by Wilbur Smith
*
An hour dragged by like a cripple, and then another passed even more painfully before a theatre sister came for him. She wore a plastic cap over her hair. A surgical mask dangled around her neck and she had theatre slippers on her feet.
‘How is my wife?’ Hector demanded as he sprang to his feet.
‘Mr Irving will answer all your questions,’ she told him. ‘Please, follow me.’
She led him to one of the post-operative recovery rooms adjoining the operating theatres. The sister opened the door and stood aside for him to enter. Hector found himself in a room with green painted walls. Against the far wall was a single hospital bed. Beside it a heart-monitoring machine stood on its trolley and peeped softly. Across its electronic screen bounced the glowing green electronic point of light keeping time to the heartbeats of the patient on the bed below. It left a vivid green sawtooth trail across the screen. In the few seconds that Hector stood in the doorway he realized the trail was not regular. A rapid series of heartbeats was followed by a distinct pause, then an almost hesitant beat, another pause and then three or four rapid beats.
Irving was leaning over the patient on the bed, screening the supine body. He stood aside as he sensed Hector behind him, enabling Hector to see Hazel’s face.
Her head was bound up in a tight turban of white bandages, which extended under her chin and covered her ears. The lower half of her body was covered with a sheet. She still wore the green theatre gown. There were IV needles in the veins of her arms and the backs of both her hands. Plastic tubes dangled down from the sacs of liquid that were suspended above her on a moveable stand.
Irving came to meet Hector.
‘How is she?’ Hector managed to keep his voice level. Irving hesitated. The heart monitor beeped twice before he replied.
‘I have removed the bullet. But there was more soft tissue damage than we anticipated. It did not show up on the X-ray plates.’
Hector walked slowly to the side of the bed and looked down at her. Her face was white as pastry. Her eyes were slightly open. Only the whites showed between her long curling lashes. There was a tube up her left nostril connected to the oxygen machine standing on the floor. Her breathing was so light that he had to bring his face down an inch from hers to catch it. He kissed her lips with a butterfly touch. He straightened up and looked at Irving.
‘What are her chances?’ he asked. ‘Don’t lie to me.’
Again Irving hesitated, and then he shrugged almost imperceptibly.
‘Fifty–fifty, or perhaps a little less.’
‘If she does recover, will she regain full brain function?’
Irving frowned before replying. Then he said, ‘That is unlikely.’
‘Thank you for your honesty,’ Hector said. ‘May I wait here with her?’
‘Of course. That chair is for you.’ He indicated a seat on the other side of the bed. ‘I have done all I can, now I must hand your wife over to Mr Daly, the hospital’s resident neurosurgical specialist. He has already seen her. His room is just down the corridor. He can be here in a few seconds if Sister Palmer here summons him.’ He nodded at the theatre sister who was adjusting the taps on Hazel’s IV drips.
‘Goodbye, Mr Cross. God bless you and your lovely wife.’
‘Goodbye and thank you, Mr Irving. I know that nobody could have done more for her.’
When he was gone, Hector spoke to Sister Palmer.
‘I am her husband.’
‘I know. Sit down, Mr Cross. We may have a long wait.’ Hector moved the chair closer to the bed and sat.
‘May I hold her hand?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but please be careful not to disturb any of the IV tubes.’ Hector reached out gingerly and took three of Hazel’s fingers. They were very cold, but not as cold as his heart. He studied her face. Her eyelids were almost closed. The eyes themselves were rolled back in their sockets. He could not see their pupils. Only a sliver of iris was visible. They had lost their sapphire-blue lustre. They were dull and lifeless. He moved his chair again so that when she opened her eyes he would be sitting directly in her line of sight. He would be the first thing she saw when she regained consciousness; he carefully prevented himself from even thinking the conjunction ‘If’.
He listened to the irregular peep of the heart monitor and every once in a while he glanced at the rise and fall of the bellows of the oxygen apparatus. The only other sounds were the tap of Sister Palmer’s heels on the floor tiles and the rustle of her skirts as she moved around the room. He glanced down at his wristwatch. It was his gift from Hazel on his last birthday. It was the platinum model with the Rolex signature blue dial. The time was twenty minutes to two in the morning. He had been awake since sunrise. His chin dropped onto his chest and, still holding her hand, he dozed just below the level of consciousness, but any change in the rhythm of the heart monitor brought him back again with a jerk.
He dreamed that he and Hazel were climbing the hill on the Colorado ranch. Hand in hand they were following the path through the forest that led to Henry Bannock’s mausoleum. Cayla was running ahead of them.
‘I want to see Daddy!’ She was laughing, looking back over her shoulder. The likeness of daughter to mother was astounding.
‘Wait for me!’ Hazel called after her. ‘I am going with you.’ Dread overwhelmed Hector. He hardened his grip on her hand.
‘No!’ he said. ‘Stay with me. You mustn’t leave me. You must never leave me.’ Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard another voice speaking.
‘Mr Cross, are you all right?’ He opened his eyes and Sister Palmer was standing over him. Her expression was concerned. ‘You were shouting in your sleep.’ It took a few moments for Hector to gather his wits. Then he knew where he was. He looked into Hazel’s face. She had not changed the position of her head, but her eyes were open. The lustre of cerulean blue glowed in them again. She was seeing him.
‘Hazel!’ he whispered urgently. ‘Squeeze my hand!’ There was no reaction. Her fingers were limp and cold. He passed his left hand across her face. Her eyes did not move. They stared out at him.
‘It’s Hector,’ he whispered. ‘I love you. I thought I had lost you.’ He stared into her eyes and thought that he saw her pupils contract minimally; or perhaps it was merely vain hope that engendered the thought. Then he heard the beat of the heart monitor. It was rapid and regular.
‘She can see me,’ he said. ‘She can hear me.’ His voice was rising.
‘Calm yourself, Mr Cross,’ Sister Palmer said. ‘We must not race ahead of ourselves. The cerebral damage…’ He did not want to hear her say it.
‘I tell you she can see me and hear me.’ He reached out and touched Hazel’s pale cold cheek. He felt his courage and determination rushing back.
‘Sister Palmer,’ he said crisply. ‘Please go down to Maternity and tell the duty nurse to bring my daughter here.’
‘We can’t do that, sir. Your wife is very ill and—’
‘Sister, do you have children of your own?’ He cut her short.
She hesitated, then her voice and tone changed. ‘I have a son of six.’
‘So you can imagine what it would have meant to die without ever laying eyes on him?’
‘There are rules,’ she said weakly. ‘Babies born by Caesarean section must remain in the unit for—’
‘I don’t give a good stuff for the rules. My wife may die. Go down to Maternity and bring her daughter to her. Do it now!’
Sister Palmer hesitated a moment longer then she whispered, ‘At this time of night there will be very few people around.’ She straightened her back and turned to the door. She closed it quietly behind her as she went out into the passage.
Hector brought his lips close to Hazel’s ear and whispered to her, ‘You were right, Hazel my darling! Our baby is a girl. Her name is Catherine Cayla, just the way you planned it.’ He stared into her eyes, searching for signs of life. It was like looking into two fathomless blue pools. ‘They are
going to bring Catherine to you. You will see how beautiful she is. Her hair is going to be golden just like her big sister’s. She weighs six pounds.’ He stroked her cheek softly as he whispered encouragement and endearments.
The heart monitor beeped to a steady beat. The sawtooth pattern across the screen was regular and even.
It seemed to Hector like an age of waiting, and then the door behind him opened and Sister Palmer entered. She was smiling. Close behind her came Bonnie, the maternity nurse. Hector was surprised to see her still on duty. In her arms she carried the blue-blanketed bundle. Hector leapt to his feet and went to her. Without a word, the nurse offered the bundle to him.
Hector reached out uncertainly, and then took a step back and muttered, ‘Which end must I take? I don’t want to drop her.’
‘Make an arm for her,’ Bonnie ordered, and when he obeyed she laid Catherine in the resulting cradle. Hector looked as apprehensive as if he was holding a ticking bomb.
‘I have never done this before.’
‘She won’t break,’ Bonnie reassured him. ‘Babies are pretty tough little customers. Hold her as though you love her.’
Slowly Hector began to relax. He smiled. ‘She smells good.’ His smile turned into a wide grin. ‘She’s so warm and soft.’
‘Yep!’ Bonnie said. ‘That’s the way babies are.’
Hector turned back to the bed, still holding the infant. He leaned over Hazel until he could bring Catherine’s face down level with hers.
‘Just look at her! Isn’t she the most magical little thing?’ he murmured.
Nothing moved in Hazel’s face, her expression was impassive and her eyes expressionless. He brought their two faces closer together.
‘I think your daughter needs a kiss, Mrs Cross,’ he said, and touched Catherine’s lips to those of Hazel. Immediately the infant’s lips started making suckling motions, instinctively seeking the teat. She began to move her head from side to side, brushing against her mother’s face. Still Hazel’s face was stony and pale as chalk.
When Catherine was unable to find what she was looking for she squawked. Almost at once her frustration turned to anger and she let out a series of grunts and muted bellows; the most evocative sounds to any mother’s ears. But Hazel’s features remained blank.
Crestfallen, Hector lifted Catherine back into the cradle of his arms. He had hoped for something, for anything. Just a sign that she had known this was her own child nuzzling her cheek.
Then a small miracle was enacted before him. A tear welled up from the blue depths of Hazel’s left eye. It was the size of a seed pearl, and it shone with the same opalescence.
‘She is weeping,’ Hector said in a small, awed voice. ‘She sees. She knows. She understands.’
Bonnie took the child from him. ‘We must go now. I dare not stay any longer. It’s more than my job is worth.’ She went quickly to the door and from there looked back at him with a smile. ‘It was a hell of a risk, but I’m glad I took it.’
‘So am I.’ Hector’s voice was gruff. ‘I owe you one,’ he said to Bonnie. ‘I owe you a very big one.’ Then she and Catherine were gone.
Hector looked at Sister Palmer. ‘You too, a very big one!’ he told her.
Hector went back to his station beside the bed. He took Hazel’s fingers and tried to rub some warmth into them. He whispered to her a little longer, and then weariness and emotional burnout overtook him again and sleep dropped over him like a dark fog.
*
Something woke him. He was not certain what it was. He looked around him groggily. Then two things registered with him in quick succession: the sound of the beeper was wildly erratic and the trace on the screen of the heart monitor was dancing and skipping chaotically. In panic he came to his feet and stood over Hazel. Her chest was heaving and a rasping sound came from her open mouth.
‘Hazel,’ he said with rising anger. ‘Fight, my darling. Fight the bastard.’ He knew the black angel had come for her. ‘Don’t let him take you!’
Sister Palmer hurried in, alerted by the tone of his voice. She went to the far side of the bed, took one long look and said, ‘I will call the duty doctor.’ She rushed from the room. Hector did not watch her go. He was shaking Hazel’s hand.
‘Listen to me!’ he pleaded with her. ‘Stay with us. We need you. Catherine and I need you. Don’t go! Please don’t go with him.’
The wild cacophony of the heart monitor slowed. The peaks of the pattern on the screen drew further apart.
‘Fight with that great heart of yours, Hazel. Don’t give in,’ he told her, and the tears streamed down his face. He had seen this happen so often on the battlefield but he had never wept before. ‘Think of us. You never give in. Fight him off with your warrior’s heart.’
Hazel expelled the air from her lungs in a long and whispering sigh. Then she breathed no more. The monitor beeped one last time and then went silent. The trace levelled out into a flat green line at the bottom of the screen.
Hector stood over her and his tears dropped onto her face as he seized her shoulders and shook her.
‘Come back!’ he cried. ‘I won’t let you go!’
The door opened behind him and the young duty doctor strode up behind him and took his arm, leading him away from the bed.
‘Please, Mr Cross. Stand back and let me do my job.’ The doctor worked quickly. He placed his stethoscope on her chest, listened a few seconds and frowned. Then he felt for a pulse at her wrist and said softly, ‘I am sorry, Mr Cross.’
Gently, he passed his hand over Hazel’s face, closing her staring blue eyes. Then he reached down for the bed sheet and drew it up to cover her face.
‘No!’ Hector caught his wrist. ‘Don’t cover her. I want to remember her face for ever. Please leave us alone for a while.’ He looked at Sister Palmer who was hovering at the foot of the bed. ‘You too, Sister. There is nothing more you can do here.’ The two of them left quietly.
Hector knelt beside the bed. He had not prayed in a long while but he prayed now. Then he stood up and wiped his eyes.
‘This is not goodbye, Hazel. Wherever you have gone, wait for me. One day we will be together again. Wait for me, my darling.’ He kissed her on the mouth. Her lips were already cooling. He drew the sheet over her face and went to the door.
*
On the way to the exit he stopped at the maternity wards and knocked on the door of the nurses’ room. A sister appeared. ‘May I help you, Mr Cross?’ Hector was mildly surprised that she knew his name. He had no idea of the flutter he had created in the staff room. The word had spread.
‘I am looking for a nurse called Bonnie.’
‘Bonnie Hepworth? She went off duty an hour ago.’
‘What time will she come on again?’
‘Six o’clock this evening.’
‘Thank you. May I see my daughter now? She was born last night.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She glanced at her clipboard and found the name. ‘Catherine. Okay. Let’s go to the observation room.’
When they arrived, Hector pressed close against the glass. ‘She looks more human than a few hours ago.’ The nurse looked disapproving. He had learned that they didn’t like derogatory remarks about their babies, and hurried on. ‘When will she be discharged?’
‘Well…’ The sister looked doubtful. ‘She is a Caesarean and her mother…’
‘When can I come and fetch her?’ Hector insisted.
‘Probably three or four days if all goes well, but of course it’s up to Doctor Naidoo.’
‘I’ll be back this evening to visit her,’ he promised.
He went out to where the Range Rover stood in the car park. He walked around it to check the damage. It was filthy with dried mud and the front offside bumper was buckled. He climbed in and started the engine, and then drove back towards Brandon Hall.
He was on the direct road from Winchester, which took him past the scene of the ambush. Police Crime Scene tape cordoned off the area, but Hazel’s Ferrar
i had been towed away. Three police officers were still taking measurements and working the site for further evidence.
Hector slowed for the road block, but one of the officers waved him through.
Reynolds, the butler, opened the door for him. ‘It’s very good to see you, sir. We were very worried when you and Mrs Cross did not return yesterday evening. Mrs Cross is not with you?’ He looked over Hector’s shoulder. Hector ignored the question.
‘Please have Mary bring a pot of coffee up to my study. Then this afternoon at two o’clock I want the entire staff assembled in the blue drawing room.’
Hector went upstairs. He set out his shaving kit, but then on an impulse decided to let his beard grow as a tribute of mourning for Hazel. Instead he showered and went through to his dressing room in a bathrobe. Mary brought the coffee tray.
‘Have you and Mrs Cross had breakfast, sir?’
‘Don’t worry about breakfast. Did Mr Reynolds tell you about the staff meeting?’
‘Yes, he did, sir.’
Hector dressed in casual country cords and brogues and went to his study at the end of the passage. He sat at his desk and reached for the phone. Paddy answered on the fourth ring.
‘Paddy, it’s a crying bastard to have to tell you this. Hazel didn’t make it. She died at five o’clock this morning.’
There was an echoing silence as Paddy weighed his reply, then he said hoarsely, ‘My condolences, Heck. We are going to get the sons of bitches that did this. You have my oath on that. What about the funeral? Nastiya and I would want to be there.’
Nastiya was Paddy’s KGB-trained wife, a magnificent Russian blonde who had doubled for Hazel in the Trojan Horse operation that had wiped the pirate stronghold in Somalia from the face of the earth.
‘Private cremation. No fuss. That’s what she always wanted. However, if you can get here, Hazel would have wanted you two, of all people, to be there. Where are you?’
‘Abu Zara.’
‘The cremation won’t take place for a while. The police will want a forensic autopsy. But come anyway as soon as you can. We need to talk. Make some plans.’
‘What about your baby, Heck? Did the poor little mite make it?’