He looked a little blankly at the prosthesis lying there and, after a moment, picked it up. I wished he wouldn’t.
He said, surprised, ‘It’s bigger than I pictured. And heavier. And hard.’
‘All the better to club you with,’ I said.
‘Really?’ he asked interestedly. ‘Straight up?’
‘It’s been known,’ I said, and after a moment he put the arm down.
‘It’s true what they say of you, isn’t it? You may not look it, but you’re one tough bugger, Sid mate, like I told you before.’
I said, ‘Not many people look the way they are inside.’
India said, ‘I’ll write a piece about that.’
‘There you are then, Sid.’ Kevin was ready to go. ‘I’ve got a rape waiting. Thanks for those Japs. Makes us even, right?’
‘Even.’ I nodded.
India stood up as if to follow him. ‘Stay a bit,’ I suggested.
She hesitated. Kevin said, ‘Stay and hold his bloody hand. Oh, shit. Well… sorry, mate. Sorry.’
‘Get out of here,’ I said.
India watched him go.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said helplessly, ‘about getting you shot.’
‘I’m alive,’ I pointed out, ‘so forget it.’
Her face looked softer. At that hour in the morning she hadn’t yet put on the sharply outlined lipstick nor the matte porcelain make-up. Her eyebrows were as dark and positive, and her eyes as light-blue and clear, but this was the essential India I was seeing, not the worldly package. How different, I wondered, was the inner spirit from the cutting brain of her column?
She, too, as if compelled, came over to my left side and looked at the plastic arm.
‘How does it work?’ she asked.
I explained about the electrodes, as I had for Rachel.
She picked up the arm and put her fingers inside, touching the electrodes. Nothing happened. No movement in the thumb.
I swallowed. I said, ‘It probably needs a fresh battery.’
‘Battery?’
‘It clips into the side. That boxlike thing…’ I nodded towards the locker. ‘…that’s a battery charger. There’s a recharged battery in there. Change them over.’
She did so, but slowly, because of the unfamiliarity. When she touched the electrodes again, the hand obeyed the signals.
‘Oh,’ she said.
She put the hand down and looked at me.
‘Do you,’ she said, ‘have a steel rod up your backbone? I’ve never seen anyone more tense. And your forehead’s sweating.’
She picked up the box of tissues lying beside the battery charger and offered it to me.
I shook my head. She looked at the immobilized right arm and at the left one on the locker, and a wave of understanding seemed to leave her without breath.
I said nothing. She pulled a tissue out of the box and jerkily dabbed at a dribble of sweat that ran down my temple.
‘Why don’t you put this arm on?’ she demanded. ‘You’d be better with it on, obviously.’
‘A nurse will do it.’ I explained about the emergency. ‘She’ll come when she can.’
‘Let me do it,’ India said.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’
‘Because you’re too bloody proud.’
Because it’s too private, I thought.
I was wearing one of those dreadful hospital gowns like a barber’s smock that fastened at the back of the neck and shapelessly covered the body. A white flap covered my left shoulder, upper arm, elbow and what remained below. Tentatively India lifted and turned back the flap so that we both could see my elbow and the short piece of forearm.
‘You hate it, don’t you?’ India said.
‘Yes.’
‘I would hate it, too.’
I can’t bear this, I thought. I can bear Ellis unscrewing my hand and mocking me. I can’t bear love.
India picked up the electric arm.
‘What do I do?’ she asked.
I said with difficulty, nodding again at the locker, ‘Talcum powder.’
‘Oh.’ She picked up the white tinful of comfort for babies. ‘In the arm, or on you?’
‘On me.’
She sprinkled powder on my forearm. ‘Is this right? More?’
‘Mm.’
She smoothed the powder all over my skin. Her touch sent a shiver right down to my toes.
‘And now?’
‘Now hold it so that I can put my arm into it.’
She concentrated. I put my forearm into the socket, but the angle was wrong.
‘What do I do?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Turn the thumb towards you a bit. Not too far. That’s right. Now push up while I push down. That top bit will slide over my elbow and grip — and keep the hand on.’
‘Like that?’ She was trembling.
‘Like that,’ I said. The arm gripped where it was designed to.
I sent the messages. We both watched the hand open and close.
India abruptly left my side and walked over to where she’d left her purse, picking it up and crossing to the door.
‘Don’t go,’ I said.
‘If I don’t go, I’ll cry.’
I thought that might make two of us. The touch of her fingers on the skin of my forearm had been a caress more intimate than any act of sex. I felt shaky. I felt more moved than ever in my life.
‘Come back,’ I said.
‘I’m supposed to be in the office.’
‘India,’ I said, ‘please…’ Why was it always so impossible to plead? ‘Please…’ I looked down at my left hand. ‘Please don’t write about this.’
‘Don’t write about it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I won’t, but why not?’
‘Because I don’t like pity.’
She came halfway back to my side with tears in her eyes.
‘Your Jenny,’ she said, ‘told me that you were so afraid of being pitied that you would never ask for help.’
‘She told you too much.’
‘Pity,’ India said, coming a step nearer, ‘is actually about as far from what I feel for you as it’s possible to get.’
I stretched out my left arm and fastened the hand on her wrist.
She looked at it. I tugged, and she took the last step to my side.
‘You’re strong,’ she said, surprised.
‘Usually.’
I pulled her nearer. She saw quite clearly what I intended, and bent her head and put her mouth on mine as if it were not the first time, as if it were natural.
A pact, I thought.
A beginning.
Time drifted when she’d gone.
Time drifted to the midday news.
A nurse burst into my quiet room. ‘Don’t you have your television on? You’re on it.’
She switched on knobs, and there was my face on the screen, with a newsreader’s unemotional voice saying, ‘Sid Halley is recovering in hospital.’ There was a widening picture of me looking young and in racing colors: a piece of old film taken years ago of me weighing in after winning the Grand National. I was holding my saddle in two hands and my eyes were full of the mystical wonder of having been presented with the equivalent of the Holy Grail.
The news slid to drought and intractable famine.
The nurse said ‘Wait,’ and twiddled more knobs, and another channel opened with the news item and covered the story in its entirety.
A woman announcer whose lugubrious voice I had long disliked put on her portentous-solemn face and intoned: ‘Police today found the body of Ellis Quint in his car, deep in the New Forest in Hampshire…’
Frozen, I heard her saying, as if from a distance, ‘Foul play is not suspected. It is understood that the popular broadcaster left a note for his father, still unconscious after an accidental blow to the head on Sunday night. Now over to our reporter in Hampshire, Buddy Bowes.’