“Excellent. Thank you, James.” Doctor Evans checked Evelyn’s pulse and breath sounds. “She’s responding well to the antibiotics. She should be back on her feet in no time.”
“How did she get an infection in the first place?” I asked.
Evans slung his stethoscope around his shoulders. “It’s not unusual after surgery. We strive to keep the incision site as clean as possible, but sometimes it’s not enough. If a patient goes home and doesn’t follow protocol, a situation like this can arise. The shoulder brace she was wearing when you came in—when was the last time it was washed?”
“I don’t think we’ve ever washed it, now that I think about it.”
“There you go,” he said, nodding. “Sweat probably built up in the fibers and attracted bacteria that transferred to Evelyn’s skin.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. It hadn’t occurred to me to wash the bulky brace. She always wore a T-shirt beneath it. “Why hasn’t she woken up yet?”
“She’s exhausted,” the doctor answered simply. “She should wake in the next couple of hours. In the meantime, you both should get some rest.”
As Evans and his students continued their rounds, I propped my feet on Evelyn’s bed and tried to go back to sleep. Despite my heavy eyelids, slumber wouldn’t come. Too many thoughts toiled in my head. Evelyn had been admitted to the hospital twice because of me. Perhaps I was doing her more harm than good.
Hoping for a distraction, I switched on the TV. After a few telenovelas and soap operas, I landed on the news.
“The Ripper struck again early this morning,” the reporter was saying. “After a scare on Henriques Street that ended up being a diversion, the Ripper attacked a woman in Mitre Passage, meters away from the police who were stationed there. The woman, forty-year-old Eira Kent from Wales, survived a cut to the throat, thanks to the intervention of an unknown bystander who chased the Ripper off and attempted to stop the bleeding until the paramedics arrived. Police pursued the attacker but were not able to track him down.” A live shot of Mitre Passage showed up on the screen. The area was swarming with police officers and investigators. “The witness described a tall man with fair hair wearing a long, hooded cloak. Be on the lookout for any persons who match this description. We’ll bring you updates as we receive them.”
The screen switched again, this time to show the street outside the police headquarters near Big Ben. The streets were filled with protestors, holding handmade signs that had messages like “Find the Ripper!” and “Do your job!” painted for all to see.
“In relation, riots have broken out in the streets of London,” the reporter went on. “After three attacks, two of which resulted in deaths, the police have not made any progress in identifying the new Ripper. The public is in an outrage, with belief rising that Scotland Yard is not working hard enough to apprehend the Ripper. Crowds have gathered at the crime scenes, police stations, and outside the Royal London Hospital, where survivor Eira Kent is currently being treated for her wounds.”
I went to the window and pulled the slatted shades apart to peer into the street. Down below, at least a hundred people had gathered. Most of them carried similar signs to those outside the new Scotland Yard, wishing Eira Kent well whilst condemning her attacker and the police officers who allowed it to happen.
I wobbled on my feet. Hours had passed since I’d had something to eat other than crisps. I checked on Evelyn once more then left the room to locate the cafeteria. Ten minutes later, with a muffin and a fresh cup of coffee in hand, I was heading back to Evelyn when a clipboard hanging on the wall caught my eye.
Eira Kent’s name was printed at the top. This was her room, right down the hall from Evelyn’s. I glanced both ways, saw no one, and tiptoed inside.
She was asleep. A massive bandage covered her neck. Like Evelyn, she was attached to a bag of IV medications. As I approached her bedside, her eyes fluttered open. When she saw me, she reached out. I quickly set down my breakfast and went to her.
“It’s you,” she said. Tears sprung to her eyes as she clung to my hand. When she spoke, her voice was rough with stress and exhaustion. “The staff told me I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.”
“Don’t move too much.” I positioned myself so that she wouldn’t have to turn her head to see me. “How are you feeling?”
“As well as possible,” she answered. “The doctor said the knife didn’t cut deep enough to sever my artery. That’s why I’m still here.” She winced and put a hand to the bandages around her neck. “Thank you for chasing the Ripper away. What’s your name?”
“Jacqueline.”
“You’re a saint,” she said.
I thought of Evelyn, who I’d put in danger to rescue Eira. “I’m not really. Why were you in Mitre Square so late at night anyway?”
Her chin trembled. “It’s embarrassing. I’ve already had to say it once.”
“To the cops?”
“Yes, they’ve been in and out all morning.”
“What did you tell them?” I asked.
Eira reached for a cup of water on her bedside table. I got the cup for her and helped her drink. She cleared her throat. “My husband and I have been on the rocks for a while. Months ago, I discovered he’d been cheating on me with his assistant, but he won’t divorce me, and I can’t afford to force him to. I can’t look at him anymore. I can’t be in the same room with him.” Her tears welled up again. “I’ve been spending as much time at the office as possible, working overtime to avoid going home. I don’t watch the news, and I forgot that last night was
