"He fell into the river and hit a piling. Opened him right up."
India shook her head. Not the Thames. There was no place dirtier in all of London. "How long was he in the water?" she asked.
"About two hours."
"When?"
"Saturday night."
Today was Tuesday. The infection had been raging for three days. "Why on earth didn't you bring him in earlier?"
There was no reply. "Can you fix him?" Frankie asked.
"I can try. He's very ill. The wound is gangrenous."
"He's to have the best of care. We can pay. He's to have a private room, not no poxy bed in a common ward," Tommy said.
"I need him here right now. We can transfer him later."
"But he should be somewhere else, all quiet like."
"Keep delaying me and he'll only get worse," she said, dripping chloro-form onto a piece of gauze.
"Get out of it, Tommy. Let her work," Frankie said.
She held the gauze over Sid's nose and mouth. She gave him only enough to dull the pain, not enough to knock him out. He was too weak. He turned his head away from it, but she held the pad firm.
After a few more seconds she removed the pad and turned to Frankie Betts. "You," she said, "hold up his right arm. Up over his head. Like this. Put your other hand on his left shoulder. You," she motioned to Tommy, "hold his ankles."
"Why? What for? What are you doing?" Tommy asked nervously.
"Debriding. I'd advise you not to watch."
India grabbed another piece of gauze, rolled it, and inserted it between Sid's teeth. Then she sat down and swabbed carbolic onto his wound. Sid stiffened, then struggled against his men's hands.
"I can't do this, missus," Tommy said.
"Hold him now. You must hold him steady."
Tommy did not heed India's advice not to look, and within seconds he was retching. "The basin," she said, without looking up. He had ceased to exist for her. She'd become unconscious of everything, even herself. There was nothing, no one, except for her adversary--the infection. It was terri-ble. Draining and cleaning the wound alone wouldn't stop the gangrene. The outer layer of muscle had begun to blacken; she had to cut it away. She worked for more than an hour, carefully making her way down the length of the wound, her nimble fingers deftly cutting and swabbing, chasing the deadly rot, thwarting its progress. She felt Sid's ribs expand and contract with each breath, and listened closely for hitches or gurgles. She pressed her fingers inside his wrist every few minutes, feeling for his pulse, leaving bloody prints on his pale skin. Sid's blood flowed under her nails, over her knuckles, down the backs of her hands, and into her sleeves.
She was vaguely aware that his men shifted position now and again, when one of them needed the basin. She heard their groans, the sounds of them being sick. When she held the tip of the cautery iron to the end of a vein, she heard Frankie say that she wasn't a woman, she couldn't be. She realized that the only one who made no noise was Sid. He bit down on the gauze, he shook and strained, but he did not cry out. Not once. India knew the pain had to be excruciating, and was astonished by his toughness.
When she was satisfied that she had done all she could to arrest the infection, she sliced the ragged edges of the wound, then stitched them together. It was slow going. Sid had a good deal of puckered, thickened skin on his back and sides. She'd seen scar tissue like it before--on men who'd been in prison. Her eyes swept up from his side to his face, checking his color. She was surprised to see him looking back at her, clear-eyed and cognizant. It's the pain, she thought, it's dragged him back into con-sciousness.
He spat out the gauze. "Should never have tossed you out of Teddy Ko's," he rasped. "Found a way to get your own back, didn't you?"
"I'm very sorry for the pain, Mr. Malone," she said. "I don't dare risk narcotics on top of the chloral. You're too weak."
Sid's head fell back on his pillow. She took his temperature again. The mercury hadn't budged. She told Frankie and Tommy to remove the sheets. She was going to soak them again and try once more to break his fever.
"Is he going to be all right?" Frankie asked.
"I don't know," India said. "He has a tremendous fight ahead of him."
There was a hair-raising wail from a nearby bed. India saw Sid's eyes flicker open, saw him try to rise. "Lie back, Mr. Malone. It's all right." She turned to Frankie, who was busy bundling the wet sheets together. "I'm going to see about a private room. He needs quiet and rest. Sleep will help him fight the infection."
In the time since India had begun to treat Sid, some progress had been made with victims from the omnibus crash. She was able to find the ma-tron and explain what she needed. When India returned to Malone's bed-side, she found Sid shivering under freshly soaked sheets. Frankie Betts stood over him, stroking his forehead.
"Come on, guv," he said. "You've got to get up out of this. You've got to try." He told Sid how all the girls were languishing without him and that someone named Desi had a huge steak and a bottle of whisky waiting for him and all the dosh, too.
"We'll all buy ourselves the flashest togs in London when you're better and sovereign rings the size of dinner plates. You'd like that, wouldn't you, guv?" Tommy chimed in.
India listened, surprised at such a show of tenderness from these two hard men, then told them they must leave now and let their friend rest. She explained that he would be moving off the emergency ward shortly.
"Who'll be looking after him then?" Frankie asked.
"I will," India replied.
"He's to have the best of everything, missus," Tommy said. "We don't want no expense spared."
India was about to usher them to the door when three men suddenly ap-proached them. One wore a suit, the other two were constables in uniform.
"Is there a Dr. Jones here?" the one in the suit asked.
India just had time to say, "That's me," before Frankie started shouting.
"What are you doing here, Donaldson? What's your business here?"
"Mr. Betts, please do not--" India began.
"Well, well. Sid Malone, Mad Frank Betts, and Tommy Smith all in the same place. Must be my lucky day," Donaldson said. "You're all under ar-rest, lads."
India saw Sid swallow, saw his eyes flicker open. The noise had woken him. "Excuse me, but you can't--" she tried to say.
"I need to talk to your patient for a few minutes, Dr. Jones," Donaldson said, walking around India. "Here now ...get up, you!" he barked, prodding Sid.
"Now see here!" India said. "This is a hospital, not a police station. Mr. Malone is my patient, and I will do the talking!" Both Donaldson and Betts turned to look at her. "Mr. Malone is in no condition to answer any questions," she continued. "He's gravely ill."
"Mr. Malone, is it? That's rich," Donaldson said, smirking. He took a step back from the bed and looked at Frankie. "Well, if I can't question Sid, then you'll have to do."
"I've nothing to say to the filth," Frankie said.
"No? Nothing about a little job down the Stronghold Wharf?"
Frankie shrugged. "I have no idea what you're on about."
India tried again. "Mr. Betts, Mr. Donaldson, I must ask that you--"
"Gun running is a serious business, Frankie. If you know what's good for you, you'll pull out of it."
"Like your father should have."
"Why you..."
Sid's eyes flickered open again, just in time for him to see an enraged Donaldson punch Frankie in the face. Sid tried to sit up, but couldn't. "You bastard," he rasped. And then India's tray of medical instruments went sailing through the air, followed by the basin Frankie and Tommy had used.
"Son of a bitch!" Donaldson shouted, as vomit splashed over his shoes. "I'll kill you, Malone."
Sid was sitting up now. He'd pulled the wet sheets off himself and was trying to swing his legs down.
India could not believe what she was seeing. "Stop it! Stop it!" she shouted. "Get out of here now! All of you! Evans, call the orderlies!"
She ran to Sid, who was glassy eyed and raving and, using moves she'd learned on the Royal Free's psychiatric ward, knocked his arms out from underneath him and pinned him to the bed with her body.
"Lie down!" she shouted. "You'll rip the sutures!" He was much larger than she was and was thrashing wildly.
"Frankie! Tommy!" she yelled. The two men came to her aid, and together they were able to subdue Sid. Three orderlies appeared. They grabbed one of the wet sheets Sid had thrown off, ran it over his chest and under the bed, and tied it fast. They did the same with his legs. As soon as he'd been bound, India called for a syringe and sedative. She didn't want to use it, but she had no choice. He was out of control. His fresh white dressing was rapidly turning red. As she readied the dosage, she could hear Donaldson still talking.
"Officers, arrest these men," he said.
"Arrest us?!" Frankie spluttered. "What for? We haven't done nothing!"
"You stayed open past closing time."
"We what?"
"The Barkentine was open until four in the morning today. I had plainclothes officers in there. That's a violation of licensing laws."
"You must be joking!"
"Cuffs, please."
"It's a fucking fine for that, Donaldson, not jail! You know that!" Frankie shouted.
"That's for the magistrate to decide."
There was a second of silence, then India heard Tommy's anxious voice. "Don't, Frankie!" he said. "That's just what he wants. He wants you to hit him. He wants us all sent down. It's all right. Bowesie will come. He'll have us out in no time. Keep your head, lad."
Donaldson walked over to Sid's bedside. India had just pulled the needle out of his arm. "He'll have to come with us, I'm afraid, Dr. Jones," he said. "He's under arrest."
"That's quite impossible," India said, pressing gauze to Sid's vein. "If you move him, you'll kill him. Do that, and I will see you arrested, sir."
Donaldson angrily drew a pair of handcuffs from his belt and secured one of Sid's wrists to the bedframe. "Reed," he barked at one of the officers. "Stay here and guard Malone." India raised her head. Her eyes, glacially cold, held Donaldson's. "You will take those off my patient. Now," she said.
"I'm afraid I can't do that. He might run."
"Does he look like he's in any condition to run?" she snapped.
"It's your choice, Doctor. He can stay here cuffed or he can sit in a jail cell uncuffed."
India, fuming, turned to the officer. "See that you stay out of my way," she said.
As soon as the sedative began to take effect, India had Sid moved to a private room. She refused to let the constable into the room and made him sit in the hallway. His presence upset Sid. He was still muttering and thrashing his head and saying, "They're after me, they're after me."
India, desperate to quiet him, told him over and over again that he was all right, that no one was after him. She unwound the sheets that had held him, took off his dressing, and shook her head, furious. "Are you trying to kill yourself?" she asked. "Look what you've done!" She cut out the loose sutures and redid her work. Sid tried to get up once, straining so hard against the handcuffs that she could see the cords standing out in his neck. "Stop it, will you? For God's sake, lie still!"
He turned his head toward her, and in that instant she saw such a look of despair in his eyes that she caught her breath. Despite her hatred of what he was, and what he did, she felt compassion for him.
"Is this what your life is?" she asked. "This violence? This constant wariness?"
"What's that to you?" he said, before collapsing against his pillow.
When India finished suturing, she took Sid's temperature again. Still no change. As she was going to get more quinine, Dr. Gifford poked his head in the door. Ella Moskowitz was right behind him, jotting down notes as he dictated them.
"Dr. Gifford, Sister Moskowitz," India said by way of a greeting.
"I'm leaving for the night, Dr. Jones," Gifford said. "Thought I'd check in first." He gave Sid a cursory glance. "Heard about this one. Looks like he's on his way out."
Anger boiled up inside India. Sid was in and out of consciousness. He might have heard that. "He's strong. He's fighting it. I can bring him through," she said, a bit louder than she needed to, hoping that if Sid had heard Gifford he would hear her, too.
"Mmm. Well. Wouldn't waste my time on the likes of him if I were you. Most annoying if he does die, though. That will be two in one night and a damned lot of paperwork tomorrow."
"Two?" India echoed.
"Yes," Gifford said. "We lost Elizabeth Adams. An hour ago."
India remembered her. Elizabeth was the woman Gifford had told was pregnant and whom she had wanted to examine for a uterine mass.
"What did she die of?" India asked.
"Uterine cancer."
"Ah."
"It was completely inoperable, of course."
India nodded, knowing that though most cancers became inoperable, they didn't start out that way. Knowing, too, that Mrs. Adams might possi-bly be alive tonight, at home putting her children to bed, if an attempt had been made to arrest the tumor months ago.
"You'll learn that you can't always go by the book, Dr. Jones. In time, as you gain more experience, you'll get a better feel for these things. Some-times it's more merciful to give patients hope instead of truth. Sister Moskowitz, I'll want those notes on my desk first thing in the morning."
"Yes, Dr. Gifford," Ella said.
India waited until she heard his footsteps fade, then angrily turned to Ella. "I remember Mrs. Adams. I remember her telling me about the pain she was feeling and the terrible exhaustion. Where, exactly, is the hope in that?"
"Now, India--"
"This is impossible. He makes a mockery out of the Hippocratic Oath. I
swear to God, Ella ...the ngs that he says, his archaic views ...I don't feel like a doctor in his employ. I...I feel like a prostitute." She whispered the last word.
"Wish you were. You'd make us a lot more money. What's in the fund, anyway?"
India sighed. "Fifty-eight pounds, five shillings."
"Quit and we won't even have that. You'll need it to pay your rent."
"You're quite right. I'm sorry. I just get so angry. �Sometimes, it's more merciful to give patients hope instead of truth,' " she said, mimicking Dr. Gifford's pompous delivery. "What about both, Ella? Why can't we give them both?"
"We can. We will. Just not quite yet."
India nodded unhappily. "Do you know that when I was first interviewing with him, people told me he was a godly man. Can you imagine?"
Ella's dark eyes shone with mischief. "He is a godly man, India. Only problem is, he thinks he's God."
India laughed despite herself. Ella could do that--get her to laugh no matter how angry she was. It calmed her, enabling her to get her mind off whatever was bothering her and back onto her work.
"Who's this, then?" Ella asked, nodding at her patient.
"Sid Malone."
"You're joking!"
India said she wasn't and explained what had happened to him.
Ella immediately went to his bedside, took Sid's hand in hers, and squeezed it. "Gott in Himmel," she said. "What's the world coming to when grown men lark about in bed all day?"
"Ella? Is that you?" Sid rasped.
"Shh. Don't talk."
"No chance with you, luv."
"You rest up now. You're in good hands. The best. Just say your prayers that me mum don't catch wind of this. She'll be over here right quick pouring so much chicken soup down you, you'll grow feathers. Sleep now, all right?"
Sid nodded and Ella walked to the door. "He's as hot as a steampipe. I hope he pulls through. He's a good bloke."
"Sid Malone? A good bloke?" India said.
"Better than many."
"Ella, how on earth do you know Sid Malone?"
"He eats at the caff. Him and his lads. Once, a bunch of yobs came in, looking to start trouble. Four good-si
zed lads. They pushed Yanki, made him drop the tray he was carrying. Then they cursed at me dad and mum, called my sister Posy over and told her she was a dirty Yid. Said that to a lit-tle tiny girl, India." Ella shook her head and India could see the fury in her eyes. "Sid was there that day. Eating dinner. Him and Frankie. He told me mum to take Posy upstairs and then him and Frankie took those lads out on the pavement and beat them silly."
"Just the two of them?"
Winter Rose, The Page 16
