When the Sky Fell Apart (29 page)

He struggled to sleep. He found himself waking in the early hours, twisted in the sheets, soaked in sweat, mind racing. He was plagued by headaches and nausea. He took to covering the mirror in his house with a towel.

He tried to identify the exact moment when his life had peeled away in two opposing paths and he had taken the wrong one. But it seemed to him that he could not have chosen otherwise: he had wanted to stay in Jersey to help the islanders. Even now, he could not imagine himself abandoning his patients, though his act of betrayal had made them abandon him.

Then, too, there had been a certain feeling of well-deserved penance in staying. The sense of a just punishment for past sins, and perhaps his current unbearable predicament was his final atonement.

Mother, Father, Will…
He had hurt and disappointed them all.

It seemed impossible to go on like this. But even when he scrambled from his bed and leant over his sink, his razor blade pressed against the frantic pulse at his throat, he lacked the impetus, the
courage
to complete the action.

Father's voice echoed in his head.
Coward.

Carter crammed his endless waking hours with activity: reorganising his kitchen cupboards, cleaning out his chest of drawers, refolding his clothes, more reading. He was fastidious by habit and was often irked when he didn't have enough time to keep his house tidy. Again he wondered what it might be like to be married. But he had never come across a woman who moved him as he knew he should be moved—besides, it was dishonorable to marry for the sole purpose of keeping a clean house. Women should be nurtured; his mother had taught him that.

On that May morning, the pounding on his door made him jump.

Maurice Pipon stood on his step. His hair was wild, his eyes wide. His wife, Marthe, was slumped unconscious in his arms. A German soldier with a malformed arm supported her head.

‘For heaven's sake, man, come in,' Carter cried. ‘Lie her down, just here. How long has she been like this?'

They carried her in between them and laid her on the sofa.

The soldier stood in the doorway, waiting. Carter said,
‘Danke. Sie können gehen.'
The German saluted and left.

‘Found her this way when I woke,' Maurice explained. ‘She's burning, Doctor. Can you help? I can't wake her. What can you do for her? You must be able to do
something!
'

Marthe Pipon was certainly pyrexic: her fever was just under 105ºF. Heart rate high. Respiration shallow and rapid. One of Carter's immediate worries was long-term damage to the brain. She was unresponsive to external stimuli: she didn't react to her name or flinch when Carter pricked her finger with a pin.

His heart sank. ‘You hadn't thought to take her into hospital?'

‘You're closer, and I knew you'd take care of her.'

‘Pass me the stethoscope, would you? You have surprising faith in me. I imagine most of the island would rather walk over hot coals to the hospital than deal with me.'

Maurice raked his hands through his hair. ‘You've made some bad choices, but the war has made fools of all of us, one way or another. And if you can help her then I don't give a damn if you're Lucifer himself.'

Carter gave a grim smile but Maurice's words didn't sting as he might have expected: it was something of a relief to hear it spoken aloud. There was almost a companionship in those words—a sense of understanding, if not forgiveness.

‘Well, I'm glad you trust me, devil that I am. May I?' Carter lifted the back of Marthe's vest and placed the stethoscope on her ribs.

‘So?' Maurice said, white-faced. ‘Will she live?'

Carter stood upright, pulled Marthe's vest back down. He spoke gently.

‘I think you should take her to the hospital immediately. I'll help by telephoning ahead, if you like. They won't cure her but they may be able to make her…more comfortable, at least. I'm sorry, Mr Pipon.'

Carter felt a stinging frustration: in peacetime, Marthe's infection could have been cured and her illness managed in order to prolong her life. As it was, she was another casualty of the war.

After a moment of staring, Maurice said, ‘So you can't find medicine for her yourself, then? I thought…your position with the Commandant?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘But she won't recover without the medicine? And they won't give it to her in hospital.'

‘Sadly, no.'

‘Damn it, what am I to do then? She can't stay like this.'

‘I'm very sorry. Her coma will become deeper and her temperature higher. At some point either the temperature will… damage her frontal lobe—sorry, part of her brain. Or the bacteria itself will go to the brain stem. In either case, the…prognosis is…very poor, I'm afraid.'

‘Meaning what, exactly? Plain English, Doctor.'

Carter felt the knifing pain of the words as he said them, quietly. ‘She will die, Mr Pipon. I'm so very sorry. I wish I had a different answer for you.'

Maurice didn't weep, or beg, or shout at him, or thump the wall, as Carter had seen many husbands do when given such a bleak prediction.

Instead, he stared out the window at the sea, nodding slowly.

Carter went to make the necessary call to the hospital. His own car was held at Royal Square, but he might be able to persuade the hospital to send a car—he would pay for it from his own pocket.

Suddenly, Maurice said, ‘Best find some of that medicine then.'

Carter felt a stirring of unease. ‘As I said, I'm afraid that won't be possible.'

Maurice gave a thin, stiff smile. But his eyes were hard. ‘What about
you
? You can find all sorts. You must be able to uncover medicine. Steal it, if you have to.'

Carter sat and put his head in his hands. ‘I wish it were that simple.'

‘It
is
simple. She will die without it. You've said so.
You're
the doctor.
You
can find her the medicine.'

Carter felt cornered. ‘I can't. I'm sorry, Mr Pipon. Truly.'

Even as he said it, Carter wished there was some way he could summon the bravery to simplify matters. Some way to transform himself into a man like Maurice Pipon, who would steal the medicine without hesitation, without a single thought for his own safety. Again, Father's sneering face in his memory.

Spineless boy.

Maurice growled, ‘You're a coward then.'

‘Perhaps I am.' Carter flushed with the shame of the admission.

‘A
damned
coward,' Maurice said. ‘You should be ashamed. I hope you don't sleep at night. You're letting her die. How can you do it? You're not a bad sort. I can see that. Why are you doing this?
Why
are you putting that fat German bastard's life before hers?'

Carter drew in a breath, tried to steady himself. How could it be possible that saving a life was not the right choice? And yet what he couldn't begin to articulate to Maurice was that, in this world where other men made the rules, there were no
right choices
. At every turn, the end result was failure: it was simply a case of choosing cataclysm over apocalypse.

Carter knew his silence must appear uncaring, that his inaction would seem to be born out of selfishness. His hands were shaking; he couldn't still them.

Maurice muttered an oath and strode to the drinks cabinet in the corner. His breathing had grown ragged. He poured out two large glasses of whisky and gave one to Carter, who didn't touch it.

Maurice drained his glass, then refilled it. ‘Very fine whisky.' His expression grew narrow, his voice sharp. ‘I haven't seen whisky since before the war, I don't think. Gift, was it?'

Did the man have to torture him so? But, then again, perhaps Carter deserved it.

Marthe gave a moan. Maurice kissed her hot forehead and whispered, ‘Stay with me, my love.'

‘Here.' Carter handed Maurice a wet cloth. He fetched one himself, and began sponging Marthe's forehead, cheeks, arms. ‘It won't cure the infection. But it'll bring the fever down a little. It might grant us some time.'

Maurice gave a bark of bitter laughter. ‘Time for
what?
There's no medicine, remember?'

Carter shifted uncomfortably. ‘The Commandant has medicine. But—'

Maurice's face brightened. ‘Then surely you can fetch it—'

‘I'm sorry, but the risk—'

‘Come, if you went now, he'd never know. He'd never notice the medicine was gone.'

Carter turned away and stared out of the window. Dusk would soon fall and the sky was a perfect plum blue. On the horizon, the flat eye of the sea, unblinking. Strange that the sight of the endless, open water should make him feel like a caged animal.

‘Oh, he would notice. He notices everything, in the end. And what if he had need of it?'

‘And it means so much to you, does it? The extra food? The warm clothes? This drink? Those bloody
shoes
.'

Carter's jaw dropped. To hear that another man could believe him to be so callous.

‘My God, is that what you think? That I'm looking after him for what I can gain from it?'

‘Well, aren't you?'

‘One of his soldiers was punished just last week—he'd disobeyed an order. He was a pianist—played beautifully. The Commandant ordered a surgeon to amputate the man's fingers. When the man woke after the operation, the Commandant made him sit in front of the piano. Made him play, with his bandaged stumps. Forced him to keep trying, until the man broke down and wept.'

‘But you're hardly a soldier. Look at you.'

‘It doesn't make a blind bit of difference to him. I'm his man—his
Eigentum,
his property. Everything that belongs to him obeys him—he makes sure of it. Just last month, one of his men fell asleep on duty. Before he had him put in front of the firing squad, the Commandant had the surgeon remove the man's eyelids, so he couldn't ever be off duty again. Even after he was dead.'

‘He's a monster,' Maurice whispered.

Carter felt a wave of relief. Finally, someone understood his predicament.

‘Yes, he is. But it's not simply a case of saving my own skin. He's threatened others too. Anyone he believes is close to me. Edith Bisson, Clement Hacquoil. And he's spoken of closing the hospital. Can you imagine it? Hundreds of sick people, dying on the streets because I've disobeyed orders.'

Carter felt stronger for saying it aloud. Every word he spoke was the truth, but somehow laying it out for someone else made it
more
true, made everything more understandable.

But then Maurice said, ‘None of this makes any difference: my wife will die without your help—'

‘I've explained—'

‘She'll
die
. You've said so. And what about your oath, eh?'

Carter blinked. ‘My oath?'

‘Your doctor's promise. To heal people who are sick.'

‘You're making it all sound very simple.'

‘It is.
Look
at her. Will you let her die?'

Carter shook his head. Maurice sighed. Took his fishing knife from his belt, laid it on the table. Blade glinting in the dim light.

Carter felt a tingling of adrenaline. ‘Is that a threat?'

Maurice gave a bark of bitter laughter. ‘If only I had the stomach for it. Perhaps you'd find the medicine with a knife to your gullet.'

Carter heard a click in his throat as he swallowed. Surely the man wasn't desperate enough to kill him?

‘Put it away then, would you? There's a good chap.'

Maurice's voice was steel. ‘I want you to use it.'

‘I don't follow.'

‘If she's going to die, then it needs to be quick. Who knows what agony she's in right now? I won't have her dying in pain. Like some sickly animal.'

Carter gasped. ‘Are you mad? I can't do that! Think what you're asking of me, man.'

Maurice spoke calmly. ‘Not only that. Me too. After you've—after she's gone. I can't live without her, so you'll have to…to do me, too. You'll know how to make it quick for both of us. Where to cut.'

Carter's mouth was dry. ‘Good God, you're serious.' But along with his disbelief, Carter felt a tiny glow of understanding: better to choose one's own death than suffer at the whim of a disease or the caprice of a tyrant.

Maurice pushed the knife towards him. ‘Go on. Do it now.'

‘Christ!' Carter picked up the knife, calculating the location of the incisions, the volume of blood that would be lost, the time it would take. He thought he might vomit.

Maurice lifted Marthe out of her bath chair and on to his lap. Her head lolled back and her neck was exposed: the blood, battering away under that pale skin. Maurice kissed her again and again: eyelids, lips, hair, cheeks, mouth, nose, throat, mouth.

Maurice rasped, ‘Make it quick.'

Carter drew back the knife, then dropped it. It clattered to the floor. ‘I'll do it.'

‘Come on, then,' Maurice hissed. ‘
Now!
Before I change my mind.' He kissed Marthe's mouth again.

‘No, not that!' Carter snapped. ‘For God's sake, man. The medicine. I'll take the medicine. From the Commandant.'

Because there was no way he could do it: murder another human. He couldn't bring himself to kill the Commandant, so there was nothing under heaven that could make him harm Maurice or Marthe. He would rather die himself. Embrace the inevitable.

Maurice stared and smiled and Carter could sense the tiny hope forming within him, brittle and brimming as an egg.

‘I may not be successful,' Carter said, ‘so you must temper your expectations. I'll go now. If I'm stopped then I'll say I'm going to attend the Commandant. They won't dare to question me.' He put on his coat and hat. ‘They should have you negotiating with Hitler. We'd have the whole lot of them back in Germany by the end of the month.'