The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) (5 page)

‘I’m only a cripple!’ Riven protested. ‘He made me do it!’

The door opened and Nurse Cohen entered. ‘Are you two still in here? Couldn’t you keep it a little quieter?’

Doody looked blank for a second, then recognition dawned.

‘It’s our guardian angel,’ he hiccuped. ‘Our lookout. Is the coast clear, Anne?’

‘You two are utterly smashed,’ Nurse Cohen whispered.

‘I am,’ Riven volunteered absently.

‘Doody, for God’s sake, did you have to get him
completely
plastered? Old Bisbee will be doing the rounds in under an hour. I can handle the auxiliaries, but not her. We’ve got to get him back to his room.’

Doody saluted with a beatific smile on his ugly face, and then, infinitely slowly, he fell over. Nurse Cohen swore, went over to Riven and prised the other glass from his hand.

‘Come on, I’ll get you out of trouble, at least.’ With a final despairing glance at the mumbling Doody, she wheeled Riven out.

‘Nurse,’ said Riven plaintively. ‘Nurse—’

‘What is it?’ she hissed, looking warily over her shoulder.

‘I have to have a pee, nurse...’

‘Oh, Christ! You’re kidding!’

Riven shook his head dumbly. She pushed him to the toilets used by the walking wounded of the Centre, then stood in front of him.

‘I’ll have to support you. Come on.’ She lifted Riven easily, for he was painfully thin, and half carried him to the urinals. Then she held him as he relieved himself.

‘This is the first time I’ve been upright in months,’ he said. But he was suddenly and painfully aware of the woman holding him. The feel of her, the smell of her hair. He clenched his teeth, and nodded when she asked him if he was finished. She took him back to the chair and laid him in it like a baby.

‘There. Now perhaps I can get you to bed.’ And she smiled at him, pushing a lock of hair up under her nurse’s cap.

He looked away and whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’

She actually laughed, and began trundling him along the corridors. ‘Boys will be boys, I suppose. But your head will hate you in the morning, Mr Riven.’ She put him to bed and tucked him in. ‘I think you’ll survive, but I wouldn’t try that again in a hurry. Go to sleep now. I’ve got to do something about that idiot Doody.’

She left, turning out the light as she went. Riven lay open-eyed in the darkness.

Didn’t quite make the oblivion stage.

He closed his eyes.

T
HE SLEET LASHED
his face, screaming out of the darkness. The ice axe slipped fractionally. He dug in deeper, hauling himself upwards and feeling for handholds. Jagged rock iced and bled his hands. He shut his eyes to the gale that hammered him, and felt his way forward.

Why? Why do it?

His boot moved up, searching for a crack in the frozen rock. Snow piled itself in every crevice of his clothing, clung there in folds and lines, clogged his ears.

I will do it. Because—

Slipping. A lightning rebalance that tore a groan past his lips, bared his teeth in a moment of helpless anger. Then he was secure again; buffeted by the storm, but holding.

Because I am one stubborn son of a bitch.

T
HE FACE HE
was staring at was pale and thin. The cheekbones stood out below the eyes, making them into dark hollows, though the eyes themselves were steady and grey. Fair hair fell over the scarred forehead, and a beard of the same colour sprouted on the lower face. A hand rubbed it thoughtfully.

Jesus. So this is the new me. What happened to the broad-shouldered soldier? He turned the chair away from the sink with its mirror, and made for the passage beyond it that led outside.

I was never overly tall, but I was thickset, at least. I look like a rotten stick.

The weather was cold and fine, with a mist that wreathed up from the river in the mornings and vanished by noon. He looked across the lawn to where the willows stooped, and the water glittered.

I’m going to paddle in that some day, if it kills me.

‘How’s your head then, Mr Riven?’ asked Nurse Cohen, coming up behind him.

‘It’s been better, but on the other hand it’s been much worse... How is Doody?’

‘Taking the day off. He has a stomach bug.’

‘Ah! Hope it’s not catching.’

‘I doubt it, somehow.’

‘You didn’t get in trouble, did you?’

She shook her head. ‘In the end, I simply locked the storeroom and left Doody in there to sleep it off. Luckily, he didn’t throw up. I let him out this morning and he made a mad dash for the toilet. Seems he had been crossing his legs and praying for hours.’ She laughed. ‘Well, I have to go and prepare Mr Simpson to meet the day.’ She laid a light hand on his shoulder for a second, and then left.

Riven sat quite still, feeling the cold air on his face and watching the starlings squabbling in the bird bath in the middle of the lawn. Then he shoved the chair into motion and rattled across the patio. He hit the grass with a bump and a protesting whine from his steed, then continued more slowly, the motor bickering loudly. The chair lurched and shook as it hit sudden dips and hollows. The lawn was not as flat as it appeared. He wobbled dangerously and ground to an ignominious halt on the last steep slope before the river. The chair teetered at a crazy angle. He swore and leaned away from the slope, but too late. He fell over and hit the ground with a sodden thump and a flash of pain in his legs.

‘Shit!’

There was dew-wet grass at his cheek, and the smell of soil under his nose. He rolled free of the chair and managed to sit himself upright, earth on his face and under his nails. His blanket was twisted around his legs, a tangle of tartan on the grass.

You asshole, Riven. You really make a habit out of this sort of thing, don’t you?

He looked round. He was invisible from the Centre, hidden by the slope. The river was fifty yards away, beyond the dipping trees. His legs and arm were screaming at him.

He tried to right the chair, but it was too heavy and in too awkward a position. And he was too weak. The weakness enraged him. He punched the grass with his only useful limb.

You bastard! You utterly useless bastard!

Right on cue, the rain began. It started as a breeze in the willows that stirred his hair, then a fine mist of moisture that drifted down and finally a wind-driven shower that drove into his eyes and soaked his shirt. He started to laugh.

Fucking typical!

He began to crawl, pulling himself through the muddying ground with one arm.

Couldn’t be more than a hundred yards. Christ, at Sandhurst I’ve crawled ten times that in full kit with a Jimpy rattling live overhead. Come on, Riven, you wimp, are you a man or a mouse?

He stopped, gasping, when he got to the top of the slope. Runnels of water were flowing down it. He was chilled to the bone, and to the bolts. He looked up to see a sullen, glowering sky above his head, and then peered through the rain towards the Centre.

He waved at the figures in the windows.

Come on, you senile old bastards. One of you has got to see me.

He bent his head into the mud.

I don’t believe this. I can’t die of exposure in bloody Berkshire. I’d die of shame first.

He began crawling again. He made the bird bath his goal and refused to look at the buildings. He felt himself going numb. The rain was turning to sleet.

Winter has picked a hell of an auspicious moment to arrive.

Then there were white-shoed feet in the soaking ground beside him, and strong hands took hold of him.

‘What happened to you, Mr Riven?’ He was being lifted up, and found himself looking at Nurse Cohen’s face.

He smiled wanly. ‘You took your bloody time.’

Her cap was gone and the rain had streaked hair across her face. He closed his eyes.

A
FACE BENT
over him, dark hair spilling around it. Beyond it was the brightness of sunshine reflecting on snow. His eyes watered, and he blinked, bringing the face into focus.

Grey, grave eyes and a mouth with a smile. Shoulder-length raven hair that was shining in the light.

‘How do you feel?’ The voice was low, with a Highland Scot accent.

He was lying in a bed draped with brightly coloured blankets. Behind the girl’s head was a window of pure blue sky. He could hear wind in the rafters.

‘I’m... fine, I think. Where am I?’

‘You’re near Glenbrittle,’ she answered musically. ‘We found you last night lying on the western scree of Sgurr Dearg, battered to bits. You had your torch burning beside you. That’s how we found you.’

He touched the bandage on his head, and blew air through pursed lips. ‘I remember now. I lost a crampon and went flying down the mountain.’ He winced. ‘Christ, how did I survive it?’

‘You’re badly bruised and you gashed your head, but apart from that, you are as healthy as I am. A wee bit peaky maybe, but right as rain.’

He raised his eyebrows and sat up laboriously. The girl helped him. He grimaced as his bruises shouted.

‘Lucky, I guess.’

‘More like miraculous,’ she retorted, and helped him out of bed. To his embarrassment he found he was dressed in an old-fashioned nightshirt.

‘It’s all we could get on you,’ she said, smiling mischievously.

Reddening, he stood up. The girl’s arm encircled his waist, steadying him. She was as tall as he was. Dizzy, he swayed, and she leaned herself against him. He caught a fragrance of windblown hair. He felt like kissing her, but settled for asking her name.

‘Jennifer MacKinnon. My father is Calum MacKinnon, and it is our home you are in.’

‘I’m Michael Riven. Thanks.’

She shrugged. ‘We’d hardly leave you lying up there. Come and have a look at what sort of trip you had down Dearg.’ She led him over to the window.

Outside, blindingly white snow covered everything, and rearing up massively in front of him was the mountain, stern and blunt, dark granite faces scattered on it where the wind would allow no purchase to the snow. He looked at the pocked scree face. He had fallen down that, head over heels.

‘I survived that?’

‘Aye,’ she said quietly. ‘You did. There’s many a one wouldn’t, I’m thinking. What made you climb during that storm anyway? Had you a hound at your heels?’

His face clouded. ‘Maybe. One that followed me all the way from the south.’

And follows me still.

‘I
T’S DISGRACEFUL, THAT’S
what it is. You’ve been told so many times, Mr Riven, never to drive your chair on to the lawn. Now it will take an electrician to get it working again. Until then, you can stay in your bed—hopefully that will keep you out of further mischief. Don’t you ever think of the staff of this Centre, Mr Riven? Your attitude is incomprehensible. It had better improve, or I shall be having words with the consultant about the advisability of keeping you here.’ Nurse Bisbee paused. ‘Haven’t you anything to say for yourself?’

Riven continued staring out of the window at the blue night and the rain that tapped on the glass.

‘Well, I’m not wasting any more time with you. There are patients who need me more, Mr Riven.’

And off she goes, steam coming out of her ears. Righteous indignation oozes out of every pore.

He lay and looked at the ceiling, unable to push out of his mind the way Nurse Cohen had manhandled him inside. Her hands on him.

Christ, that’s all I need. A bout of horniness.

The window rattled under the battery of the wind. He shut his eyes and heard again the gales in the Cuillin hills, the curlews, and the sea.

I haven’t left this place in four months. Didn’t even go to the funeral. I was unconscious in a hospital getting wired together.

T
HE CHAIR WAS
not in operation for nearly a week, during which time Riven lay in his bed and fought a running battle against the memories. Doody called in frequently, and teased him about morning afters and wheelchair acrobatics. Riven did not see Nurse Cohen much. Nurse Bisbee took care of most of his needs with a tight-lipped silence, or neutral remarks about the weather which she usually saved for the elderly in the Centre. Or she talked about Christmas, which was drawing near; and which made Riven hate her. His memories of last Christmas were too close.

He was taken to see Doctor Lynam, to have the progress of his legs monitored. They were pronounced ‘fairly sound,’ and the good man recommended, with a tap of his pipe, that Riven try them out after a few days and see how they went; as though they were a new car.

So Doody and Nurse Cohen took it upon themselves to haul Riven out of bed, procure for him a walking frame, and help him down the corridor in a string of lurches and bumps and near-falls and pain and gritted teeth. By the time they had gone twenty yards—at Riven’s insistence—his head was in a red mist and the sweat was trickling down his back. He had to be put in the chair to return to his room.