Turning Back the Sun(26)

Instead of a lounging duty guard, two armed sentries monitored them at the gates. They drove on under searchlights across a tarmac parade ground, where twelve-pound field guns flanked an empty flagstaff, then on through a military police compound, and stopped outside the army surgeon”s door. The driver said, “It”s through there.”

At that moment the door swung open and Ivar came out. “Rayner! I didn”t want to trouble you”—he squeezed his hand—”but one of the prisoners needs medical attention. You”ll understand when you see him.” Ivar looked suavely regretful, as if he had caused some embarrassment. “I have to go, but the lieutenant will advise you.”

So Rayner went in alone. The room was stifling. It was more like a prison cell than a surgery. A white-draped bed under a powerful overhead lamp did service as an operating table, and the medicine shelves showed lines of yellowing labels and discolored lints. The prisoner was sitting in a chair facing the Intelligence lieutenant, while between them stood a stout corporal, one of the half-breed natives whom the army used as trackers and interpreters.

“The prisoner fell during a fight with another inmate,” the lieutenant said. “I don”t think it”s too serious.”

Rayner stooped to examine the man. He was a young savage with a flat, brutal face. His eyes were charcoal slits. Down from his left eyebrow ploughed a jagged, three-inch gash. Its blood still soaked his shirt.

Rayner asked casually, “Where did you collect this man?”

“He was hanging around one of the farms upriver. He had a gun. We took him in as a precaution.” The lieutenant”s voice fluted and cooed. “Then he lost his head.”

Rayner straightened and said, “I”ll need ether for this.”

“You”ve handled this size of wound before, haven”t you?”

“Yes, but not under these conditions.” He hunted the surgeon”s shelves, but there were no ether masks, not even chloroform, and half the bottles were empty or unlabelled.

“What”s wrong with just sterilizing it?” The lieutenant”s voice tinkled on his girl”s lips. But his eyes were saying: It”s only a savage. They don”t feel anything.

“It”ll need extra care.” Rayner thought: Perhaps it”s surer, the man may be more frightened of ether than of the needle. He asked the interpreter, “Tell him to lie on the bed. Tell him that I”m a doctor and that I”m going to sew his skin together again.”

The interpreter took the savage”s arm and guided him to the operating table. His native speech sounded crazed to unaccustomed ears. It lurched between bunched consonants and a hoarse torrent of phonemes. He seemed to be abusing the prisoner, but no expression arrived on either of their faces. The man might have heard nothing at all. But he followed the corporal”s arm to the bed, and lay down. His hair bushed round his head like a pillow.

Rayner asked, “Does he understand you? Are you from the same clan?”

The interpreter said, “He”s from the Ningumiri. But he understands me all right. He”s just not meeting us.”

When Rayner started cleaning the wound, the prisoner did not stir, only stared up at the lamp. It was the face of a pitiless statue. The only signs of its unease were the vertical ridges which lifted faintly in the center of the forehead. But in this brighter light Rayner could see that the skin around the wound was minutely, evenly serrated, as if it had been sawed. He asked, “What actually caused this?”

The lieutenant said, “He fell.”

“But what hit him? What did it? This isn”t compatible with a fall.”

“I don”t know. I wasn”t there.” The lieutenant”s tone had tightened. “Is it relevant?”

“Yes it is.” Rayner felt a prick of anger. “If I knew the answer I”d be able to assess the chances of infection.” He turned to the interpreter. “Ask the prisoner what caused this.”

The interpreter”s eyes flicked to the lieutenant, and back. Then he turned to the native and resumed his bursts of vowels and glottal consonants. Rayner was aware that he might have been saying anything, and that neither he nor the lieutenant would know. Perhaps, Rayner imagined, the corporal”s own savage heritage was more potent than his white blood, and he was saying: “Stay silent. These whites are all bastards.” Or maybe his army uniform obliterated any racial fellow-feeling: “If you answer the doctor”s question, we”ll beat the hell out of you.”

Whatever he said, no reply came. The savage went on staring at the ceiling as if he were deaf. Yet somewhere behind those sunk eyes, Rayner sensed, the man understood. It was apparent in the set of his full, belligerent mouth.

Rayner leaned over him and tried to see into his eyes. He demanded, “Tell me, what hit you?”

The lieutenant stirred behind him. But the savage never moved. The corporal, for some reason, was smiling.

Rayner mistrusted the surgeon”s implements, and used his own. As he dipped his needle into the half-numbed skin, he did not know what the native”s reaction would be. But again there was none. Rayner might as well have been stitching the man”s clothes. Only when he adjusted the overhead lamp, lowering it closer to the bed, the ridges on the native”s forehead trembled with sudden fear and his eyes opened to show bloodshot whites. But the moment Rayner resumed his stitching, drawing the skin over the raw wound, the man”s face resettled into its black halo of hair, and seemed at peace.