The Winter Rose (67 page)

"Give me a curette," she said.

Dwyer handed her a tool that was long and slender and shaped like a
spoon. India eased it into the wound, listening for a click of metal
against metal. When she heard it, she pushed the stem of the curette
into the wall of the wound, hoping to ease the narrow bowl around and
under the bullet.

Joe groaned and thrashed as she did it.

When he was quiet again, she started to slowly, carefully withdraw the curette.

"Come on ...come on..." she whispered.

And then she saw it--the bullet. She'd hooked it. She reached for her
tweezers again and this time she could grasp it. She pulled it out and
dropped it into a metal pan. A bright gush of blood followed it. Working
like lightning, she and Ella packed the wound with sterile gauze,
trying to stanch the bleeding. The gauze soaked through immediately.
They took it out and started again. And again.

"Shit," a voice said. It was Harriet. She was holding the metal pan
and peering at the whitish substance clinging to the bullet. "Lung
tissue. Poor sod. He's cooked."

"No, he's not. He's got a chance," India said. "It's his lung, not his heart. The ribs deflected it."

Lung tissue was elastic; it healed better than other organ tissue.
Patients with lung wounds recovered--sometimes. If the bleeding stopped
soon enough. If the infection was slight enough. If the body was strong
enough.

India looked at the gauze underneath her fingers. It had soaked through again.

"Bloody hell," she swore. She stared at Joe, frowning, then suddenly stepped back and ripped her gloves off.

"What are you doing?" Harriet asked.

"He's lost too much blood," she said. "I want to transfuse him."

"You can't. It's too risky. Transfusions kill as many patients as they cure. You know that. He could die if we do it."

"He will die if we don't."

"We should type him and cross match."

"There's no time, Harriet! We'll use my blood. I'm C."

India knew that what she was doing was dangerous. Blood typing was in
its infancy. Three major groups--A, B, and C--had been identified. It
was known that mixing type A blood with type B caused fatal reactions,
and that type C could be mixed with either. No one knew exactly why and
at this moment India didn't care. All she cared about was saving Joe
Bristow's life.

"Indy, he needs a lot," Harriet said. "Maybe more than you can give."

"We'll start with a pint," India said. She had already rolled up her
sleeve. She'd grabbed a length of rubber tubing and tied it around her
upper arm, and was now pulling it tight with her teeth.

"Come on, Hatch, you're good at this," she said, handing Harriet a
syringe. "You saved a man at the Royal Free with a transfusion. I saw
you."

"And I killed two more," Harriet said, swabbing the inside of India's
elbow. She tapped the pale skin there, then sank the needle into a thin
blue vein. India clenched her fist and released it, clenched and
released. Harriet drew four ounces, called for a second syringe, and
drew four more. Then she pressed a gauze pad over the vein.

"Again, Hatch."

"India..."

"He needs a lot. You said so yourself."

Harriet drew eight more ounces, yelling over her shoulder for Ella to
swab Joe's arm. She put the gauze pad back. India took it, pressing it
down. Her head was spinning.

"You all right?" Harriet asked.

"Fine," India said. "Go. Hurry. Don't let it clot."

India leaned against the cool tile wall and closed her eyes. She took
a deep breath, and then another, willing her dizziness away.

"Is it all in?" she asked, eyes still closed.

"Just about," Harriet said.

"Ella, what's happening?"

"No change. He's still soaking the dressing."

"Damn it." India opened her eyes. "Come on, Hatch. Again."

"No."

"All he needs is another pint."

"No! For God's sake, India. We're injecting it into him and he's leaking it right back out! He's done for."

"A half pint then. One more go. Either you do it or I'll do it myself."

Harriet grabbed a syringe. "Sit down before you fall down," she snapped.

India sat on the floor. She was glad she had, for by the time Harriet
had finished she couldn't have stood if her life depended on it.

"El?" she said weakly.

There was no response, then, "It's slowing. It hasn't stopped yet, but it's slowing."

India smiled. "Well done, Harriet, you vampire, you."

"We're going to need more blood," Ella said.

"I'm C, Matron," Dwyer said.

"Good girl. Swab your arm," Ella ordered.

"Don't talk. Don't move. Just sit still," Harriet said to India.
"You!" she barked at a passing nurse. "Go to the pub on the corner. Get a
pint of porter and a sandwich for Dr. Jones. Hurry." The young woman
ran out. "Dwyer, make a fist," she added, readying her syringe.

India waited on the floor, head against the wall, eyes closed, while
Harriet transfused Joe again. Her meal arrived. When she had finished it
she stood up and walked back to Joe.

"How's he doing?" she asked Harriet.

"His vitals are holding. Not great, not at all, but they're holding. I'd say he has a fighting chance now. Because of you."

"Because of us."

"I'm going to see to the other wound, dose him with quinine, and then it's time to say our prayers."

"I'll assist."

"Actually, the constables who brought Bristow here are in the
porter's office. They want the bullet you recovered. And they want a
word with you, too. You up to it?"

India nodded. "How's the woman who came in with him?"

"Still in shock, but better. I gave her brandy. She's having a sitdown."

India and Harriet entered the porter's office. Harriet handed the
bullet over and told India to sit down. India noticed that a detective
had joined the constables. She recognized him. He was Alvin
Donaldson--Freddie's man. The sight of him unsettled her. She knew his
presence here had nothing to do with Sid, but she was suddenly fiercely
glad that they were leaving London.

Donaldson greeted her, then asked her about Joe's wounds, and if he
had said anything intelligible during the operation. India described the
injuries and said Joe had been mostly unconscious.

"Will Mr. Bristow make it?" Donaldson asked.

"I don't know. We're doing everything we can for him but his condition is extremely grave."

Donaldson nodded. "It'll be murder or attempted murder," he said to
one of the constables, "but either way I've got him. He'll swing for
certain this time."

"You know who did this?" India asked.

"Aye, Dr. Jones, we do. Bristow's secretary--Miss Mellors--told us.
She was there. She saw him. She was hysterical, as you know, but we
managed to get some sense out of her. We got his name. You know him, I
believe. You tended to him."

India's blood ran cold. No, she silently prayed. Please God, no.

"He was your patient a few months back. His name is Sid Malone."

Sid Malone stood at the open window of his bedroom in the Barkentine
gazing out at the Thames. It was low tide. A fog lay heavily on the
water.

Only a few bargemen dared move about in it. Their disembodied voices
carried up to him as they called out to one another. For a second he
imagined long, twining tendrils of fog wrapping around him, pulling him
under, holding him there. He turned away, remembering how India had
begged him to stay away from this place.

"Don't go, Sid. Please. I don't want you to," she'd said.

"I'll be fine, luv," he said, shushing her. "I've a bit of business
to finish up, that's all. I'll be there and back before you know it."

"Promise?" she asked, her gray eyes huge with worry.

"Promise."

"You won't go back to it, will you? To the life?"

"Not a chance," he said, smiling. "You're stuck with me now, missus. You wanted me, you've got me."

He resumed his packing. A battered leather satchel lay open on his
bed. He'd put very little into it. A few pieces of clothing. Some
masculine odds and ends. He wanted nothing else, no mementos. He'd come
back only to give Desi and the rest of his men their due. The day after
he'd beaten Frankie silly for burning down the Morocco and killing Alf
Stevens, he'd gone to see a lawyer to put the deeds to the Taj Mahal,
the Bark, the Alhambra, and the rest of his properties in Desi's name.
Des was a fair man and Sid knew he could trust him to do right by the
others. The properties themselves weren't worth so much, but the
businesses run from them were. The Firm would make out all right.

Sid folded an old tweed jacket now and placed it in his satchel. He
put his pea coat on top of it, then closed it. He took a last look
around his room. Once, he could not have imagined a life lived anywhere
but in here, on the banks of the stinking gray Thames. He could not have
imagined leaving London. And Whitechapel. And his past. But now he
could imagine these things. Because of India.

The last night they'd spent together at Arden Street--the night he'd
told her about his past--he'd felt something kindle deep within himself.
Something bright and warm and perilously fragile. It was a feeling. One
he'd lived without for years. One he'd forgotten. But one he still
recognized. It was hope.

India had made him believe again. In new beginnings. In forgiveness
and redemption. In the possibility of love. She'd healed his heart that
night as surely as she'd healed his body months ago. And all he wanted
now was to be with her. He didn't know what he'd do once they got to
California and he didn't care. He was strong, capable. He'd find honest
work. He was done with villainy. He was on the straight and narrow now.

He picked up his bag and headed for the stairs. He would give the
deeds to Desi and then there would be only one thing left to do. Just
one more thing and he'd be done with Whitechapel, and with his old life,
forever.

He had to get his dosh.

It was no secret that he kept money at the Albion Bank. He had
legitimate accounts there in which he regularly deposited earnings from
his businesses--lending credence to his claim to be a legitimate
businessman. What was not known, however, was that he also kept a large
safe deposit box there. It was full of cash. He was going to take five
hundred pounds for himself--he figured he'd earned that much
legitimately over the past few years--to pay for his and India's way to
California. The rest--every penny of it--was going to India's clinic.
She was giving up her dream for him. The least he could do was make
certain the dream survived. He would give the money to Ella. She would
know what to do with it.

Sid was glad that he and India were leaving London soon. Word would
be spreading that he was off the game. People--people who weren't
terribly fond of him--would soon know that he was alone, without his men
to protect him. He trotted downstairs now, his satchel clasped tightly.
He didn't look forward to this next bit. Desi was angry. They all were.
They wanted him to stay. They wanted everything to go on as it always
had. Sid understood. It was easier to leave than it was to be left. He
was grateful that he could do his leave-taking in private. It was half
four and the Bark was closed. Desi stood behind the bar drying glasses.

"That all you're taking?" he asked, eyeing Sid's bag.

"Aye. What's left is yours. These, too," he said, placing a bundle of deeds on the bar.

"Ta, guv. It's decent of you. More than most would have done."

An awkward silence descended. Sid finally broke it.

"Frankie about?"

"No, he isn't. Don't know where he got to. Haven't seen him for days."

Sid nodded. "Well, I'm off, then," he said. "Take care, Des. Keep
your eye on Madden and Ko, keep Frankie reined in, and you'll be all
right."

Desi nodded. He was about to say something when his words were cut
off by a thunderous bashing on the door. "Oi! Go easy!" he shouted,
throwing his bar rag down.

"It's me, Ozzie! Open up, Des!"

Des hurried to unlock the door.

"Where's the guv? Is he here?" Ozzie asked, stumbling into the pub. He was carrying a newspaper. Ronnie was right behind him.

"You lost your sight as well as your wits? He's right there! What the hell are you playing at?" Desi said.

Ozzie slammed the door and threw the lock. He tossed the newspaper to
Desi. "We haven't much time. Rozzers are only two minutes behind me."
He leaned over and put his hands on his knees, trying to catch his
breath. "Got to hand it to you, guv, you know how to go out with a
bang."

"Oz, for fuck's sake, talk sense, will you?" Desi barked. "What's happened?"

"Ask him," Ozzie wheezed, nodding at Sid.

Desi looked at Sid.

"I don't know what he's talking about," Sid said.

"Read the bloody paper, then!" Ozzie yelled. "It's everywhere! You
can't go two yards without hearing some poxy newsboy yellin' his head
off about it. The cops are coming down on us like a ton of bricks."

"They've already nicked Pete and Tom," Ronnie said.

Desi unfolded the paper. Sid read over his shoulder. What he saw made his heart stop.

"M.P. Shot," the headline screamed. "Malone on Murder Spree."

He quickly read the lead:

Joseph Bristow, newly elected to Parliament on the Labour ticket, is
clinging to life this afternoon after being shot twice in the chest at
approximately 10 a.m. in his Commercial Street offices. Several
eyewitnesses, including Miss Gertrude Mellors, Mr. Bristow's secretary,
have put East London businessman Sid Malone in Bristow's office at the
time of the shooting. Gladys Howe of Smithy Street, Hoxton, told the
Clarion that she saw Malone push Henry Wilkins, a glazier, to his death
as he was leaving the scene of the crime. Police have detained several
of Mr. Malone's associates and are now hunting for Malone himself. D.I.
Alvin Donaldson earnestly entreats anyone having information on Mr.
Malone's whereabouts to contact him...