Another Life (26 page)

‘What about Sandra Applegate?’

Jack was shrugging his greatcoat over his shoulders. ‘What about her?’

‘D’you think she’s human?’

Jack gave them a wave as he left. ‘Enjoy your dive, ladies.’

Gwen wasn’t any more reassured as the door closed behind him.

Owen knew it wasn’t like brushing aside the local pointy-heads when he and the Torchwood team cruised into a scene of crime. When they knew that their reputation, their previous contacts, the whole
look
of them as they swept through the existing security cordon, was all the authority that they needed to operate unchallenged. The staff here would know nothing of Torchwood. There would be no scare stories, whispered among the staff as cautionary tales, of petty bureaucrats peremptorily brushed aside, or their careers stalled because they stepped in Torchwood’s way and got trampled.

‘I don’t understand, Dr Harper,’ said Majunath. ‘I thought you said you were the relief SHO for this evening’s shift?’ Was Majunath going to question his police credentials, now? Owen knew from his own former career in A&E that doctors relished the opportunity to put the police in their place when it came to clinical priorities. Majunath had his personal authority at stake from the moment that ID card appeared under his nose. And Owen needed Megan to see him in control, to show her how Torchwood was an organisation that could get things done, take control. An organisation that she would want to join.

It was the storm that saved him from Majunath’s suspicion. A fresh gurney stretcher crashed through the doors at the far end of the ED, with paramedics clinging to it as though they were launching a bobsled. It finally careered to a slippery stop beside Majunath. Both paramedics were drenched, water still cascading off their fluorescent jackets. The taller one exhaled upwards to blow the rain off his face and out of his floppy ginger hair. ‘Four more on the way,’ he explained to Majunath breathlessly. More water flicked onto the floor as he nodded at the unfortunate victim on the gurney. Owen noted quickly that the boy was probably early teens, unconscious, intubated, very cyanosed.

‘Water taxi capsized in the Bay,’ the paramedic was saying. He twisted the gurney through ninety degrees, and pushed it on through the doors of resus, all the while rattling off his diagnosis and the treatment he’d already given.

‘I thought we were trying to divert patients to Royal Gwent?’ Majunath snapped at the new arrivals.

‘Storm’s heading that way, too’ explained Megan.

Majunath groaned. ‘Swansea, then? St David’s?’

‘Well, this little lad is here
now
,’ muttered the red-haired paramedic.

Majunath reacted immediately, professional once more. ‘I’ll take this one,’ he told Megan. ‘You and Doctor Harper take the next as they arrive.’ He snapped a swift glanced at his wristwatch. ‘You may need to extend your shift, I’m afraid.’ He bellowed into the air: ‘Auxiliary? There’s more water to mop up here.’ And then he was gone, the doors into resus flapping behind him.

Owen seized Megan’s hand. ‘Come on. We need to check out Sergeant Applegate first.’

‘Sergeant Applegate? You mean you
know
this woman?’ Megan allowed him to lead her further down from the curtained cubicles, to the first of several small examination rooms. Just before they stepped in, Owen felt Megan hold back. She didn’t let go of his hand, but she stared at him warily. ‘She has a gunshot wound, Owen. And you had a gun…’

He squeezed her hand in reassurance. ‘I don’t know how she got shot. I do know that it wasn’t me.’ He pulled her into the cubicle and closed the door.

Sandra Applegate lay on the trolley, pale and still, her breath shallow but regular. Owen could see from the monitors that she was stable. He briefly examined the saline drip that was attached to Applegate by a long, clear tube, and then checked the other attachment, a bag of group O blood.

Megan was considering the patient notes, and looking surprised. ‘She’s not bad for someone who’s lost a lot of blood. She has a gunshot wound to the lateral portion of her upper arm. Proximal humerus fracture, with the bullet retained beneath the scapula. They anticipated removing the bullet arthroscopically.’

Owen came around the bed and read the notes over her shoulder. ‘That’ll avoid a traditional exposure. Good thing too, it means not complicating her fracture care.’ He was close behind Megan, so near that he could breathe in deeply and smell her short, dark hair. The antiseptic tang of the Emergency Room faded away around him. He closed his eyes, inhaled again, and the scents of her room came back to him. The sweet, chocolate fragrance of Angel Innocent, an indulgence almost as surprising as finding himself in bed with Megan. The lingering notes of the Château La Fleur on her hot breath. The musky warmth of post-coital cotton sheets. The fusty familiarity of an old-fashioned woollen blanket, pulled up over his face.

‘They
anticipated
the arthroscopy?’ he asked, suddenly back in the room. ‘Why did they change their minds?’

Megan indicated the small table beside the patient’s bed. In a kidney-shaped metal bowl they could both see a bloodied bullet. ‘The bullet was subsequently found on the bed-sheet. The examining doctor suggests it must have worked its way out.’

Owen was about to comment on how unlikely that was when the cubicle door opened behind them. He stepped back from Megan, his movement betraying his guilt, and almost collided with a rangy, long-haired man in a scruffy white coat. From his stooped posture, his five-o’clock shadow and the rings below his eyes, this was a junior doctor coming to the end both of his shift and of his patience. The new arrival surveyed Owen with barely concealed hostility. ‘This isn’t your patient.’ A statement made as an accusation.

‘She is now.’ Owen bridled. He fumbled in his jacket for the ID, and waggled it dismissively under the guy’s nose. He was unsure whether he was offended by this young doctor’s manner or being interrupted with Megan or being found close to her.

Megan swivelled around to face this other doctor. ‘Jonny,’ she smiled smoothly. ‘I was really curious about this bullet. How did you manage to extract it? The notes say you were all set for arthroscopic intervention.’

‘Oh, Megan, hi…’ Jonny considered this for a moment. ‘Beats me. I was sure it was lodged in the subacromial space. Bugger of a job to extract, but it looked right up Freeman’s street.’

‘That’s out in Newport, right?’ observed Owen.

Megan elbowed him. ‘Not helping,’ she hissed. ‘Mr Freeman’s very keen on promoting the Trust’s minimal invasive procedures.’

‘I must have been mistaken,’ admitted Jonny glumly. He thumbed both his eyes in a reflex gesture, tiredness seeming to overwhelm his anger. ‘Unless the bullet worked its way out on its own. Or the pressure dressing I applied is like a really powerful magnesium sulphate. Ha, ha!’ His mirthless laughter at his own medical joke was cut short by the start of a huge, unstifled yawn.

Owen saw his opportunity. ‘They’re bringing more in from that capsized water taxi. Mr Majunath said we should remind you that he’s asking everyone to extend their shifts—’

Jonny let out a groan to rival the noisy thunderstorm outside.

‘—and we’ve already extended. So if you crack on with the new arrivals, we can finish off with this patient.’ He studied Jonny’s wary reaction, and added slyly: ‘No need to make a big fuss about the thing with the bullet.’

The junior doctor’s tired eyes lit up briefly at this exit strategy. ‘OK. And you’ll want these. Radiology finally sent her second set down.’ He passed over a broad brown folder, and slipped out before Owen could change his mind.

Owen activated the light-box on the wall, and the fluorescent tubes stuttered into life. He slotted the films into place, and pointed out a detail to Megan.

‘Another bullet,’ Megan breathed. ‘But there’s no visible damage to the mid-thoracic vertebral bodies. No bone fragments. Little or no tissue damage.’

‘Think it through,’ Owen said. ‘A gunshot wound to the spine would cause further nerve and tissue injury, even further from the bullet’s path.’

‘Nothing in the notes here.’

‘She jumped in front of the ambulance, remember that? She was mobile. So unless one of the paramedics shot her in the ambulance, that thing was already there.’ Owen took the folder from her and closed it. ‘It’s not a bullet. And I’ve seen it before, in an autopsy.’

Megan was astonished. ‘What is all this, mate? You knew about this patient before you came here. What makes her so special?’

‘Apart from that thing in her spine, you mean?’ Owen checked Applegate’s monitors again, satisfied himself that she was stable, before he sat down on one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘We’ve been looking for her all day.’

‘We? Oh, Torchwood, right.’ She sat down next to him. ‘Why
is
she so important?’

Owen looked into Megan’s hazel eyes. She wasn’t questioning his motives any more. She wasn’t quizzing him about Torchwood. Megan wanted to know about this mysterious woman; she looked to him for the answers. She wanted in, he could sense it now, and he had control. So it grated that he didn’t know.

Why
did
Torchwood need to locate Applegate so urgently?

When Jack had phoned in to the Hub earlier, Owen had felt trapped and powerless. He wanted to be out there with them, with Jack and Toshiko. Not leaving it to them and the
new girl
. He hadn’t felt those emotions, not like that, since way back when he first joined Torchwood. Those first few days, when he’d been overwhelmed by the newness and the strangeness and the
alien-ness
of everything he’d been asked to do. When he’d driven home and thrown up in the sink, every night for eight days. So to feel that familiar sick impotence in his stomach when Jack had phoned in to demand that he stay put, to do the research, to leave the rest of them to it… That had fermented into a kind of bitterness, an anger. He’d grudgingly accepted his research role earlier. Finished it with his usual efficiency, if not his usual diligence, and then left.

At least he could tell Megan what he’d found.

‘Why
is
she so important?’

Owen watched Applegate’s chest rise and fall rhythmically under the hospital gown. Her short blonde hair stuck out awkwardly on the white pillow. ‘She is a brave and resourceful soldier. And we think she’s mixed up in something she can’t control. Something that’s got out of hand.’ He turned away from the prone body of Applegate on the bed, and leaned in conspiratorially towards Megan’s chair. ‘Thirty-four years old, unmarried, only child, parents both deceased. Her army record is remarkable. Currently a respected trainer at Caregan, but she’s got a string of awards and recognition, starting at only 21. Got a commendation for bravery and swift action after a shooting incident near her posting while she was off-duty. Most recently she has a QCVS and a QCB from separate tours of duty in Afghanistan. In Khost, she was injured in a sniper attack, but remained in position to neutralise the gunman’s fire while the rest of the patrol drew back, and only then did she get her injuries seen to.’

‘You sound impressed.’

‘Wouldn’t you be? For fun, she works with a charity for blind ex-Service personnel on hundred-metre dives at Dahab in the Red Sea.’

‘I bet she’s kind to animals, too,’ said Megan. ‘And you got all this by researching her Army records?’

‘She has no significant financial commitments, sometimes rents a small place in Porthcawl because it’s handy for scuba diving. Her credit record is OK. No overdraft. She pays off her Visa on time, in full, every month—’

‘Hang on, Owen! You don’t get that sort of information from a quick search on the Internet!’

‘That’s every month, without notable exceptions,’ continued Owen relentlessly. ‘And the Visa bill’s rarely more than three hundred quid, except when she bought herself some specialist diving equipment. So it’s got to have been something really unusual, something outside the control of this brave and resourceful and organised woman, to cause her to go AWOL twenty-three days ago, wouldn’t you think?’

Megan had her head in her hands now. ‘How can you know all this?’ She considered Owen, perhaps seeing him differently yet again this evening. ‘I don’t even have to ask really, do I? And all that stuff about the sniper incident and her injuries… maybe that’s why she’s coped so well with her wounds tonight. But hang on, you’re not shooting at her, Torchwood doesn’t want to kill her. So who does?’

Owen pondered the question. In the ensuing silence, he could hear that Applegate’s breathing had changed. She was snuffling, short staccato snorts that soon turned into coughing.

Megan moved swiftly to the bedside and calmed Applegate, who was struggling with the oxygen mask.

‘Have you been awake for long?’ Owen asked her from the foot of the bed.

Applegate peered at him, waiting for the cough to subside. ‘For a few minutes. Just long enough to hear your very kind biography of me. Not to mention your routine as my new independent financial advisor.’ She raised a wavering hand to dismiss Owen’s attempt to explain. ‘I don’t need you to say where you got that information. Unlike your colleague here…?’