Major Bates had shuffled his papers. ‘It’s not that simple.’
But, in the end, it was. Bess had spoken to her mother in Kirkwall, then bounced into the infirmary one morning, her face bright.
‘There’s been a meeting. People on the island aren’t happy with the prisoners being mistreated.’ She’d grinned at me, and I’d tried to share her excitement but found it hard to believe that there had been any sort of protest on the behalf of foreign prisoners.
Still, early the next morning, there was a crowd of guards stamping around the Punishment Hut, looking nervous and resentful, as if expecting a repeat of the riot – although Angus MacLeod wasn’t among them.
And now here Cesare is. Coughing, stumbling, but alive.
He chokes, falters, falls. The guards pull him upright again by his arms and he gives a grunt of pain.
‘Let go of him!’ I call. The guards ignore me, their heavy boots thudding along the path. I follow them up to the infirmary, making a list of the things he will need. Honey, water and sulfa tablets for the infection. Some sort of soup or broth. Perhaps Con can fetch that from the mess.
Con. As if I’ve spoken her name aloud, she is there, next to me, watching me. Her arms are folded across her chest, her mouth pressed into a thin line.
Don’t say anything, I beg her silently. She doesn’t, but I can feel her judgement like a cold breeze icing my skin.
They take Cesare into the infirmary and lay him on a bed, where I try to make him drink some water, but he is coughing too much to swallow; his skin is hot and dry, like parchment ready for the fire. I wave the guards away, then sit and wipe a wet sponge over his head and arms and chest to bring his fever down. Under my hand, I can feel the flutter of his heartbeat in its cage, a trapped bird panicking.
Angus MacLeod walks into the infirmary. He stares at Cesare, then at me, his face set in a sneer. ‘No firing squad needed. Well done – you’ve made his death slow and painful.’
I want to launch myself at him, but Con is suddenly there, her hand on my shoulder. I can feel her trembling.
His face softens when he looks at her.
She speaks fast and low. ‘Are you looking to have that cut on your head opened up again, Angus?’
He slams the door as he leaves.
Con squeezes my shoulder. ‘You don’t know this prisoner, not really. He might be –’
I pull away. There is no point in trying to explain anything to her. All I know is that, from the first moment I saw Cesare, from the first moment he smiled, I felt as if I’d always known him and he me. But to say such a thing to Con would have invited mockery or jealousy, and I know it sounds ridiculous – like something from a story: Ferdinand and Miranda in The Tempest, or Lancelot and Guinevere, Romeo and Juliet.
‘He’s not like Angus,’ I say. Meaning, also, I’m not like you.
Con is still pressing my hand against her cheek, but she stops and stares at me, her eyes wide.
‘What?’ I snap, regretting my tone instantly, as she recoils.
‘You don’t understand anything.’ She drops my hand and stalks from the infirmary.
I don’t follow her, though she will want me to. I stay with Cesare, sponging his chest and holding a glass of warm honey water to his lips.
I sleep on the floor next to his bed that night, waking every hour to drip more water from my fingers into his mouth. I can’t get enough of it into him: when I try tipping the glass against his lips, the water dribbles down his chin. I think about the lambs and how, when we want them to swallow medicine, we syringe it into their mouths and massage their throats. I climb onto the bed and lie alongside him. It is nearly dark, just the dim, buttery glow from the single lamp in the corner of the room. All the other prisoners are sleeping. Cesare’s body is scorching against mine and, as I press against him, I can feel the ridges of his ribs, the hinge of his hips. I can imagine the delicate silk of his lungs expanding, struggling, contracting. When I touch him, his breathing steadies.
I make sure the other prisoners are still sleeping, then take a mouthful of the honey water and press my lips against his. His mouth is hot and dry. I drip the liquid into his mouth from mine, stroking his throat until he swallows. His lips are burning; he tastes metallic and sour. I press my mouth to his again and again, until the glass is empty. Then I sleep, my head resting on the bony hollow next to his shoulder.
It seems only minutes later that Con wakes me by shaking my arm roughly. Her jaw is hard and her eyes blaze.
‘Get up! What are you thinking?’ She grabs my hand and yanks me upright, but my muscles are leaden and I can’t find the strength to stand. I slump against her; she puts a hand to my forehead and curses softly.
‘Idiot,’ she murmurs, then puts me into the bed alongside Cesare’s.
Time bleeds into itself. I try to stay awake, but my eyes keep closing. One moment it is light and the next it is the middle of the night. Every time I open my eyes, Con is there: sponging my forehead, bringing me water, spooning honey into my mouth.
Occasionally I hear her muttering to herself. I’m aware of her gaze on me. Her fear is almost palpable. She rests her head on the pillow next to mine, strokes my hair, kisses my cheek.
‘You’ll get ill,’ I protest.
‘I don’t care.’
She tends Cesare too. Sometimes I wake to find her gazing at him, watching him breathe; it gives me some relief to know that she
