Chapter Two The Infirmary #5
Five minutes later the governor was standing by the only occupied bed of the six in the squalid room, while his canary daemon perched on the iron frame.
The yellow light sifting through the dust on the feeble bulbs overhead didn’t illumine very much, but it was enough to show the dirt on the headboard, the stains on the linen, and the prisoner’s blood already coagulating on the floor tiles.
The man’s face was dreadfully pale, his red-gold hair dark with sweat.
His cat daemon lay on the pillow beside his head, barely breathing.
“I found the doc,” said the orderly.
“Ah, good, good. Doctor, have you examined this man?”
“Of course I have.” Dr. Osman was irritated; he had been going to take his wife to the opera, and this delay would make him late. His lemur daemon looked sulky.
“Has his wound been dressed?” the governor demanded.
“Yes, yes.”
“Then why is he still bleeding?”
“It’s a serious wound. I’d be surprised if he lives to eat his breakfast. Now can I—”
“No. See to this wound at once. Dress it again, and better. And then see about a blood transfusion.”
“A blood transfusion? Here?”
“If he loses any more blood—”
“Impossible. We can’t do that. We haven’t got the equipment, we haven’t got the staff, we haven’t got the blood. What’s it matter anyway? Who is he?”
“An English archaeologist.”
“Too bad. He shouldn’t be traveling here, should he. Looting, no doubt. Serve him right.”
“I want you to arrange for him to be transferred to the Memorial Hospital. Immediately.”
“They won’t accept him. You remember we tried before with the murderer who blew his own legs off. Sent back three times, because they wouldn’t allow an armed guard on duty with him, and you wouldn’t let him go without one. As if he was likely to run away.”
“A very different case. This man is not a criminal, he doesn’t need a guard, and I do not want him to die here. Kindly do as I ask. Dress his wound and arrange for him to be taken to the hospital.”
The doctor’s daemon snarled at the governor’s, who raised her wings in protest.
“At once,” the governor added. “And, you,” he added to the orderly, “clean this floor. Then get him ready for the ambulance.”
Muttering, taking off his coat and gloves, the doctor set about dressing the prisoner’s wound.
To judge by the look of it, the previous dressing had been put on by the orderly.
The governor winced. The orderly fetched a mop and a bucket while the governor gazed down at the prisoner’s broad face, the damp curls of his hair like gold coins, and the too-tight prison pajamas.
“Where are his clothes?”
“In there,” said the orderly, jerking his thumb at a row of steel lockers.
The governor tried to open the only one that was closed, and found that it opened anyway, because the lock was bent out of position. Inside he found a bundle of bloodstained clothes and a rucksack.
“Has anyone checked this rucksack?” he asked.
“Yeah, me. That’s where his papers were.”
The governor knew better than to ask what else had been in there; if it was valuable, the orderly would have stolen it already. The rucksack itself was battered, dusty, faded. One of the buckles had been replaced with another that didn’t match the remaining two.
“I thought you said the papers were in his pocket.”
“Can’t remember.”
The orderly knocked against the bed frame with the handle of his mop, and the prisoner groaned.
“Be careful,” snapped the governor, and bent forward to look more closely. The prisoner was frowning in his sleep. His brow was damp, and his daemon was twitching and extending her claws, no doubt because of a dream.
The governor emptied the rucksack onto the cleanest-looking bed.
It contained nothing but a spare shirt and underclothing, socks, a book in some foreign language, a paper bag containing strips of dried meat, a small flask of some kind of liquor, a copy of an English-language magazine called The Economist, and that was it. No archaeology.
“He must have another bag, another case, something else…Are you sure this was all he had with him?”
“Far as I know.”
The governor turned to the clothes in the locker, and found nothing in the pockets but a handkerchief.
The man seemed to have hardly any possessions at all.
Of course, anything interesting or valuable would have been taken by the soldiers who found him, or the police who’d brought him to the prison, or the admission staff.
After another look at the prisoner, the governor went back to his office and read through the papers again.
“Martin Peters,” he said aloud. “Dr. Martin Peters.”
His daemon said, “He’s in a bad way.”
“Well, we’ll have to wait and see. Nothing more we can do now.”
The governor drummed his fingers on the desk, looked at his watch, tidied the Englishman’s papers again, strolled to the window, which was one of very few in the administration buildings that had a view of the street, and failed to see an ambulance anywhere in the dense traffic.
“I bet he hasn’t contacted the hospital,” said his daemon.
“But why wouldn’t he? I gave him an order.”
“He’d say that medical matters were his concern, not yours.”
The governor sighed. “Have we ever dealt with a more idle and uncooperative staff? Mulish. Not a single one of them with any—”
The medical orderly opened the door and came in without knocking. “He’s dead,” he said.
“What?”
“Oh, didn’t you hear me? I said he’s dead.”
“What, Peters? The Englishman?”
“Him in the bed down there.”
“What happened? Did he say anything? Did he wake up?”
“I dunno what happened. Nothing happened. I was finishing off the floor and I suddenly noticed his daemon was gone. So that’s it, innit. He’s dead.”
The governor pushed past him angrily and set off at a run. When he reached the staircase he stopped and said, “Why am I running?”
“Because you think he might not be dead,” said his daemon.
“Well…hmm.”
It was because the man was an archaeologist, that was all. The governor had been looking forward to some civilized conversation.
He went on downstairs quite carefully. There would be reports to write, forms to fill in, information to seek.
It was curious, though, the man’s situation.
He must have been attacked, but why conceal the wound?
He was possibly involved in smuggling antiquities, as the doctor had said so cynically.
That was not impossible, if reckless at the present time. And his documents—forged, no doubt.
Pity. The governor would have liked the chance to interrogate the man, because he was convinced that his own method of gentle friendly inquiry was more effective than the robust techniques that were officially approved. He might have prevented, or even solved, a major crime.
The infirmary was more dismal than before because the afternoon light was fading fast. The man’s body lay just as it had done earlier, eyes closed, arms by his sides, head resting on the greasy pillow.
The daemon had gone. What form had she had?
The governor tried hard to remember. Cat? Could have been.
He looked under the bed, but only for the sake of form. The floor was newly washed, but patchily, and not rinsed properly. There was nothing else to see.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” he said to his daemon, who was perching on the iron frame at the end of the bed, uttering little soft whimpers of fear.
“Something’s wrong,” she said.
“Oh, come on, we’ve seen a dead body before—”
“His eyes are open.”
They were, and looking at him.
The governor uttered a yelp of terror and leapt backwards, stumbling and then falling back onto the next bed.
“What’s the matter?” said the orderly, who had just come in.
It was galling to know that the fool must have seen his undignified sprawl on the bed. The governor struggled up and turned to face him.
“Where’s his daemon, damn you?” he shouted.
The orderly blinked and shrugged. There was the hint of a smirk on his face. “Told you, she’s gone. Vanished, like they do.”
“Look! He’s not dead, you shit-brained ape! She must be around! Must be close! Find her! Don’t stand there goggling like a frog—damn you, look for her!”
The orderly, as frightened as the governor now, backed away just as he’d done, and bent to pick up his fluttering, cackling hen daemon.
“I swear it—she en’t here—I looked all over—”
“You lying mongrel! Get out and search the whole wing! Now!”
The governor was conscious that the man on the bed, whoever he was, had heard and seen everything. He wasn’t dead. And yet he had no daemon. The ancient fear of the uncanny, older than history, probably even older than language, had the governor’s heart in its grip.
The man on the bed was opening his mouth.
He wanted to say something, but his throat was parched.
The governor looked around quickly, found a dirty cup, and filled it from the shower in the corner.
Mastering his fear, and admiring his own resolution in doing so, he helped the Englishman sit up and held the cup to his lips.
“Merci,” the man said.
“Vous êtes Francais?”
The prisoner seemed to consider. “Non,” he said. “Anglais.”
“That was what I thought,” said the governor, in English. “And your name?”
The man swallowed more of the water, which was faintly brown and smelled of some strong disinfectant. “Peters,” he said. “Martin Peters. Where am I? Who are you?”
“I am the governor of this prison, Mr. Peters. Dr. Peters. We have examined your papers.”
“Why am I in a prison?”
“There are civil disturbances in the city. It was felt that you would be safer here than in the hospital.”
“Am I a prisoner, then?”
“Never mind that. When I examined you earlier, there was no doubt that you were alive. Your daemon was present. Now she has vanished; my staff and I are puzzled, to say the least.”
“Oh, has she gone? I thought so. Why does my hip hurt so much?”
“You were shot. Don’t you remember that?”
“No. The last thing I remember was going down a staircase in an empty house.”
“Where was this house?”
“In Antalya.”
“That’s a long way away.”
“Was there a train? Did someone put me on a train?”
He was trying to sit up. The governor, overcoming his reluctance to touch such an unnatural being, put another pillow behind him, first turning it around to put the cleaner surface on top.
“You were found on a train, certainly, but—”
“Why did they bring me to a prison?”
“Please don’t concern yourself about that. This is the infirmary. You’re having the best of care.”
The wounded man looked around. The governor could see quite well what he thought of the place.
“The best care we can manage to give you,” the governor enlarged. “These are difficult times.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“We have them safe. They are soaked in blood, of course.”
“I would like to have them, and washed, if possible. Can someone clean them for me?”
“Yes, we shall do that. But—”
“And then I shall leave.”
“It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid. There are procedures to be followed, higher authorities to be consulted, assurances to be sought. Regrettably this is not a hotel, Dr. Peters. It is a prison, which, however, we do try to make civilized and not too unpleasant. While you are here—”
“No, no, wait. If I am a prisoner, I need to know what offense I’m supposed to have committed, and I need to talk to a lawyer. If I can’t do that, I shall leave.”
The governor was saddened. Furthermore, he could still not quite believe he was talking to a man who was dead. There was a little hum of fear in his head that wouldn’t go away.
“It will all be sorted out without difficulty,” he said in his most soothing voice.
“I guarantee that I and my staff will do everything we can to see you on your way as soon as possible, and in a much-improved state of health. I simply cannot allow a man with a wound like yours to risk traveling at this time. A few days’ rest, some nourishing food, some dedicated medical care—”
“I’m too weak to argue,” murmured Malcolm.
“And there is the difficulty caused by—by the absence of your, er, your daemon…You know how people…And the staff here are frankly very likely to be alarmed…They are credulous peasants, most of them. Of course I shall give orders, and they will be obeyed, but…”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Has this ever…Forgive me, but has such a thing ever happened to you before?”
“It’s not an unknown phenomenon. You are wearing a military uniform. You have seen battle, I take it?”
“Well, not recently, but what has that to do with…”
Malcolm was fully conscious now. Despite the pain, he was thinking quite clearly.
“You haven’t encountered post-traumatic cytokinesis?” he said.
Of course the governor hadn’t. “Oh, so this is a case of…I see. That does explain it. Still alarming, of course, to those unused to it…”
“My daemon will return stage by stage. There’s really nothing to be alarmed about. In the meantime I would be grateful for a cleaner bed, and for someone medically qualified to attend to my wound.”
“Ah. Well, there I’ve thought ahead. You seem to have lost so much blood that I thought a transfusion might be necessary. We can’t do it here, obviously, so I’ve sent to the Memorial Hospital for advice and assistance, and they should…They might get back to us quite soon.”
“And a cleaner bed?”
“Mm. On thinking about it…Let me see what I can do.”
The governor left his prisoner there in the dusty gold half light and bustled away. Being unable to stay awake, Malcolm closed his eyes and fell asleep.
—
Asta, his daemon, had never found it difficult to escape from enclosed spaces.
The military prison might as well have been made of mist. While the governor was talking to that part of herself called Malcolm, Asta was stepping silently from shadow to shadow in the heart of Kücüklü.
She and Malcolm had discussed this as they lay in the infirmary pretending to sleep, and it was clear to them both that Malcolm wasn’t going to be able to move for some time; so the big ginger cat daemon pressed herself into the darkness by the door, and as soon as the orderly came in, she slipped past his legs and out of the room.
Ten minutes later she had discovered what she wanted to know.