The Winter Rose (19 page)

"It's a new patient. Just came in. Off his head with fever."

"Where's the house surgeon?" Sister Malloy asked.

"There was a crash on the High Street. Two carriages and an omnibus.
Dr. Merrill's up to his neck. He asked me to fetch whomever's
available."

India could hear the screams coming from the emergency ward well
before she got there. As she burst through the swinging doors that
closed the cavernous, whitewashed room off from the rest of the
hospital, she saw three nurses and a medical student struggling to hold
down a man whose legs were mangled. Next to him, two more nurses were
cutting the clothes off an unconscious woman.

Dr. Merrill rushed past India with a keening child in his arms. "Bed
One. By the sink," he shouted. "Fever, hallucinations. Might be
infec-tious.... Evans! Chloral! Now!"

India ran to the far end of the ward, skidded on a slick of blood,
and righted herself. She saw Bed One and she saw a man stretched out on
it. At least, she thought he was a man, she could see his shoes and the
top of his head, but the rest of him was covered with jackets. Two men
stood near him in their shirtsleeves.

"What's going on here?" she asked, peeling the jackets away. "Why have you covered him like this? He can barely breathe!"

"He's freezin' to death, ain't he?" one of the men said. He had the
mashed nose of a brawler. "Where the hell you been, missus? Where's the
bloody doctor?"

"I am the bloody doctor," India replied. "What's his name?" As she
un-covered his face she realized with a start that she knew it already.
It was Sid Malone.

"I never heard of a lady doctor," the man blustered.

"Hold on, Tommy, she is a doctor. She's the doxie from Ko's. Remem-ber?" the second man said. He was young and wiry.

India didn't hear them; she was too busy taking her patient's vital
signs. His pulse was frighteningly weak, his breathing was shallow, and
his pupils constricted. He was barely conscious. The heat of his skin
told her that his fever was dangerously high, but when she tried to
insert a thermometer into his mouth, he struggled so violently that she
thought he would bite through the glass.

"How long has he been like this?" she asked, trying the thermometer once more. "Come on now, Mr. Malone."

"Since this morning," the wiry man replied.

India timed the thermometer, then pulled it out. "Good God. One
hun-dred and six. Has he vomited? Had any head pain? Rashes? Has he been
around ships or sailors?"

The man hesitated, then said, "He has a cut."

"A cut? Where?" India took Sid's hands in her own and turned them over, thinking she might have missed a puncture.

"Not there. On his side. His right side."

India opened Sid's jacket. Yellow and brown stains bloomed like
rotted flowers across his shirt. A dark, low odor hit her. She opened
his shirt, peeled away a makeshift dressing, then gasped. A yawning,
jagged wound ran from his armpit to his hip. Its edges were black and
weeping pus. She could see his ribs showing whitely through the ripped
fiesh. India knew she didn't have a second to lose. She scanned the
ward; it was bedlam. All the staff were busy with accident victims.

"You," she barked at the second man. "What's your name?"

He hesitated.

"Your name!"

"Frankie. Frankie Betts."

"Get his clothes off, Mr. Betts."

"What, all of them?"

"Yes! Now! Move! You"--she beckoned to Tommy--"come with me." She
rushed to the sink, plugged it, and turned on the cold tap. Then she
snatched half a dozen sheets from a shelf and tossed them in. "Wet them,
wring them, lay them on Mr. Malone."

"But how--"

"Just do it."

She raced to a glass cabinet and grabbed vials of quinine, chloral,
and carbolic acid. She veered off to the supply room and threw a basin,
needles, suturing silk, scissors, a scalpel, dressings, a cautery iron,
and a syringe onto a tray. She grabbed a second basin on her way out,
mindful that most people were not used to the smell of burning fiesh.

As she headed back to Bed One, she could hear Tommy insisting to
Frankie that Sid have a private room. They were barmy to have Sid in an
open ward, he said. He was off his nut. There was no telling what he'd
say, or who he'd say it to. What if someone heard him? What if Billy
Madden found out he was in the hospital? The sneaky sod would be
sniffing around their manor in no time.

"The doctor said he's to stay here for now. And here's where he's
staying. It's your fault he's in this condition, Tommy. I said we should
have brung him two days ago."

"You was wrong, Frankie! He said himself he wasn't goin' to no bleedin' hospital."

"Move!" India shouted.

Frankie stepped aside and India slammed her tray down on the table
next to Sid's bed. The two men had managed to get Sid undressed and were
swathing him with wet sheets.

"Make sure you wrap one around his head," she ordered, racing off one
last time to scrub her hands and fill one of the basins with hot water.

When she returned, she pulled a stool over to the bed with her foot.
Sid was completely encased in cold wet sheets and shivering
convulsively.

"How did this happen?" she asked, lifting his head and coaxing him to
swallow a dose of quinine to fight the fever. Neither man answered.
"Mr. Betts," she said, "I am a doctor, not a police constable. I don't
care what Mr. Malone was doing when he got this injury, but I need to
know how and when he was injured."

"Can you help him, missus?"

"That is precisely what I am trying to do."

"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.