missing. 'Fuck it,' she said. 'We're missing something here. I'm going to find out more about this guy.'
She turned on her heel, walked out of ICU, and pulled her mask down. She wanted a cigarette but had quit while an intern. A good stiff drink would do fine. In the corridor outside were two men in combat uniform carrying automatic weapons. 'I want to talk to someone,' she said. 'Someone who knows my patient – and quickly.'
A pair of legs also wearing combat fatigues swung off a couch, and a figure emerged. He was in his early fifties, bearded, hollow-eyed from fatigue, but a commanding presence.
'Talk to me,' he said. 'My name is Shane Kilmara.'
Fitzduane was beginning to remember.
He could hear the sound of running water and feel Boots against him. Then came flares in the sky and a sense of unease and a line of blood across the back of his son's head.
He sobbed. Bullets splashed around the unconscious boy. He could not move. He wanted to help – was desperate to help, to do something – but he could not move.
He felt weak and confused, and his throat hurt. He opened his eyes, but the light was too bright.
'Daddy!' said a voice. 'Daddy! Daddy!'
Fitzduane started and cried out. 'I'm coming…' and fell silent.
Linda Foley looked at the monitors with concern. This might not be the best idea. She and Kathleen exchanged worried glances.
Fitzduane could feel a small hand in his.
He felt small lips against his cheek and he smelled chocolate. He opened his eyes.
A small, rather grubby face looked down at him. 'Want some, Daddy?' said Boots's voice. He thrust the remains of his bar into his father's mouth. Fitzduane could taste it – really taste it.
'Boots is fine,' said a familiar voice. 'He was grazed by one round, but he's fine. Now it's your turn to get better. He's wearing me out.'
The monitors went crazy – and then stabilized strongly.
Fitzduane smiled and, using all his strength, put his left arm around Boots. The little boy lay beside his father in the narrow bed for a short while and hugged him, then was removed by Kilmara.
Fitzduane was already asleep. He was still smiling.
Kilmara looked at Foley and then at Kathleen. 'You're a hell of a pair,' he said. 'You don't know when to quit.
