The door opened and Dr Van Den Bergh emerged with another doctor. Evie jumped to her feet.
‘Mrs Barrington, can we have a word? This is my colleague Dr Fabian. He’s our expert in tropical medicine and infectious diseases.’ Seeing Evie hesitate, he added, ‘It won’t take long and afterwards you can see Mr Barrington.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’ Arthur’s voice was tender and concerned.
She shook her head and followed the two medical men down the corridor and into an office.
It was Dr Fabian who spoke. ‘You need to prepare for the worst, Mrs Barrington. Your husband has deteriorated during the night. While we can’t confirm septicaemia until we have time for the blood cultures to show it, he has the symptoms. His breathing is rapid, he has a high fever and his blood pressure is dangerously low. He’s passing no water and there are signs that organ failure is beginning. It’s also possible that his kidneys were crushed in the impact of the fall and that is contributing to their failure.’
Evie gasped. It was too late. She looked at Dr Van den Bergh, who shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do now except make him as comfortable as possible.’
The room was spinning around her and she tried to make her mind focus. ‘But the drugs? Are you saying they didn’t work?’
‘The conditions he was lying in at the bottom of that mine shaft and the high temperatures made his open wounds a breeding ground for bacteria,’ said Dr Fabian. ‘Sulpha drugs are the most effective we have at combatting bacteria, but to be honest your husband was probably already beyond our help by the time they got him out of the mine. He was down there for more than fifteen hours. My opinion is that, even had we removed the limb last night, it would have been too late to halt the progress of the disease. It was already almost twenty-four hours after he sustained the injuries before we received him here.’
She was trembling. ‘How long does he have?’
‘It’s hard to say. He has a strong constitution but he has been through a lot and his resistance is extremely low. I’d say it’s a matter of hours. I very much doubt he’ll survive another forty-eight, and it may be less. I’m sorry.’
Evie couldn’t take it in. It was too fast. Time was running out. She was utterly helpless. ‘Is he conscious?’
‘Barely. He’s drifting in and out. We’re giving him a lot of pain relief and that makes him very drowsy. As his body gradually loses function he will drift into a coma. I suggest you go in and say your goodbyes, Mrs Barrington.’
Walking back down the corridor, Evie was unsteady on her feet. She took large gulps of air and forced herself not to give way to tears. She had to be strong for the children. She had to find a way to be strong for herself. Douglas was the father of her child, the man she had tried so hard to love and who had, in his awkward way, claimed to love her.
Arthur was waiting where she’d left him. She quickly told him the prognosis and he closed his eyes and his mouth set hard. ‘I’m so awfully sorry, Evie. For Doug and for you and the children.’ His eyes were welling but his voice was steady.
She avoided his gaze. ‘I’m going in to see him. I’d like some time alone then you can see him.’ Heart hammering against her ribs, and skin prickling, she went into the room.
Doug lay surrounded by tubes, one from an oxygen cylinder into his nose, another attached to a plastic bag, presumably a catheter, a drip attached to his arm, his eyes shut, his breathing jagged. Evie approached the bedside, shocked at the deterioration in his appearance. A nurse was shaking a thermometer and frowned as she noted the reading down on a chart that hung on the end of the bed. Only six months ago, Evie had lain in a similar bed in the same hospital holding their new baby, with Doug as her visitor. How was it possible that here they were, the same people in the same place, yet in such horribly different circumstances?
‘Is he unconscious?’ she asked the nurse.
‘He’s semi-conscious. But he may not be able to speak.’
Evie wanted to scream.
‘So I’m too late?’
‘No. Talk to him. He might respond, and if he doesn’t, he’ll hear you. The last sense to leave is hearing. I’ll give you some privacy. I’ll be just down the corridor if you need me.’
When she was gone, Evie sat at the bedside. She was afraid. This stranger wasn’t Doug. This couldn’t possibly be her strong and athletic husband: the man with a powerful tennis serve, the tuan besar who walked for hours around his rubber estates giving orders, his dog at his side, the man who had fathered two children and loved to drink whisky, the man of changing and unpredictable moods, and of few words, the husband who struggled to express his feelings and who had sometimes caused her to doubt he had any. The man lying in front of her was grey-faced and wizened, his breath barely discernible, his body broken, his strength gone.
Her over-riding emotions were pity and sadness. How had it come to this? How was it possible that a split second’s inattention had led to this shocking transformation and imminent death?
Swallowing her fear, she wrapped her warm fingers around his cold ones. There was no response. It took an act of will for her to speak to him, as if she were already addressing a corpse.
‘Doug, my darling, can you hear me? It’s Evie. I’m here. The nurse says even if you seem to be asleep you can probably hear me.’
No response.
‘I have a
