In The Garden Of Stones (28 page)

She
adjusts the blanket over his shoulders. “You warm enough
now?”

“
Aye. Much better.”

And so,
hand clutching hand, they fall into friendly convivial chatter. He
tells her about the utter tedium of his daily routine, starting at
six every morning when someone comes to take his temperature, pulse
and blood pressure. They then get him up with the hoist and
transport him on the ceiling mounted monorail to the bathroom, to
the toilet, to give him a wash and a shave and twice a week, a
proper bath.

“
Keep wishin’ the damned thing would break down,” he says
with a sly smile. “Then I’d get masel’ one o’ those pretty wee
nurses ta gi me a sponge bath.”

“
So you
are
aware of them doing all these things for you?” Grace
says.

“
Only in a 'something’s gain on in the other room' kind of
way. I can ignore it fer the most part, unless they do something
ta–” He screws up his face as if recalling something unpleasant …
or painful.

“
Do they hurt you?” Grace asks.

He
shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“
How?”

“
Ach, those little things that canna be helped. Bumps and
knocks, a bath too hot, towel too rough on ma delicate hide, ye
ken? But no' on purpose. Never that.”

He
explains to her how three times a day someone comes to feed him,
slowly injecting liquid food into his stomach through the tube
running up his nose and down his throat.

“
You were asking why I can stay in the garden without
needing to eat,” he says. “Well, here’s the reason.”

“
No wonder you are so thin,” Grace says, pressing her hand
against his ribs, feeling every one of them through the fabric of
his T-shirt. “You can’t get bacon and eggs through a tube. You need
to keep your strength up.”

“
Fer what? Ta sit here and stare oot the window 7, 8, 9
hoors a day, rain or shine? Or ta lie in bed staring at the telly
watching Jeremy Kyle or havin’ ma brain addled by stupid daytime
soaps? Pfffttt.”

He tells
her about the sessions of Physiotherapy they put his body through
every day, even though he thinks these too are a waste of
time.

“
It’s to prevent pressure sores and blood clots, and to keep
your joints and muscles flexible,” Grace says.

“
Fit fer. No' like I’m goin’ anywhere, is it?” He rubs his
thigh. “Then every few hoors someone comes in and shoves something
through that thing in ma hand.”

“
Painkillers?”

“
Among other things, but it can be a bit hit and miss.
Sometimes they get it right. Sometimes they don’t.”

“
And you’re left in pain. Can’t blame them entirely though.
If you’re not telling them how much you need, there has to be some
guesswork on their part.”

He also
lets her into a little secret. “Oftentimes, when they’re doin’
things fer me, they ferget I can hear them. They let their guards
doon and can fair blether on.” He chuckles mischievously. “The
secrets I kent, ye wouldna believe. I could pure fill a
book.”

They are
both laughing when the door swings open and Gibbs comes in. “I’ve
given you a couple minutes longer than I should,” he says, “but I’m
afraid time’s up for now, Miss Dove.”

Grace
strokes her hand down Colin’s cheek. “That’s okay. We’ve had a
lovely chat, haven’t we babe?”

Not much
more than a breath of air, Colin’s voice carries only as far as her
ears. “That we have.”

She
presses a soft kiss to his brow. “I’ll come and see you again as
soon as I can.” And another. “Bye bye, sweetie.”

“
Cheerio.”

Gibbs
holds the door open for Grace to pass through. “He didn’t like to
make a fuss, but he was cold,” she says. “Either give him a sweater
or turn the heating up a wee bit will you, eh?”

When
Grace is safely in the corridor outside, Gibbs glances back into
the room, at Colin in the chair, statue still, head supported by
the padded rest, eyes closed, and apart from being swaddled in the
blue blanket, exactly as he had been twenty minutes
before.

Chapter 29

Charge
Nurse Gibbs lets the door to Colin McLeod’s room fall closed and he
and Grace set off towards the way out. After a few steps, he
stops.

“
What’s the matter?” says Grace. “You forgotten the
way?”

“
Have you got time for a chat, Miss Dove?”

She
looks at her watch. “Sure. My bus doesn’t go for an hour
yet.”

“
Good. Not here though.”

Two sets
of fire doors, a corridor and a set of stairs later, they are at a
door labelled 'Staff Lounge – Private'. Gibbs punches a four digit
number into the security lock and lets them into a comfortable area
with easy chairs, an occasional table, and a large picture window
overlooking the driveway down which Grace can see all the way to
the main gate and the road beyond. On a table sits a hissing
gurgling machine, sending out waves of coffee scented
steam.

“
Ah good, looks like there’s some left,” Gibbs says,
shoogling the pot. “Want some?”

“
Please.”

While
Gibbs busies himself pouring coffee from the machine’s glass jug
into two mugs, Grace takes a quick look round. The walls of this
comfy refuge for overworked staff are painted a cool grey, the
carpet a darker charcoal. No art on the walls, but there is a
clock, a general notice board and a whiteboard with a complex
looking table in various colours. She edges over to take a closer
look while Gibbs takes a carton from the fridge and gives it a
sniff.

“
Milk?”

“
Please.”

“
Sugar?”

“
No thanks.”

Halfway
down the table she sees Colin’s initials and room number, CDM (28)
and a series of letters and numbers in boxes, AKx2, NG x 3, Foley,
PT x 7, Hydr x 1. In a different hand, someone has added the
letters GOK.

Gibbs
comes to stand beside her, hands her a mug. “You shouldn’t be
looking at that,” he says.

“
Shouldn’t have it on the wall for everyone to see then
should you. I’ve found Colin’s name and room number, but what do
all these letters and numbers mean?”

“
Erm … it’s a code we use when we have our staff briefings
so everyone knows what each patient’s needs are. AKx2 is double
above knee amputation, NG x3 means naso gastric tube, three feeds a
day. Foley is the catheter. PT is physical therapy, at least an
hour every day, hydrotherapy once a week, but he’s not having that
at the moment.”

“
What about GOK?”

Gibbs
bites his bottom lip. “Therein lies a conundrum,” he murmurs.
“Shall we sit?”

They do,
and he takes the chair opposite hers, bum barely perched on the
front edge of the cushion.

“
Did you have a nice visit with Captain McLeod?”

“
Yes. Very nice thank you. And I think it did him some good
too. It was good to see him dressed and washed and shaved and not
left in pyjamas and dressing gown.”

“
We don’t do that here,” says Gibbs.
“Patients they may be, but they
are still service personnel and this is a military environment. You
might not see it that way but they still have a job to do. It is
their duty to rehabilitate. By making them wear their uniforms we
instil a sense of self-discipline. They might wake up in the
morning and think 'I can’t be bothered today', to which the reply
will be, 'Sorry, soldier, but you don’t have that choice'. If they
are late for parade as a soldier in a line regiment, they’re going
to get ticked off, or have some sort of disciplinary action taken
against them. Same applies here.”

“You punish them for not getting better? That’s
awful.”

“It’s nowhere as bad as you’re thinking. It’s a kind of
tough love. Sometimes all they need is a gentle nudge to get them
out of a dark place, to get them moving forward again. Others need
a little more, so we give them a stiff talking to, but in the very
gentlest of ways with a hand on their shoulder. We appeal to their
sense of camaraderie – if you can’t do it for yourself, do it for
your mates. More often than not, it works.”

“
When I found out Colin was in a hospital, I sort of
expected him to be in a ward with others,” she says. “He’s very
isolated in a private room with no company and no stimulation. Is
that his punishment for not doing well?”

“
Not at all. There are people in and out all the time,
giving him all the motivation and encouragement they can. He hasn’t
always been on his own. He started out in a small ward with three
other guys, a mixture of ranks and regiments, but when he began to
decline it affected all of them, one of them quite badly. We had to
consider the welfare of everyone concerned and so we took an
executive decision to move him, if only to preserve his dignity
when he needed more intimate physical care.”

“
To quote the admirable Mr Spock, 'The needs of the many
outweigh the needs of the one'.”

“
Precisely.”

“
Can I ask you a favour?”

“
Sure.”

“
Could you please call him Colin? Using his rank seems so …
impersonal.”

“
I agree, but convention demands it. It makes no difference
here, though. We treat every man or woman according to his or her
needs, not their rank.”

“
Do you have a rank, Simon?”

“
Right now I’m a Staff Sergeant … by the end of the day, who
knows?”

“
So what did you bring me here to talk about? Colin in
particular, or are we here just to be sociable?”

Gibbs
hums in his throat and he studies the bubbles on the surface of his
coffee. He looks edgy, fidgety, as if he has something important to
say, but can’t sort out the right way to do it. He blows steam from
his cup and takes a series of short rapid sips from it.

“
We do need to talk about Captain McLeod, certainly,” he
says. “But you have to accept that there are rules, patient
confidentiality and all that, so what I’m going to say now, I never
said. This conversation never took place. Understood?”

“
Do I have to sign the Official Secrets Act or
something?”

“
I’m not joking, Miss Dove.”

“
I know, but if you or his brother didn’t have at least an
inkling of trust in me, I wouldn’t be here at all would I? You
would have turfed me out on my ear instead of letting me in to see
him. So why don’t you call me Grace and say what you have to
say.”

Gibbs takes in a deep breath, clears his throat. “Before I
do, why don’t you tell me what
you
already know about Capt… Colin’s
condition?”

Grace
shrugs. “Only that he was on foot patrol in Helmand just over a
year ago when those Taliban bastards set off a … now what was it he
called it … an IDE?”

“
IED … improvised explosive device.”

“
That’s it. They hid it in a poor donkey tied up in the
street. Two of Colin’s party were killed outright. He lost his left
leg at the scene, and suffered devastating injuries to the right
lower leg and foot. Your surgeons took those off out there, and
then shipped him home. When it became clear the damage was much
worse than they feared, and that the wound had become infected,
they kept taking more and more, until he had a matched pair of
stumps. He was also badly burned on his back and shoulders when his
uniform caught fire, hence the scars. He was peppered with shrapnel
too and had to have operations to remove the pieces. Still has a
few bits and pieces stuck in there that you can’t get out. He’s had
a horrendous time of it, poor love. What?”

Gibbs is
staring at her. “Donkey?”

“
Yes. Its panniers were stuffed with explosives, radio
controlled from wherever the rat bastards were hiding.”

“
That’s what I’d heard,” says Gibbs, “but it was never
corroborated.”

“
It is now. I saw it for myself.”

“
Saw it? How?”

“
Colin showed me.”

“
He –? How?”

“
In my head.”

“
In your… head?” Repeated very slowly and
carefully.

“
Yes. He let me see and feel everything that happened to
him. It was an unspeakably horrifying experience and should come as
no surprise to anyone that he has post traumatic stress disorder as
a result. Combined with a hefty dose of survivor guilt, they are
tearing him apart.”

“
Inside
your
head?” he repeats once more.

“
Yes. It’s truly atrocious what he’s suffered … is
suffering, and I can see now what’s happened.”

“
Please, do tell.”

“
I have no doubt his stress disorder has slid over into what
might be catalogued as some form of catatonic depression,” she
says.

“
Why would you think that?

“
I’ve been around mental illness long enough to be familiar
with the many and varied aspects in which it can present
itself.”