Was he struggling? He felt as if he were convulsed by forces stronger than himself. But he became calmer and more conscious of the gentle pressure of Marion’s hands.
“You’ll be all right,” she promised, “you’ll be all right.”
He was still; and he was hot; prickly heat affected his whole body, and there was a warm glow over his face. He tried to speak, and couldn’t move his lips.
“Don’t try to speak yet. You’ll be all right. You’ve had an operation on your face.”
He lay quite still, aware of the stiff warmth of his face, clearly understanding what had happened. The sparrow was a plastic surgeon; Kennedy had talked of the second stage in the transformation of Roger West—a transformation in his looks, of course.
He moved his right hand.
He felt the same warm stiffness at the tips of his fingers —so they’d taken the skin off them, and grafted new, to prevent identification through his finger-prints. But the prints would grow again; didn’t they know that?
“I’m going to help you to sit up,” said Marion. “Then I’ll feed you.”
Her arms were young and strong, and soon he reclined comfortably against the pillow. She put something to his lips and it seemed hard, cold, and round; like a cigarette. It was a rubber tube. Warm sweetness filled his mouth and he gurgled as it ran down his gullet.
“Are you fairly comfortable? Just nod.”
He nodded.
“Is there anything you want?”
He wanted freedom; Janet; the boys; all the things which were impossible to have. He shook his head.
“I’ll come and see you again, soon.”
He wanted to ask how long this would go on, but he couldn’t move his lips, and so had to let her go.
An hour or an age passed before she was back.
* * * *
“Mr. West, I want you to listen carefully to all I have to say.”
He nodded.
“You can talk now, if you try. Your lips are free of the bandages, but your chin and nose aren’t. If you try to talk without moving your lips much, you’ll manage.”
Old lags knew that trick; he’d often demonstrated for fun, and sent the boys off into peals of laughter. He tried now.
“Okay. I can hear.” The voice didn’t sound like his own.
Had they changed that?
“You’ll be here just for a day or two, and after that more of the bandages will be taken away and you’ll feel easier.”
“Okay.”
“There’s a cord above your head. Pull it if you want someone to come.”
“Thanks.”
“Would you like the radio?”
“No!”
“If you would, just pull the cord. And please remember this. I want to do everything I can to help. I know who you are now, I’ve seen the newspapers, and——”
She broke off in a choking voice, and he heard her rush out of the room.
* * * *
Routine.
Special feeding, liquids only; visits once a day from the sparrow. Radio music in half-hour doses. After the third day, some of the bandages were removed. The burning sensation went completely, but his face and fingers felt numb.
Routine: practise speaking; practise moving his fingers. Radio music; dull radio comedians, bright radio comediennes—no news. Never any news.
Routine: look forward to Marion’s visits. Wait for them. Hear a faint sound and hope she had entered. Feel sick with disappointment if she hadn’t, exhilarated if she had. Routine: stop thinking about Janet. Stop it, stop it! Stop an avalanche, stop the waves, stop thinking about Janet and about the boys.
Each day for seven days a little more of the bandage was removed.
On the eighth day, the awful darkness lifted, for the bandages and pads were removed from his eyes. He opened them to a subdued light, and the hazy face of the sparrow in front of him—a perky, peering sparrow, who seemed fully satisfied with the results.
“Two or three days now, and you’ll be all right, quite all right; perfectly satisfactory case. No complications. You’ll be weak, but you’ll get strong quickly.”
Routine:
