“Orpington?” she said. “You did get a knock on the head. You’re in St. Bartholomew’s.”
St. Bartholomew’s. Good. He was still in London. He must have … but then what was Fordham doing here? He looked over at him, and it wasn’t Fordham, after all. It was a teenaged boy.
“What time is it?” Mike asked, looking over at the windows, but they were completely covered by sandbags piled against them.
“Never you mind about that. Would you like some breakfast?”
Breakfast? Oh, Christ, he’d been out cold the whole night.
“You must try to rest,” the nurse was saying. “You’ve a concussion.”
“A concussion?” He felt his head. There was a painful bump on the left side.
“Yes, a burning wall fell on you,” she said, pulling out a thermometer. “You were extremely lucky. You’ve a burn on your arm, but it could have been far worse.”
How? he thought. I was supposed to be finding John Bartholomew, and I’ve been out of commission all night.
“Eight other firemen were killed in Fleet Street when a wall collapsed,” she said.
Mike tried to sit up. “I’ve got to go—”
She pushed him back down. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said, sounding exactly like Sister Carmody.
A horrible thought struck him. What if he’d been here for weeks, like in Orpington? “What day is it?”
“What day?” she said, looking worried. “I’ll fetch the doctor.” She stuck the thermometer into her pocket and hurried off.
Oh, God, it had been weeks. He’d missed the drop.
No, Eileen and Polly wouldn’t have gone without you, he told himself. They’d have made John Bartholomew wait. Or sent a retrieval team back for him.
But they wouldn’t have had any idea where he was. Even if they’d thought to search the hospitals, the nurse obviously thought he was a fireman …
“I heard you ask what day it was,” the kid in the next bed said. “It’s Monday.”
“No, the date,” Mike asked.
The kid gave him the same look the nurse had given him. “December thirtieth.”
Relief washed over Mike. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” the boy said. “But it’s early. They haven’t brought breakfast round yet.”
If St. Bart’s was like Orpington, they brought everybody’s breakfast at the crack of dawn, which meant there was still time. But not much. The nurse would be back with the doctor any minute.
Mike sat up carefully, testing for dizziness. His head was splitting, but not so bad he couldn’t stand up, and he didn’t have time to wait till the pain lessened. He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“What are you doing?” the kid asked, alarmed. “Where are you going?”
“St. Paul’s.”
“St. Paul’s?” he said. “You’ll never get anywhere near it. Our fire brigade tried. We couldn’t get any nearer than Creed Lane.”
“You’re a fireman?” Mike asked. The kid couldn’t be fifteen.
“Yes. Redcross Street Fire Brigade,” he said proudly. “You won’t be able to get through. They had to take me all the way round to Bishopsgate when they brought me here.”
“I have to get through.” Mike stood up, his head swimming. “Did you see what the nurse did with my clothes?”
“But you can’t just get dressed and walk out of here,” the kid protested. “You haven’t been discharged.”
“I’m discharging myself,” Mike said, yanking open the drawers of the nightstand.
His clothes weren’t there. “I said, did you see what the nurse did with my clothes?”
The kid shook his head. “You were already here when I was brought in,” he said, “and you heard what the nurse said. You’ve a concussion. Why don’t you wait for her to come back and—”
And have her what? Tell him not to worry? Promise to ask the matron and then disappear for hours? It could be days before they’d let him out of here.
“Or at least wait till the doctor’s had a chance to examine you,” the kid said, his eyes straying toward the bell on the nightstand between their beds.
Mike snatched the bell up and jammed it under his own pillow. “Did you see what the nurse did with your clothes?”
“In the cupboard there,” he said, pointing at a white metal cabinet. “But I don’t think you should—”
“I’m fine,” Mike said, limping over to the cupboard. His own clothes were on the top shelf, neatly folded on top of his shoes. He began pulling on his trousers,
“I’m fine,” Mike said, limping over to the cupboard. His own clothes were on the top shelf, neatly folded on top of his shoes. He began pulling on his trousers, keeping one eye on the ward doors. The nurse would be back with the doctor any second. He tried not to wince as he eased his shirtsleeve over his bandaged arm.
