The Book of Strange New Things(154)

‘The poison,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

‘You weren’t poisoned,’ said Grainger, with a tinge of exasperation in her voice. ‘You just got dehydrated, that’s all. You didn’t drink enough. You could have died.’

He laughed, and the laughter morphed into sobs. He laid his fingers on his chest, roughly where the inky crucifix was or used to be. The fabric was sticky and cold. He’d poured Tartaglione’s vile liquor down his chin and onto his breast, pretending to drink it. Here in the sterile air conditioning, its sweet stench of ferment was bad enough to choke the breath.

‘Did you bring Tartaglione back?’ he asked.

‘Tartaglione?’ Grainger’s voice was augmented by muted exclamations of surprise from elsewhere in the room: they were not alone.

‘You didn’t see him?’ said Peter.

‘He was there?’

‘Yes, he was there,’ said Peter. ‘That’s where he lives. Out in the ruins. He’s not a well man. He probably needs to go home.’

‘Home? Well, fancy that.’ Grainger sounded bitter. ‘Who would’ve thought it.’

Moving out of his range of sight, she did something he couldn’t identify, some emphatic or even violent physical action which caused a clattering noise.

‘Are you all right, Grainger?’ A male voice, half-sympathetic, half-cautioning. The doctor from New Zealand. Austin.

‘Don’t touch me,’ said Grainger. ‘I’m fine. Finefinefine.’

Peter realised all of a sudden that the alcohol he could smell was not emanating solely from his own clothing. There was an additional tang in the air, a spirits tang, which might have been created by tearing open a few dozen disposable surgical wipes, but could just as easily have come from a few shots of whiskey. Whiskey consumed by Alex Grainger.

‘Maybe Tartaglione is happy where he is.’ A female voice this time. Flores, the nurse. She spoke calmly, as though to a child, as though a cat had been sighted in a tree and a na?ve youngster was insisting that somebody should climb up to rescue it.

‘Oh, yeah, I’m sure he’s happy as a clam,’ retorted Grainger, her sarcasm escalating so fast that Peter was no longer in any doubt she was disinhibited by booze. ‘Happy as the day is long. Hey, you like that? – “As the day is long”. That’s a pun, right? Or maybe not a pun . . . Maybe irony? What would you call it, Peter?’

‘Might be best to let our patient recover a bit more,’ suggested Austin.

Grainger ignored him. ‘Tartaglione was a real Italian, did any of you know that? Like, genuine. He grew up in Ontario, but he was born in . . . I forget the name of the place . . . he told me once . . . ’

‘Perhaps not relevant to our work here just now?’ suggested Austin. Masculine as his voice was, it had taken on a slightly whiny edge. He wasn’t used to dealing with unreasonable colleagues.

‘Right, right,’ said Grainger. ‘None of us come from anywhere, I forgot, excuse me. We’re the Foreign f*cking Legion, like Tuska keeps saying. And anyway, who’d want to go home? Who’d want to go home when everything there is so f*cked up and everything here is so fantastic? You’d have to be crazy, right?’

‘Please, Grainger,’ warned Flores.

‘Don’t do this to yourself,’ said Austin.

Grainger started to weep.

‘You’re not human, you people. You’re just not f*cking human.’

‘There’s no need for that,’ said Flores.

‘What do you know about need?’ cried Grainger, hysterical now. ‘Keep your f*cking hands off me!’

‘We’re not touching you, we’re not touching you,’ said Austin.

There was another crash of toppled equipment: a metal IV-stand, perhaps. ‘Where’s my daddy?’ Grainger whimpered, as she stumbled out. ‘I want my daddy!’

After the door slammed, the infirmary went quiet. Peter wasn’t even sure if Austin was still around, but fancied he could hear Flores fussing about, beyond his field of vision. His neck was stiff and he had a pounding headache. The liquid in his IV bag drained unhurriedly into his vein. When it was all gone and the bag hung limp and wrinkled as a condom, he asked to be allowed to leave.

‘Dr Austin wanted to discuss something with you,’ said Flores, as she unhooked him. ‘I’m sure he’ll be right back.’

‘Later, maybe,’ said Peter. ‘I really have to go now.’

‘It would be better if you didn’t.’

He flexed his fist. The puncture wound where the cannula had just been removed oozed bright blood. ‘Can I have a Band-Aid on this?’

‘Of course,’ said Flores, rummaging inside a drawer. ‘Dr Austin said he was sure you would be very . . . ah . . . anxious to have a confab with him. About another patient here.’

‘Who?’ Peter was itching to get out; he must write to Bea as soon as possible. He should have written to her many hours ago, instead of driving off in a haze of melodrama.

‘I couldn’t say,’ said Flores, frowning her monkey frown. ‘If you’ll just care to wait . . . ’

‘Sorry,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll be back. I promise.’ He knew even as he uttered these words that they might be a lie, but they had the desired effect: Nurse Flores stepped backwards, and he was out of there.