As he tips the shovel to one side and the rock slides off, there is a shout and Gino is suddenly there, grabbing his hand. The stone falls, glances off Cesare’s toes and rolls onto Gino’s foot.
A beat, half a breath. The pain is exquisite. Cesare can hear howling – his own, and Gino’s, then the shout of the guard and hands pulling him upright, though he hadn’t been aware of falling to the ground. And the guard’s face is close to his, shouting words that Cesare cannot, for a moment, understand.
‘Let go! Let me see.’ The guard is pulling Cesare’s hands away from his foot and Cesare doesn’t want to let go, wants to hold onto the pain somehow, keep it trapped beneath his fingers. Someone yanks his hand away and the guard looks at his battered boot, curses, then turns to Gino, who is still doubled up on the ground.
‘Shit!’ the guard says, after seeing Gino’s foot, which, from the state of his boot, looks crushed. ‘Take them up to the infirmary.’
And then there are arms supporting him: Antonio is on one side and on his other is Marco, the man from Cesare’s hut who had called him a traitor when he’d translated the guard’s orders. In the weeks since, Marco has occasionally glared at Cesare, but hasn’t pushed or threatened him – they have dug together, shivered together, torn through dry bread and thin soup together. On occasions, when Marco has wheeled the barrow towards Cesare, they have locked eyes and there has been a moment of understanding.
Now his arm is slung across Marco’s shoulder and he can smell the other man’s sweat.
Cesare’s foot throbs. Next to him, Gino moans. His boot is misshapen and blackening with blood. Cesare looks away. ‘Mi dispiace,’ he says to Gino. ‘Scusi.’
But Gino waves away his apologies.
When they reach the infirmary, warmth and light enclose them. Most of the twenty bunks are free. Antonio and Marco sit them down on beds near the door, then collapse onto beds themselves, panting.
The nurse taps rapidly towards them, her footsteps sounding irritated. She introduces herself as Nurse Croy: young, neat and blonde-haired, with the strong accent of these parts. They try to explain what happened. She waves Antonio and Marco away, tight-lipped, pointing them towards the door, her eyes never leaving the bright red targets on their uniforms.
After they have left – not without protest – she turns back to the two injured men. Gino has gone very pale and is lying on the bed.
She claps her hands at him. ‘No, you don’t! No lying down in that dirty uniform.’
She waits, hands on her hips. Then, when Gino doesn’t move, she leans forward and pokes him.
‘He is hurt,’ says Cesare, through gritted teeth, his own foot throbbing. ‘A rock falls onto his foot. My foot also.’
‘You speak English.’ Nurse Croy frowns at Cesare. Her eyes flick again towards those red targets, then away.
He attempts to smile. ‘Some. A little.’ When her expression doesn’t soften, he says, ‘I learn in church.’
‘Well, you must tell your friend that he can’t lie down. The doctor will be across from Kirkwall later today, but your friend must put these pyjamas on if he wants to lie down. Otherwise, he needs to get off my clean sheets.’
She throws a pair of pyjamas at each of them. The material is soft and slightly warm; Cesare has to stop himself pressing them to his face, stroking the fabric across his cheek and inhaling.
His foot throbs. He heaves himself upright, then rouses Gino enough for him to stand and for them to hobble together behind the curtain where the nurse had indicated they should get changed. They nearly fall on two occasions, but Cesare manages to lean Gino against the wall and a filing cabinet, then encourages him to step into the trousers. He daren’t take their boots off, daren’t look at the damage.
His throat is dry with guilt. It is hard to swallow, hard to know what to say to Gino, whose face is pale and gleams with sweat. Cesare whispers apologies with every breath.
He doesn’t know where to put their uniforms, but is ashamed to leave the muddy clothing on the floor for the young, harried-looking nurse to pick up, so he hangs them over the back of a chair, half folding them so that the red targets are hidden.
They limp back through and Cesare helps Gino onto a bed, to lie diagonally so that his boots don’t touch the mattress, before he himself sinks onto the crisp white sheets.
When Nurse Croy marches back through the ward, she eyes their pyjamas, glances at their boots and nods.
‘That’s better. The doctor will be across soon.’ Her voice is softer now and, as Cesare watches her giving water to the other three prisoners in the infirmary – all of whom have a hacking cough – her hands are gentle.
‘Thank you,’ he says, when she brings him the water. ‘You are nurse for a long time?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I’ve three younger sisters and two little brothers, so we need the extra food and the money. I didn’t want to work with the prisoners, but now you’re all coming across to Kirkwall anyway.’ She shrugs.
‘Italians in . . . Kirkwall?’ He forms the unfamiliar word. ‘Where is this?’
‘The Orkney mainland.’ She gestures. ‘Just across the water.’
He’s heard nothing of it: the men are put into their groups in the morning in the camps and who knows where they go?
‘Who is going to this Kirkwall?’ he asks.
‘Oh, no one yet,’ she says. ‘They decided it just two days ago. Some of you will be coming across to help with the farm work, so we all have more food. No one’s happy about it. But my mother said that if we were having prisoners among us anyway I should try to earn some extra food for the family.’ She is staring at the glass of water
