‘What was it?’
‘A compound of mercury.’
I reached over to a small bedside cupboard, and took a swig from my water through a straw. It didn’t taste anything like as good as the day before – now I fancied a beer.
‘When I was at school, we were taught that mercury was toxic – a poison.’
‘It is, but in minute concentrations it is also a magnificent preserving emulsifier for vaccines, and it doesn’t do most people any harm at all.’
‘But I’m allergic to it?’
‘Right. If ever you spill any of it on your skin in the future you have to promise me you’ll run for the nearest nurse.’
‘Will they know what to do?’
‘Probably not, but at least they can hold your hand while you die.’ It’s curious, but I miss those old service doctors now: they called it the way they saw it. ‘Have you seen your arm yet?’
I shook my head. He unwrapped a mile of bandage from around my left upper arm. Nothing hurt up there, so I had been wondering about it. My newly exposed arm was half as thick again as nature intended, and bruised to the colour of uncooked liver. There was an open abscess the size of a joey – a threepenny bit to anyone as old as me – at the injection site, and visible cheesy pus inside it. It smelt bad.
‘That’s not gangrene, is it? You won’t have to cut my arm off?’ I asked.
‘No. It’s fine. It’s just pretending – looking for sympathy.’
‘It won’t get much.’
‘It will tomorrow – when it will itch like hell, and you will be unable to scratch it. I’ll get one of the nurses to dress it again, and then I’ll toddle off. Must be close to lunch time. I’ll come by again in five days.’
‘I won’t be out by then?’
‘No, but near enough. Ta-ra.’
Welcome to Egypt, Charlie.
The nurse was a tall, well-built young thing – a Queen Alexandra’s: one of the famous Grey Mafia. She was in her twenties. She had dark hair bleached several shades by the sun, luscious lips and broad shoulders. Taller than me; but, again, that’s not difficult. She must have just come on duty because she still smelled of soap, and not perspiration or stale perfume. She could also tie a pretty mean bandage.
I asked her, ‘When can I get up, and wander around?’
‘I put your clothes into the laundry. They should come back tomorrow; you can get up then.’
There was a row of tall metal lockers across the room; I reckoned one would be mine.
‘That’s all right. There’s a couple of spares in my kitbag. I can get up today.’
She shook her head, ‘I’ll make some inquiries, but nothing came off the bus with you. I’m sure of that. Certainly no kitbag.’
It took a couple of seconds for the penny to drop. Then I realized that my fellow bus passengers had not only kept me on the bus long enough to nearly bloody kill me, they’d robbed me blind into the bargain. My third lesson from Egypt taught me never to turn my back on a fucking soul. Charlie would be turning up at his next station the way he’d arrived at several others – with just the clothes he stood up in. My flying jacket was draped over the back of a nearby chair; at least they’d left me that . . . I wondered if they’d found the small pistol in it yet. Then I began to laugh.
Florence Nightingale went all po-faced on me, and asked, ‘Did I say something funny?’
‘No. Sorry. I just realized that all of my kit’s been nicked. I almost went out of this world as naked as I came in, didn’t I?’
She gave me a funny look and said, ‘The PMO told you how touch-and-go it was then? I didn’t think he would.’
‘He didn’t; you just did . . . but don’t worry – I won’t tell on you.’ She must have felt foolish, because she blushed. ‘It just makes me even gladder to wake up and find people who look like you around. Dead and gone to Heaven.’ Her blush was even deeper now, but I thought I might have made a friend.
Before she walked away from me I asked her the old classic, ‘Nurse, where am I?’
She smiled. Everything back under control. ‘Not dead and gone to Heaven for a start. I’ve lots to do, so stop messing me about.’
‘I’m not. I mean it . . .’
‘You really don’t know where you are?’
‘No: nobody told me.’
‘El Kirsh.’
‘Which is?’
‘Probably the most heavily protected camp we have: we’ve married quarters here – although a woman would have to feel really desperate to follow her husband to Ismailia, wouldn’t she?’
‘What else?’
‘A satellite base hospital – meaning us: mainly for the dependants, and a few other small units, including a motor unit . . . and a load of very unpleasant regimental policemen who are supposed to look after us. Do you know anyone here?’
I probably smiled. ‘Not quite. The wife of the skipper of the ship that brought me here promised me tiffin, whatever that is, because I got him a weekend off with her. Captain Holroyd – first name Neville or Nev. She lives around here somewhere.’
‘I’ll ask. Anything you need?’
‘Something to read when you have a minute.’
‘OK. Why don’t you lie back for a few minutes; you’re beginning to look a bit seedy again.’
‘And I feel it, too.’
‘This is going to happen a lot to you in the next few days. You’re going to feel suddenly very tired – bone-weary.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Why fight it? Your body knows what it’s
