Fifteen minutes later Doreen thought it best to leave and allow him to rest, promising to return that evening.
As she stepped into the corridor she saw Tom Harrison and a woman she did not know; they were talking to Colonel Wallace.
Harrison recognised her. ‘Doreen, sweetheart — I’m so sorry.’
There was no warmth in her eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to see Les. It’s the first chance I’ve had to get away from London. How is he?’
‘How do you think he is?’ The anger, the accusation were unmistakable.
Harrison felt uncomfortable, unsure why she was so hostile. He put it down to shock. ‘If there’s anything I can do?’
‘I think you’ve done enough, don’t you? That nonsense in the newspapers, just goading those Irish bastards to try something.
Les thought it was a mistake. Well, he was right, wasn’t he? But it wasn’t you who paid the price — it was my Les.’ She appeared to notice Casey for the first time, but her attention remained focused on Harrison. ‘I heard that you and Pippa have split up.’
It could have been a sympathetic acknowledgment of the situation by a friend of both parties, yet Doreen’s tone was again one of accusation.
As she glanced sideways at Casey, the meaning was clear. If this woman, this stranger, was the reason, then Pippa had done the right thing.
There was an awkward silence between Harrison and Casey as Doreen left and Colonel Wallace went to see if Appleyard was strong enough for more visitors.
‘That was awful,’ Casey said at last. ‘I thought you were great friends with Les and Doreen.’
He swallowed hard. ‘We were, once.’
She could see that he was hurt. ‘Then why did she react like that? You didn’t plant the bomb. It was hardly your fault.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. One thing I’ve learned over the years — you see it all the time with victims and their relatives. They can’t hate faceless killers. How do you hate’someone you don’t know, let alone understand?’ It was as though he were trying to answer a private question of his own. ‘Perhaps I’m just an easier target for her.’
Wallace emerged from the doors of Ward Six, the sister by his side.
‘He’d like to see you, Major Harrison.’
‘Five minutes only, mind,’ Sister McGuire added.
Appleyard was propped up in bed at a slightly elevated angle, wired to the paraphernalia of the patient-controlled drip-feed of morphine, bottles and monitors. He looked exhausted and deathly pale, but he managed a smile.
‘How are you, you old reprobate?’ Harrison said.
His friend strained to hear the words. ‘I’ve lost a bit of weight since we last met, Tom. Most effective diet I’ve ever tried.’ The weak laugh didn’t quite ring true. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t you I wanted to see — Sister said you’d brought the lovely Casey with you.’
She laughed lightly and leaned across to kiss him on the cheek. ‘It’s good to see you cheerful, Les.’
‘That’s made me feel better. Almost got the old third leg going then. I could even start to like Americans.’ His effort at humour broke down into a racking cough. When it finally subsided, he said: ‘Tom, I’ve asked but no one here seems to know, and Doreen wouldn’t say, what happened in the end that night I copped it?’
Harrison said: ‘You don’t want to go into all that.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ He sounded a little breathless.
‘There was a third bomb, similar to — to the one you tackled.’
‘Yes?’ His voice was slightly slurred.
‘It went off while the terrorists were planting it. Killed two of them’
Appleyard’s eyelids fluttered. ‘Sweet Jesus, an own goal…’ He said the words slowly, almost as though he was savouring the taste of them. ‘So this — my accident — wasn’t completely pointless.’
God, Harrison thought, even Les blames me for this. Not like Doreen, not up front and full of anger, but underneath it all he holds me responsible.
‘Tom, there’s something wrong,’ Casey said.
Appleyard was mumbling. ‘Where’s the bloody barrow? What’s Al playing at? It’s going… to be a fucking…’ He was breathing hard now, his skin becoming grey and waxy with perspiration ‘…fucking great bang.’
Harrison was on his feet, moving towards the staff room. Sister McGuire met him halfway. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Les has had a relapse or something.’ They were striding together, shoes clattering on the polished floor. ‘He suddenly became disorientated, sweating…’
They stopped at the bedside. Sister McGuire took one look and said: ‘Blast-lung. NURSE!’
It was a common occurrence, Colonel Wallace explained afterwards. ‘Suddenly the oxygen and blood levels drop, often after twenty-four hours or so. His X-ray will show up cloudy.’
‘Is it serious?’ Casey asked.
‘It’s serious, but not usually life-threatening.’ Wallace poured them tea in the staff room. ‘I spent a year at the Royal Victoria in Belfast. There were a lot of bomb victims but we only lost one through blast-lung. Two or three days on a ventilator and he’ll be as right as ninepence.’
‘And his legs?’ Harrison asked.
Wallace sipped at his tea. ‘It might not seem like it to you — or to his wife — but he’s been lucky. We’ve managed to save a hand’s breadth of bone beneath the knee. That’s enough to fit a prosthesis. Even if we have to take off the other leg — the one we’re trying to save — there’s a good chance that too can be fitted out artificially.’
‘You mean he could walk again?’ Casey asked.
‘We’ll make damn sure he gives it his best shot. Little Sister McGuire is quite the most awsome bully I’ve ever met. With her help we’ll have him walking within the next ten days or so.’
Casey was astounded. ‘That’s incredible.’
‘It’s the best way,’ Wallace replied evenly. ‘Before muscle waste sets in and before the patient has too much time to feel sorry for himself.’
Harrison felt better for hearing the surgeon’s bullish attitude. ‘Les seems remarkably cheerful and confident.’
Wallace raised one eyebrow. ‘Don’t let that fool you, Major. Trauma amputees have no time for mental preparation, to think of the life that lies ahead of them. Les Appleyard is a tough nut, thinks and acts like a soldier. The more cheerful and jokey he is now, the deeper will be his depression when it finally sinks in. No more football, running or so many other things he probably liked to do. Post-traumatic stress disorder. He must grieve for himself sooner or later. It’s a necessary part of the healing process. Mind as well as body.’
Casey said: ‘How many bomb victims have you known, Colonel?’
He drained his tea. ‘Not many here at the Cambridge. But dozens over the years, especially in Ulster. Of course, you read about them at the time or see the television coverage and you think, my God, how awful. Then you never hear of them again.
You’re a journalist, Miss Mullins, you know what it’s like. Another day, another story. But not for those people. For them time stopped on that day the second that the bomb went off. Sometimes I think the dead are the lucky ones. When we medics use the term “seriously injured”, it isn’t a glib choice of words, it means exactly that. Few people know what a bomb can do. How it tears a limb off a torso like a child’s toy. Or what happens with shrapnel or flying glass. I’ve seen people’s faces quite literally sliced in half, cheeks removed down to the gums and teeth, a woman’s breast removed with the precision of a surgeon’s knife…’