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They had tried to find out how the accident had happened. The gun was a genuine late-Victorian revolver (another anachronism in a film so full of them that its period could be any time between 1700 and 1900). How live bullets had got into it no one could imagine. The props people said they hadn’t touched it; it had come like that from the place of hiring. The hiring firm were very affronted when rung up, and assured the film company that they only ever supplied blanks. No doubt a further investigation would follow.

The thought of substantial compensation didn’t comfort Charles much. It was the taste of death in his mouth that preoccupied him. He staggered out of bed and cleaned his teeth, but the taste was still there. He put his hands on the marine blue wash-basin and his body sagged forward. The face in the mirror of the marine blue bathroom cabinet looked terrified and ill. Partly he knew it was last night’s sedative, coupled with a large slug of Miles’ Chivas Regal. Coming after the sleepless night spent with Felicity, it was bound to affect him pretty badly. But more than that it was the shock, a feeling that left his body as cold as ice, and sent these involuntary convulsions through him.

He started to dress, but almost passed out with the pain from his arm. To steady himself he sank down on the side of the bed. At that moment, Juliet came into the bedroom. ‘Daddy, are you all right? I heard you moving and-’

Charles nodded weakly.

‘You look ghastly,’ she said.

‘I feel it. Here, would you help me get dressed? This bloody arm

… I can’t do anything.’

Very gently his daughter started to help him into his clothes. As she bent to pick up his trousers, she looked just like Frances. ‘Daughter and wife whom I’ll leave when I die’-the phrase came into his maudlin thoughts and he started crying convulsively.

‘Daddy, Daddy.’

‘It’s just the shock,’ he managed to get out between sobs.

‘Daddy, calm down.’ But his body had taken control and he couldn’t calm down.

‘Daddy, get back to bed. I’ll call the doctor.’

‘NO… I can’t go back to bed, because I’ve got to get to London. I’ve got to get… to London. I’ve got to get to London.’ Suddenly the repetition seemed very funny and his sobs changed to ripples of high-pitched giggles. The situation became funnier and funnier and he lay back on the bed shaken by deep gasps of laughter.

Juliet talked calmingly to no avail. Suddenly her hand lashed out and slapped his face. Hard. It had the desired effect. The convulsions stopped and Charles lay back exhausted. He still felt ill, but the hysterics seemed to have relaxed him a bit. Juliet helped him back under the bedclothes. ‘I’m going to get the doctor,’ she said, and left the room.

Charles dropped immediately into a deep sleep where lumbering Thurber cartoon figures with guns in their hands chased him through a landscape of pastel green, dotted with red flowers. There was no menace in their attack. He was running hand in hand with a girl who was Juliet or Felicity, but wearing Frances’ old white duffel coat. They stopped at a launderette. The girl, whose face was now Jacqui’s, clasped his arm and said ‘It’s a pity the Battleship Potemkin is booked for Easter.’ She kept hold of his arm and shook it till it became elastic and extended out of its socket like a conjuror’s string of handkerchiefs.

‘Mr Paris.’ Charles opened his eyes warily, disgruntled at being dragged out of his dream. ‘Mr Paris. I am Doctor Lefeuvre.’

‘Hello,’ said Charles sleepily.

‘It’s rather difficult you not being one of my regular patients, but since your daughter is, I’m stretching a point. She’s told me about your accident yesterday, but I gather that’s not what’s troubling you?’ The voice had a slight Australian twang. Charles looked at Doctor Lefeuvre. A man in his mid-thirties with dull auburn hair and a freckled face behind rectangular metal-rimmed glasses. He had very long hands, which were also covered in freckles and sported three gold rings.

‘I don’t know, Doctor. I just feel very weak and ill.’

‘The arm’s all right?’

‘It feels bruised, but that’s all.’

‘Only to be expected. Let’s just have a look at the dressing.’ He cast his eye expertly over the bandage on Charles’ arm. ‘It’s been very well done. When are you due to go back to the hospital?’

‘They’ll change the dressing next Monday.’

‘That seems fine. I won’t meddle with it then. But otherwise you’re feeling run down and ill. It’s probably just shock.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d better have a look at you.’ And the doctor began the time-honoured ritual of taking temperature and pulses. In fact, Charles felt better now. His body had regained some warmth and the sleep had relaxed him. He just felt as if he’d run full tilt into a brick wall.

Doctor Lefeuvre looked at the temperature. ‘Hmm. That’s strange.’

‘What?’

‘You seem to have a slight temperature. Just over a hundred. That’s not really consistent with shock. Let’s take your shirt off. There. Not hurting the arm?’

‘No.’

‘Hmm.’ The doctor started probing and tapping. ‘Let’s have a look at your throat. Open. There. Tongue down. No, down. Yes. Is your throat at all sore?’

‘A bit. Sort of foul taste in my mouth.’

‘Yes. Hm. That’s strange. You haven’t been in contact with German measles recently?’

‘Not to my knowledge, no.’

‘No. Hmmm. Because, on a cursory examination, I would say that is what you’ve got. There’s a slight rash on your chest, hardly visible. The temperature and the sore throat are consistent.

‘Oh. Well, what should I do about it?’

‘Nothing much. It’s not very serious. If you’re feeling bad, stay in bed. It’ll clear up in a couple of days. You don’t have to rush back to work, do you?’

‘No, they’ve reorganised the shooting schedule.’

‘Oh.’ Doctor Lefeuvre obviously didn’t understand what that meant, but equally obviously it didn’t interest him much either. ‘Look, I’ll prescribe some penicillin.’ He scribbled on his pad. ‘You’d better check with Battle Hospital, tell them you’re going to take it. Just in case they want to put you on something else.’

‘Fine.’

‘Good. Oh. I’d better just have your address and National Health Number for the records.’ Charles gave them, digging the number out of a 1972 diary which was so full of useful information he’d never managed to get rid of it.

‘Right.’ Doctor Lefeuvre gathered his things together and prepared to leave.

‘So there’s nothing special I should do? Just rest?’

‘Yes. You’ll feel better in a couple of days. The rest won’t do the arm any harm either.’

‘OK.’

‘Oh, there is one thing of course with German measles.’

‘Yes.’

‘You mustn’t be in contact with anyone who’s expecting a baby. If a woman gets German measles while she’s pregnant, it can have very bad effects on the unborn child.’

Charles dressed with Juliet’s help (he didn’t like staying in bed alone) and rang Jacqui as soon as the doctor had left. He didn’t mention the ‘accident’ at Bloomwater because it would only upset her. In fact, she sounded particularly cheerful; it was the first morning she had woken up with no trace of sickness, and was cheered at the thought of entering the ‘blooming’ phase of pregnancy. No, nothing disturbing had happened. Nobody had rung. She was quite happy in her little prison.

Charles felt fairly confident of her safety for the time being. Though the shooting on the film set, if it wasn’t accidental implied that Nigel Steen knew of his involvement, he still might not have realised the direct connection with Jacqui, and certainly was no nearer getting the Hereford Road address. But she would have to be moved soon. Charles determined to ring Frances and ask her to take the girl in. It would be a strange coupling, but Frances wouldn’t refuse. He explained to Jacqui about the German measles.