‘Where’re my clothes?’
Victor indicated a pile of fatigues on the other side of the room. They looked like those worn by the rebels. ‘Yours were too badly burned,’ he said, pointing to a charred pile of material on the floor. ‘Your carbine is under the bed, along with your pistol. I don’t think the carbine will work any more, either.’
Stratton leaned down, pain stabbing his back, and pulled the guns out from under the bed. The M4 was a mess, its plastic stock and butt brittle and broken in places. The magazine was gone and when he tried to pull back the breech it didn’t budge. He dropped it to the floor and checked the semi-automatic pistol. The grip was a little charred but the magazine slid out easily enough and, yanking back the top slide, he found that the mechanism was working smoothly when a round flew out of the chamber. He put the pistol on the bed to deal with later.
Stratton got unsteadily to his feet. ‘Well,’ he said, stretching his back and ignoring the pain. ‘I don’t think I can take any more of your hospitality.’ He went to the pile of fatigues and looked for a pair of trousers and a shirt that might fit.
‘I understand, of course,’ Victor said, noticing that the dressing on Stratton’s back was bloody. ‘We’ll need to change your bandage before you put your shirt on.’
Stratton pulled on a pair of trousers that were long enough in the leg but big around the waist. ‘My boots?’ he asked, looking around.
‘Yours are no good. Try those,’ Victor said, pointing to an open box filled with jungle boots of various sizes.
Stratton went to the box and rummaged through it, checking the sizes, pulling out a boot attached to another by its laces. He noticed that his wristwatch was broken. ‘I don’t suppose you have a box of watches around here too?’
‘I’ll see what I can do. They’re not a common resupply item.’
‘What is the time?’
‘Almost six p.m. . . . It happened yesterday,’ Victor informed him.
Stratton looked at him quizzically.
‘The doctor put something in your drip to keep you asleep.’
Stratton checked his forearms to find the tell-tale puncture made by a drip-feed needle.
The Frenchman went back to the top of the stairs. ‘I must go. I’ll be back later.’
‘Victor?’
Victor paused to look back at Stratton.
‘Can you get me to the border? I want to go home to heal.’
‘Oh.’ Victor looked disappointed.
‘What?’
‘I thought you would want to find out who did this to you.’
‘No. I just want to go home.’
Victor nodded. ‘I’ll arrange something for you,’ he said, starting back down the stairs.
‘Why are you trying to make me feel bad about going? This isn’t my fight.’
‘It’s a struggle between good and evil. I thought that was everybody’s fight.’
‘It’s not the only one out there.’
Victor nodded. ‘True enough.’ He continued down the steps and out of the cabin.
Stratton sat heavily back down on the bed and lowered himself onto his side. He lay there for some time, fighting the urge to sleep. Fearing that he would lose the battle he sat up, got to his feet and collected together the various items of clothing he’d selected. As he finished threading the laces through the eyelets of the boots he heard the door of the cabin open and close and footsteps on the stairs.
‘You’re going to have to check every one of those boxes,’ Stratton said. ‘I’ll show you a way of doing it safely before I go.’
When he looked up it was not Victor at the top of the stairs but Louisa. She looked different. The coldness in her eyes had gone. She was staring at him in silence as if unsure what to say or do.
Unable to think of anything either, Stratton picked the shirt off the bed to put it on.
‘Don’t do that,’ Louisa said, walking over to him. ‘Victor said your bandage needed changing.’ She was holding a couple of packets of medical lint, a roll of surgical tape and a pair of scissors.
He put the shirt down and held out his hand for them.
‘You’re a talented man but I doubt even you could change that dressing on your back by yourself.’ She walked around the other side of his bed. ‘You were right, what you said earlier. I’m not a whole lot of use here really. But I have learned how to change a dressing. I spend a few hours most days helping out in the clinic. It also allows me some interaction with the people. Sit down, would you, please.’
Louisa’s voice was gentle and sincere. Stratton found it disarming. He sat down and she knelt on the bed behind him, gently placing a hand on his arm to steady herself. Her touch was soft and he had no control over the sudden rush it gave him. The contact weakened him but in the most pleasurable way. Her proximity, the brush of her shirt against him, her breath, they were all sensual to him. He tried to block the feelings, fighting them, but it was like refusing water while dying of thirst. She placed her hands on his shoulders and he quivered.
‘I’m sorry. My hands can be cold even in this part of the world.’
‘It’s okay,’ Stratton said, clearing his throat. ‘Go ahead.’
Louisa picked gently at the corner of the bandage and started to pull it away from his skin. The wound began to throb but he welcomed the pain as an aid to neutralising the other feelings.
Her hands began to tremble and she paused. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t do blood very well.’
‘You’re not hurting me,’ he lied.
As she peeled the rest of the dressing away a trickle of blood rolled down Stratton’s back. She deftly stopped its progress with a piece of lint and cleaned the rest from his back. ‘Our medic stitched it very well,’ she said. ‘You’ll have a scar to match the others. I thought you would have more.’
‘And you were being so nice.’
‘I can’t seem to help it with you, can I?’
He could sense she was smiling.
‘I don’t mean it any more, though,’ Louisa continued, her voice soft and sincere. ‘You risked your life to save people you didn’t even know, people I thought you couldn’t care less about. I knew Miguel. His wife just had a child. A little boy. I helped deliver him . . . I went to see her last night. He’s the first person I’ve ever known who’s died. I mean, someone who I’ve talked to and laughed with. I keep seeing his face. I haven’t been here long enough to have experienced that before. I thought I would be tougher. Will I get tougher, do you think?’
‘No. You’ll build walls around yourself. You’ll make yourself harder to get to, but you won’t get any tougher.’
Louisa felt unable to respond in case she began to cry, which she did not want to do. But she lost control and a tear escaped to roll down her cheek and drop onto his back. ‘I’m crying on you.’
‘Don’t wipe it off,’ Stratton said in a low voice. He immediately regretted how the comment had laid him open.
She looked at the back of his head through tear-filled eyes. ‘I don’t know you at all.’
‘Yes, you do. Take away all those things you thought about me and have a look at what’s left.’
Louisa smiled at the thought. ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for,’ she replied. Without being conscious of the effect she was having she gently pushed her fingers into his hair to remove a piece of ash.
Stratton closed his eyes as he felt her fingers on his scalp.
She suddenly realised what she was doing and took her hand away in order to finish tending the wound, placing a fresh piece of lint over it and taping it securely.
‘There,’ she said. She picked up his shirt and held it up behind him. ‘Your shirt.’
He snapped out of his reverie and pushed his arms into the sleeves. She moved closer to wrap the garment around his chest for him to button it up, keeping her arms there for a second too long. He touched her hand as if by accident while he buttoned his shirt.
Then, as if realising that she had gone too far, Louisa pulled back and climbed off the bed. A confused stream of emotions ran through her.
Stratton could sense her retreat and he did not look at her.
‘I’ll leave you those,’ she said, putting down the remaining lint and tape.
