Angela nodded, too afraid to even speak, not with Garston looming over her, looking for an excuse to lash out.
There was a knock on the door.
“Who’s that?” Garston asked, suddenly looking worried. Rodent had a key, and they weren’t expecting visitors. And then he remembered that Cribbins was meant to be popping around, and he let out a sigh of relief.
“Make yourself useful,” he said, shoulder barging Angela out of the way. “Clean Claude’s wound while I let our guest in.”
Angela went over to the bed and began to remove Claude’s bandages. “How are you feeling?” she asked him.
He shrugged grumpily. “How would you be feeling with half your insides hanging out?”
Angela wondered why men were prone to such over-exaggeration. She was just about to peel the dressing back when she noticed some tablets in plastic foil on the bedside table, next to a half-drunk glass of water. “He got you some antibiotics, then?” she observed.
Winston grunted. “Just gave me the first couple of pills. Massive things, they are too. Had trouble swallowing the fucking things.”
Just then, Garston returned with Cribbins. The latter was carrying a small brown medical bag of the type favoured by doctors making house calls.
“Who the fuck’s this motherfucker?” Winston demanded, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously. Garston noticed his right hand had slipped under his pillow, where the gun was no doubt hidden. He raised his hands placatingly. “It’s all cool, Claude,” he said hurriedly. “This is Horace. He’s come to stitch up your wound.”
Winston’s hand slowly reappeared from beneath the pillow. Thankfully it was empty. “You took your motherfucking time coming,” he complained. “Fucking useless wanker.”
Ignoring the insult, Horace Cribbins opened his bag and removed a pair of rubber gloves. “You’re a lot more vocal than my normal clients,” he said conversationally.
Garston and Angela exchanged nervous glances, suddenly allies again. If Winston found out what Cribbins did for a living, and what he had been dismissed for doing in his previous occupation, he was quite likely to shoot all three of them.
“Let’s have a look at the wound, shall we?” the white-haired embalmer said, demonstrating the perfect bedside manner. He sat down next to the gangster and gently peeled the dressing back. Winston swore as the sticky gauze came away, but Cribbins took no notice of the outburst.
“Hmmm,” he said, examining the wound. “There was obviously widespread infection of the inner lining of the abdomen, which is why the surgeon has made a wider than usual incision. The procedure is called a laparotomy.”
“Do I look like I give a flying fuck what it’s called?” Winston growled. “Just sow the damn thing up so I can move around again.”
“It looks like there has been some bleeding under the skin, which is why there’s a firm swelling here,” he indicated an area below the scar. “That’s called a haematoma,” he said with a helpful smile. “It should get better on its own, but if you’re concerned you can always consult your GP.”
“There was some puss coming out of the wound yesterday,” Angela said, “but that seems to have eased off now.”
“He might still have an infection, but the antibiotics you’re giving him should take care of that. Is this them?” he asked, picking up the tablets and reading the label. His eyes narrowed and he turned to Garston with a questioning look on his face. “But these are –”
“Horace, let’s just concentrate on stitching up the wound for now, and we can discuss Claude’s medication later,” Garston said, grabbing the embalmer’s arm and squeezing hard.
“Ouch,” Cribbins yelped. “That hurt.”
“The boy’s right,” Winston said impatiently. “Just get your needle and thread out and patch me up.”
“Very well, “Cribbins said, still rubbing his arm. He turned to Angela. “What have you been cleaning the wound with?”
“Iodine,” she said.
“That won’t do,” Cribbins told her sternly. “Warm soapy water is what’s required. Can you get me some, please?”
Angela bristled. “Why are you asking me to get it?” she demanded. “Is it because I’m a woman?”
“No,” Cribbins told her patiently. “I’m asking you because you strike me as being far more capable than him,” he indicated Garston with a jut of his chin.
“Oh,” Angela said, genuinely surprised. “In that case, I’ll get right on it.”
Cribbins raised an eyebrow. “According to the news reports, Mr Winston, you’ve been running around fighting with the police. That wasn’t very wise, was it? Didn’t your surgeon tell you to avoid any strenuous exercise for the first two to four weeks after the operation?”
Winston looked from Cribbins to Garston. “Is this dude shitting me?” he asked. He couldn’t tell if the man was being serious or taking the piss out of him.
“Mr Winston,” Cribbins said with a fatherly smile, “In a few minutes I’m going to stitch you up, but the sutures won’t be any stronger than the ones you were given in hospital. The point I am trying to make is that if you exert yourself too much there is a very good chance they will tear apart and you will be back to square one.”
“So, what? I’m supposed to be bedridden while I recover? That what you’re trying to say?”
“You can move around slowly and carefully, ideally with assistance. You cannot roll around on the floor, fighting with policemen. That’s what I’m trying to say.”
Angela returned with the soapy water and towels. They weren’t exactly clean, but they were the best she could come up with.
After washing and drying the wound, Cribbins set about stitching it up. “We don’t have anything to give you for the pain, I’m afraid, so you’ll just have to grin and bear it.”
“Get on with it,” Winston snapped. “I’m not a pussy. I can cope with a few stitches without crying like a baby.”
“Let’s hope you can,” Cribbins said. Without another word, he removed the equipment he needed from his medical bag and laid it out
