4

THE FIRST-FLOOR CORRIDOR was grey lino, clean and polished. I came to the main hub. Phones rang. Staff shouted for help. The wounded moaned. But at least they were in beds and the dressings were clean. The place functioned. There was an air of total efficiency.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to say or do when I saw her. When people I knew got shot, they were normally mates and I just took the piss. But this was different. She was more than a mate. She was the most important person in my life.

Yes, I was punching above my weight. Yes, she might well tire of me one day. But I knew I’d have the best time of my life while it lasted. I was even looking forward to taking care of her until she was fit enough to go back and play reporter and leave me watching her on TV at Gunslingers.

Ward 17 went on for ever, a classic Nightingale ward with fifteen or twenty beds each side. Some had screens. Some had solid partitions. I walked down the centre of it, checking the beds I could see. Most were occupied by militia. A couple of white guys lay with wound dressings. Maybe they were oil or military contractors, or media. I didn’t give a fuck. I just wanted to find Anna.

I kept walking. The last two beds at the end were partitioned off like little cubicles. Maybe that was where the women were.

The one to the right was open. An old woman lay with her family gathered round. She’d been hit in the stomach. Blood seeped through her dressing, and onto her sheets. Her face was pockmarked with red scabs. A mortar round had probably zapped her.

I went to the left-hand door and knocked gently. I didn’t wait for an answer.

She was sitting up, half asleep, supported by pillows. She was wearing a green surgical gown.

‘Nicholas?’