The inspection tended to be detailed. He now knew what a packaged chicken must feel like as it waited on a supermarket shelf. He was getting used to being poked, prodded, and otherwise examined in the most intimate ways. He felt like hanging a sign around his neck saying: 'Despite a little wear and tear, I am a human being; I am not a dead chicken.'
Trying to persuade the medical profession to treat patients as real, thinking, sentient people seemed an unwinnable battle. Perhaps a doctor had to have a certain distance to survive mentally in the midst of a constant stream of damaged humanity. By thinking of yourself as separate – a different and superior life-form – you could fool yourself into thinking the same things you were witnessing daily couldn't happen to you.
Well, that was his benevolent theory. It was suspect because the nursing staff – who worked in exactly the same environment – didn't conform. Almost without exception, they tended to be warm and caring, even when emptying bedpans.
Lunch was early. After it he would sleep for a couple of hours. Then, refreshed, he would work or receive visitors until his evening meal. Again he would sleep for a few hours and then awake in the early hours, for what he was beginning to think of as the best part of the day. It was quiet. There were no distractions. He could think and plan. And there was Kathleen. He was growing very fond of Kathleen.
The wall clock read 1:00 A.M.. The curtains, at his request, were only partially drawn, and the room was bathed in moonlight. The room was on the third floor and could not be looked into from the ground, but nonetheless this was a breach of security. Fitzduane knew it wasn't wise, but he found the confines of the hospital claustrophobic at times and he loved moonlight.
Boots was asleep on a camp bed beside him. He lay sprawled on his back, one arm behind his head, his eyelashes long, his cheeks plump and full. His breathing was deep and regular. In Fitzduane's opinion, there was nothing more beautiful than a sleeping child – except his very own child.
Boots's sleeping over in the hospital was not a nightly routine, but it did happen two or three times a week. He had been told by Oona that it was ‘camping,’ so there was an added spice to the adventure. A small plastic sword lay on the floor beside him. He was now quite unfazed by either the hospital surroundings or Fitzduane's injuries, but he was determined that no bad men were going to harm his daddy again.
For his part, Fitzduane had much the same idea but a different taste in weapons. Kilmara had left him with a Calico submachine gun. This U.S.-made high-technology weapon held a hundred rounds of 10mm in a tubelike helical magazine which lay flat on top of the receiver, and which were fed in a spring-loaded rotary arrangement rather like an Archimedes screw. It had a folding stock. The end result, without the traditional magazine jutting out of the bottom of the weapon, was unsurpassed firepower in relation to its size. It was so small and light, it looked like a toy. It rested discreetly in something like a saddle holster clipped to the right side of the bed.
He could hear Kathleen's footsteps outside.
He had become adept at identifying individual cadences. Her walk was quiet but firm. This was not the rapid squeaky walk of an overworked student or the consciously measured stride of a consultant. This was the walk of a person of serious caliber.
Kathleen closed the curtains and put on the monitor light. Then she went to Boots and potted him. He was wearing a long T-shirt covered in small bears. There was a satisfying noise as he peed to order. He was still fast asleep and warm and pink-cheeked and floppy. Kathleen gave him to Fitzduane for a kiss and a quick cuddle and put him back under the duvet. She emptied and rinsed out the pot in the bathroom that adjoined the private room. Then she sat down on the bed beside him. Their conversation continued virtually where it had left off. It had become that way with them. Neither questioned the reasons or where it was all heading. Both valued the warmth and the closeness.
Last night they had been talking about her failed marriage. It had been a classic case of sexual incompatibility. This night, Kathleen was asking the questions.
Fitzduane interested her. She had spent all her life comparatively sheltered in Ireland in a caring profession. Here was a man who had traveled the world and was an intimate of danger. Here was a gentle man who had killed.
She looked at him as he lay back against the pillows. He had a strong yet sensitive face curiously unlined for his years. His eyes were an unusual green-gray and twinkled with humor. The steel-gray hair was cut en brosse. Wounded and weakened as he was, he still looked formidable. He was a big man, lean and well-muscled. There was gray in the hair on his chest. He had clearly seen much of life, the good and the bad.
Kathleen wanted to ask about Etan but started on another subject. Despite their growing intimacy, Kathleen sensed that Boots's mother might be off-limits – or then again, he might want to talk about her. She would take her time.
'How did you meet General Kilmara?' she said.
Fitzduane looked at her a little amused, as if he knew that was not the question she had intended to ask, but he answered nonetheless. 'He was my commanding officer,' he said, 'back in the early sixties. He was something of a maverick – a fighting soldier rather than a politician in uniform – but there are times when fighting soldiers are needed.'
'The Congo?' questioned Kathleen.
Fitzduane nodded. 'You know, it's funny. When most people hear that you have fought in the Congo they automatically assume that you were a mercenary. They don't seem to know that a United Nations force was there and that the Irish Army provided part of the U.N. manpower.'
'The Congo is forgotten history,' said Kathleen, and smiled. 'I don't know very much about it.'
'It's not something I'll forget,' said Fitzduane quietly. 'My wife was killed there.'
Kathleen took his hand but did not speak. After a minute or so, Fitzduane continued. He seemed to want to talk.
'Anne-Marie was a nurse,' said Fitzduane. 'She wanted to get some experience of life and do some good. Those were idealistic days. I met her at a bush hospital near Konina. She was tall, red-haired, and beautiful. We were married within weeks. A couple of months later, less actually, a group of rebels known as the Simbas started rampaging. They took hostages and assembled them in Konina and threatened to kill them if they were attacked. Some they tortured and killed anyway.
'Well, we mounted a rescue mission and infiltrated a small advance unit into Konina where they were being kept. There were only twelve of us and thousands of rebels, so we were under strict instructions not to fire until the main force arrived. We were in the upper floor of a house overlooking a square where the hostages were being kept. For eight hours we had to watch people being tortured and killed below – and we could do nothing. Finally, some Simba kid – he can't have been more than thirteen or fourteen – hauled Anne-Marie out and, just like that, hacked her head off. It was very quick, mercifully quick.'
Fitzduane continued. 'I can't really describe how I felt. I was only fifty meters away, and through binoculars she looked close enough to touch. I remember getting sick and then just a feeling of numbness. Soon afterwards, the main attack began. I couldn't stop killing. Machine gun, automatic rifle, grenades, garotte, fighting knife – I used them all that day. It didn't make me feel any better.'
'There was nothing that you could do,' said Kathleen.
'I have been told that again and again,' said Fitzduane, 'but I have never been quite sure. Another irony: her tour of duty was over. If she hadn't married me and signed on again to be near me, she would have gone home before the Simbas attacked.'
He looked across at Boots, who was now sleeping on his right side, his right cheek resting on his hands. 'Now here I am putting someone I love in harm's way again.'
'Guilt is not a very constructive feeling,' said Kathleen.
Fitzduane smiled. 'I don't feel guilty anymore,' he said. 'I've learned enough about the random nature of violence not to feel personally responsible for Anne-Marie. I've come to terms with her death. However, I cannot accept a threat against my family. There, whether I'm directly responsible or not, I'm still responsible.'
'Do you think you're directly responsible in this case?' said Kathleen, indicating both Fitzduane and Boots.
'‘Directly responsible,’' replied Fitzduane, quoting her words back, 'probably not. Responsible, in that all of this happened as a consequence of my actions, probably yes.'
'I don't quite understand,' said Kathleen.
'About three years ago,' said Fitzduane, I found a dead body on my island. I could have reported the matter
