Charlie’s Apprentice

apologized.

Snow remained constantly by the bedside throughout that day and into the night. Sweat had constantly to be sponged from the man’s face and body. In between doing that, Snow soaked two towels into cold compresses, rotating one after the other on the priest’s forehead.

The telephone continued to whine, unusably, at him.

Towards dawn on the fourth day the older priest’s sleep became more settled, although the fever remained high, and for the first time Snow allowed himself briefly to snatch moments of half-aware rest.

The ugly, rasping sound of Father Robertson’s unconsciousness brought Snow abruptly and fully awake, frightened how long he had abandoned the man. Father Robertson was on his back, mouth wide open, dragging the breath into his frail body, which still vibrated with the fever. Ridiculously, close to panic, Snow physically shook the other man, shouting for him to open his eyes. No more sleep. Don’t want you to sleep any more. You’ve got to wake up! Come on! Wake up! The head rolled out of time with the movement of the priest’s body, but the eyes remained closed. Snow thought Father Robertson looked on the point of death.

When he tried the telephone once more it was completely dead.

It had been idiotic, delaying so long. Reluctant as he was to leave Father Robertson alone, he had to go to the embassy for proper help. But he couldn’t do that in the middle of the night: if he tried to enter the compound now he’d be prevented by the permanent Chinese guards, running the risk of even further delay. Snow timed his move with the beginning of proper light. Wanting to leave Father Robertson as comfortable as possible, he washed and changed the man yet again: throughout, the snoring rasped on, the perspiration bubbling up the moment it was wiped away.

The streets swarmed with bicycles, and this early smoke-belching delivery trucks added to the congestion. The nightsoil collection was beginning, fouling the air. Snow hurried at a trot, head in perpetual movement in search of a taxi or a pedicab, seeing neither. The exasperation welled up inside him, contributing to the inevitable tightening in his chest. He refused to reduce his pace until a throbbing ache threatened to bring him to a complete halt. He still continued faster than was good for him, so that he was gasping for breath when he arrived at the embassy.

Snow was surprised that it was the serious-faced Peter Samuels who came from deeper inside the legation. The political officer immediately summoned the resident doctor, an overly fat man named Pickering whose spectacles were too large for his features, giving him an owlish look heightened by the infrequent way he blinked, otherwise staring open-eyed at anyone to whom he talked. Pickering pedantically checked everything Snow told him: when the priest protested they could talk on their way to the mission the doctor, more controlled, asked the point of setting out without medication he might possibly need when he got there. ‘Why are you so convinced it’s as serious as you say?’

‘He’s an old man!’ said Snow. ‘He was a prisoner of the Chinese for years: any resistance to illness would have been undermined!’

‘Why didn’t you call me before now?’

‘He wouldn’t let me,’ said Snow, inadequately.

‘Wouldn’t let you?’ demanded the doctor, incredulous.

‘The idea of a doctor distressed him too much. Then for a while, he seemed to improve.’

‘You’re a fool!’

‘Yes,’ accepted Snow.

‘You say his health is undermined by imprisonment?’

‘I don’t mean he suffers permanent ill health,’ apologized Snow. ‘I just wanted you to know what he’s been through, in the past.’ Was there some guilt, at so constantly and so easily disparaging Father Robertson, in how he felt and was reacting? Honestly, although reluctantly, Snow conceded to himself that there was: that in fact a lot of the panic was a belated attempt to compensate for his failings towards the old man.

‘He’s usually fit, despite what happened to him in the past?’

‘Yes.’ Snow hesitated, momentarily uncertain. ‘And he drinks a little.’

The doctor’s head came up, enquiringly. ‘What’s a little?’

‘Every night. Quite soon after lunch, really.’

Samuels drove them in an embassy car back to the mission where they found that Father Robertson had fouled the room and himself: he’d been sick again and there’d been a bowel movement. Pickering was professionally unoffended, actually collecting specimens from the mess before helping Snow clean everything up. Samuels remained by the door, doing nothing, face tight with disgust.

The doctor’s examination was extremely thorough. After questioning Snow about the number of times he’d had to change the sweat-soaked man, Pickering erected a saline drip to replace the lost bodyfluids. He also administered an injection to stabilize the man’s temperature.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ said Samuels, towards the end of the examination.

Pickering frowned at the question. ‘I haven’t got the faintest idea. He’s got a fever, obviously. And he’s unconscious. His blood-pressure is too high. All or any of which could indicate one of a hundred things.’

Snow withdrew near to the door, close to the diplomat, to give the doctor more room. Without looking in Snow’s direction, Samuels said: ‘He didn’t complain about feeling unwell, before you found him and saw he quite obviously was ill?’

‘No.’

‘What did he say, in the time that he remained rational?’

Snow shook his head. ‘Nothing, not really. He just kept repeating how sorry he was. He said that over and over again.’

Speaking louder, to the doctor, Samuels said: ‘I think we should move him, to the embassy infirmary, don’t you?’

The doctor looked sourly over his shoulder. ‘You making diagnoses now?’

There was the faintest flare of colour to Samuels’ face. ‘It just seemed obvious.’

‘Not to me it doesn’t. Not until I’ve found out what’s wrong with the man. The embassy facility is not an isolation unit.’

‘It could be infectious?’

‘Of course it could be infectious! You forgotten that all the major infectious diseases of the world are still considered endemic in China!’ Pickering looked directly at Snow. ‘I’m not for a moment saying it’s as serious as that. Or that you’re in any danger. I need to get back to the embassy, to make some tests on these samples.’

Snow didn’t feel the slightest apprehension: perhaps, he thought, nursing the old man through an illness – infectious or otherwise – would continue to assuage his finally self-admitted guilt.

‘You can drive the car back, can’t you?’ Samuels said, to the doctor.

‘Why?’ frowned Pickering. The doctor was collecting his medical equipment, replacing each piece carefully into its grooved and socketed place in the bags he’d brought with him.

‘I thought I might stay here.’

‘What for?’ asked Snow.

‘When was the last time you slept?’ asked Samuels.

‘I …’ started Snow and stopped. ‘The night before last, I suppose. I can’t really remember.’

‘You won’t be able properly to look after anyone if you’re totally deprived of sleep,’ pointed out the diplomat, realistically. He looked at the doctor. ‘Are you coming back today?’

‘Of course I am,’ said the man. ‘He’s on a drip, isn’t he?’

Samuels nodded, positively, returning to the younger priest. ‘You can get some rest: try at least. Maybe by the time Pickering gets back he’ll have a better idea what the medical problem is: see if we can get Father Robertson into the infirmary. If not, you’ll be better able to carry on.’

‘Suits me,’ shrugged the doctor, packed and ready to leave.

Snow didn’t think he would be able to sleep but he did, dreamlessly. He awakened suddenly and was surprised to be in bed during the day and not instantly able to remember why. Then he did, hurrying up. Samuels was in the main living-room, but with the connecting doors open to see into Father Robertson’s bedroom. The saturnine man smiled at Snow’s entry and said: ‘He’s much easier.’

Snow had been aware of that, before the diplomat spoke. Father Robertson appeared to be sleeping properly, no longer emitting the growl of unconsciousness.