City of Ghosts (25 page)

The nurse smiled before continuing more carefully. ‘There we are,' she said once she was done.

Bissen closed his eyes as she used her delicate fingers to examine the welts of traumatized flesh at the top of his right leg. At one point a stabbing sensation made the leg twitch.

‘That looks very tender,' she told him. ‘I think I'm going to have to clean out the wound – there might be some infection.'

She explained that she was going to get Dr Chopra to take a second look. ‘Don't go anywhere,' she joked.

Bissen felt himself smile. ‘What your name?' he asked her without looking up.

‘Lillian,' she replied. ‘Now lie still until I get back . . .'

That night Bissen dreamed of rotting onions and explosions. One minute he found himself standing in Amritsar; the next he was talking to his fallen friend, Jiwan Singh, in a trench in France. Jiwan smoked a cigarette while blood poured from a bullet wound in his forehead. The blood was soaking the cigarette and running through his fingers but Jiwan seemed unconcerned and continued to smoke. Bissen tried to stop him, but then he was gone, replaced by a young German soldier whose head Bissen had cracked open with the butt of his rifle. The German spoke to him in some unintelligible language. Then he too disappeared and Bissen was back in
Amritsar, sitting in the marketplace, watching the traders. A strange presence loomed behind him; long nails stroked the back of his neck. He turned to see a woman standing there, smiling down at him maternally. It was his mother. He reached out so that she might take his hand, but she disappeared, to be replaced by Lillian. When he eventually woke up, sweating and shivering, in the deepest part of night, it was the nurse's face that remained.

LILLIAN RETURNED TWO
days later when Bissen was taking a nap. She made her rounds with the doctor, then set about her tasks for the day. Once again Bissen was the last soldier she came to. He was sound asleep, his chest rising and falling in time with his breath. She watched him for a while, fascinated by his turban, the thickness of his beard and the way his proud nose curved like an eagle's beak. His skin was as light as hers and his forearms covered with black hair. Beads of sweat lined his brow and his lips moved occasionally, as though he was having a conversation in his dreams. His hands lay by his sides, thick-fingered and strong-looking – the hands of a man who had worked hard all his life. She wondered what he had done before becoming a soldier; most of the other patients were the sons of farmers. Was Bissen also a farmer, or was there something more exotic about him? Maybe he was a prince. She smiled and wondered what her friends would think about the way she was sizing up an Indian man.

Eventually she woke him up and told him that she needed to check on his wounds once more. Bissen sat up gingerly and asked her how long she'd been at his side.

‘A little while,' Lillian admitted.

Bissen nodded and looked away. The young nurse seemed flustered. How long had she been there? For a fleeting moment he thought she must have been watching him sleep, but then he realized how silly that was. Why would she watch him? When he turned to look at her again, she was smiling at him.

‘You make fun of me?' he asked.

‘No, no,' replied Lillian. ‘I was just wondering about your beard – it's very thick—'Instantly she felt herself blush. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—' she began.

‘It's all right,' Bissen reassured her. ‘I have never shaved. My religion forbids it.'

She nodded, relieved that he didn't seem offended. ‘You aren't one of the Mussulmen,' she said matter-of-factly. ‘I see them praying out on the east lawn.'

Bissen shook his head. ‘I am Sikh,' he told her. ‘Not like the Muslim . . .'

‘Are you from India?'

‘Yes – from the Punjab.'

‘Punjab,' repeated Lillian. ‘Is that very beautiful?'

Bissen nodded. ‘Beautiful like rose,' he said.

Lillian smiled again. ‘I've always wanted to visit far-off countries. My uncle lived in India for a while . . . He said it was the most amazing place he'd ever been to.'

‘Was he a soldier?' asked Bissen.

Lillian shook her head. ‘A surgeon,' she replied. ‘He helped with the wounded and set up a clinic for the poor in Delhi.'

‘Many English in my country,' said Bissen.

‘And now,' added Lillian with a big smile, ‘many Indians in England.'

‘I want to see more of England,' Bissen told her.

‘And perhaps you shall. Once this wound is healed we'll get you outside and walking around – you'll see.'

‘Hoping so. I see roses from the window. I would like to smell them . . .'

‘Do you like roses then?' asked Lillian, wondering why she was blushing.

‘Very much,' said Bissen. ‘They are like a gift from the
Waheguru
.'

Lillian frowned. ‘I don't understand,' she said.

‘
Waheguru
mean God,' he explained. ‘And God send you—'

She broke into a giggle.

‘It is true. You are helping me and I like . . .'

Lillian blushed again before telling Bissen to turn onto his left side. ‘Let's get those wounds seen to,' she told him, changing the subject.

Later that afternoon one of the other nurses brought Bissen another copy of
The Times
. This one was more recent, printed the day before, and Bissen set about trying to read the stories. As he flicked through the pages, his eyes lit upon a list of fallen soldiers. He read through the names to see if there were any Indian Corps mentioned but there were
none. On the next page he read about the death of one Herbert Thomas Steward at the age of seventy-six. Mr Steward was described as a famous authority on rowing but Bissen could not work out what that meant. Was the man adept at arguing or making a nuisance? Or was this another of those English words with more than a single meaning? He decided that he would ask Lillian when he saw her.

The next story he read concerned a soldier who had been shot and killed accidentally on a street in Glasgow. The poor man, Private Simon Lawson, had caught a bullet in the back; the guilty party was another soldier who had been alighting from a tram when his rifle accidentally went off. Bissen put down the newspaper and thought of all the men he had seen killed on the battlefield. At least they had died during a war; Private Lawson was on home leave and had probably been looking forward to seeing his family. What an awful twist of fate, to die in such a manner after surviving the horrors of the Western Front.

This story sent Bissen into a depression from which he didn't recover for the rest of the day. By the time his evening meal arrived, he wanted nothing more than to sleep. The pain was back and Bissen found himself longing for a dose of morphine strong enough to send him to sleep. But instead he let the pain wash over him until he could close his eyes. He lay like this for an hour or so until an ear-splitting scream rang out through the ward.

Bissen sat upright, a stabbing sensation coursing its way up and down his body. He looked towards the source of the scream and saw a short, shaven-headed man convulsing in
his bed. His arms and legs seemed to have taken on a life of their own and blood poured from his mouth. Bissen moved his legs across, ready to try and get out of bed. Gingerly, he placed his left foot on the floor, taking his weight. Then he tried to do the same with his right, but the agony was too much to bear. It felt as though his right leg was on fire. He stopped and called out for help instead.

As the rest of the patients began to wake up, two guards ran to the man's bed and held him down, waiting for Dr Chopra, who arrived within seconds, holding a syringe with a long, thick needle and enough morphine suspension to pacify a water buffalo. Quickly he plunged it into the man, pressing down until the syringe emptied. The man began to froth at the mouth, little pink bubbles emerging from his lips. Then he lay still. The patients closest to the drama began to whisper to each other. Bissen watched as Dr Chopra checked the man for a pulse and then shook his head sadly.

‘It's no use,' he said. ‘He is gone.'

Later, when the dead man had been taken away and silence had returned to the ward, Bissen found himself thinking of Neuve Chapelle once more. He recalled the briefing about Aubers Ridge and the importance placed on its capture by the officers. He remembered the shock on the faces of his fellow soldiers when they'd found out that the ridge was little more than a mound of earth. And he winced as he saw again the first wave of German gunfire cut down those who had gone over the top. But at least death had been quick. The poor man who had died earlier that night had suffered weeks of agony in the hope of being cured, and yet
had died anyway. Surely a bullet to the head would have been better? If Fate had brought Bissen to the hospital, only to kill him at some later stage, he realized that he would rather have died with his comrades during the battle. But then again, Fate did as she pleased and all men were subject to her vagaries.

THE MAN IN
the next bed, Gauhar Ali, told Bissen that the dead were taken to two places.

‘My fellow Muslims are buried somewhere,' he said in Punjabi, ‘although I don't know where.'

‘And the rest?' asked Bissen.

‘To a place they call Patcham – that is where the cremations are carried out.'

Bissen nodded. ‘Where were you fighting when you got injured?' he asked Gauhar.

‘In France somewhere,' he replied. ‘I don't know exactly where because I do not understand English very well.'

‘I was at Neuve Chapelle,' Bissen told him.

The Muslim nodded. ‘I know – one of my brothers told me. He was at the same battle. Your English is very good, isn't it?'

Bissen nodded. ‘I learned it back in Amritsar.'

‘I saw you talking to the young nurse. She is very pretty.'

Bissen shrugged. ‘Is she?'

‘Be careful,
bhai
– the
Engrezi
will not want you messing with their women,' warned Gauhar.

‘But I am doing no such thing. We just talk about things, nothing more.'

‘As you wish,
bhai
. . .'

Bissen could see in the man's face that he didn't believe him but he let it lie. There was no point in arguing – there was nothing to argue about. Bissen couldn't even walk, let alone chase after some white woman. At least that's what he told himself. Had he been able to get out of bed it might have been a different story. There was something about Lillian – a warmth and tenderness – that he desired. And each time he looked into her eyes, something in his heart moved. He told himself that it was simply because he was bed-ridden and had too much time on his hands, but that was a lie. There was much more to it. Bissen knew that it was dangerous too: the white men would not allow such a thing. In any case, who was to say that Lillian herself felt the same way? Why would a beautiful white girl be interested in a crippled Indian soldier?

Lillian arrived in the ward after lunch and Bissen waited patiently for her to reach him. When she did, he glanced across at Gauhar Ali, who was smiling mischievously. Bissen turned away.

‘Hello!' said Lillian in her bright, melodic voice. ‘How are you feeling today?'

Bissen shrugged. ‘Pain was bad last night,' he told her. ‘I didn't much sleep.'

Lillian placed one of her hands on his. ‘Perhaps we should
increase your dosage,' she said. ‘Let me get the wound cleaned out and we'll see.'

Bissen remembered the article he'd read about rowing. ‘What is the meaning of rowing?' he asked her.

‘Rowing?' she repeated.

‘Yes.'

She smiled.

‘I read in newspaper and not understand,' explained Bissen.

‘I'm not surprised,' replied Lillian. ‘On the one hand, if you pronounce it
rowing
, it means to have an argument or disagreement. But if you pronounce it
rowing
, it means propelling a boat down a river or across a lake.'

‘Propelling?'

‘Moving. They use oars – long wooden paddles – to push through the water and move the boat.'

‘I see. So that story about boat rowing, not argument.'

Lillian shrugged. ‘I didn't see the story,' she told him. ‘But I'd guess that you're right.'

Bissen smiled.

‘What's so funny?' she asked.

‘You speak very fast,' said Bissen. ‘Like my sister.'

‘You have a sister?'

Bissen nodded. ‘One sister, two brother, back in Punjab. You?'

Lillian shook her head as she turned him onto his left side. ‘I am an only child,' she told him. ‘And my parents passed away when I was young. My uncle brought me up.'

‘I sorry,' replied Bissen.

‘No need for that. You weren't to know. It must be lovely to come from such a large family.'

Bissen laughed.

‘What is it this time?' she asked.

‘Most Indian have big family,' he told her. ‘My father have six brother and five sister; all my uncle live next to us in our village.'

‘Good heavens! I bet Christmas at your house is lovely.'

‘No,' said Bissen. ‘I know of Christmas but we Sikh. Not celebrate the Christmas.'

Lillian stopped what she was doing and smiled. ‘I love Christmas,' she told him. ‘And you've never had one? Of course you haven't – how silly of me!'

‘No. Not silly . . .'

‘Well, that'll change soon enough. I don't think you'll be leaving until next year at the earliest, which means you'll see England at its best over the festive season.'

‘I very much like that,' said Bissen.

‘Me too,' said Lillian. ‘Now, let me get this done and then I have a treat for you.'