As he stretched an arm towards it he heard footsteps on the stairs. Victor came into view, smiling unconvincingly. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
Because of the constriction in his throat Stratton was unable to answer him. He grappled for the sheet, pulled it away and, mustering all his strength, rolled onto his side, ignoring the pain. As he fought to sit up and lower his feet to the floor Victor helped, knowing it was pointless to try and stop him.
‘Why are you always wanting to sit up when you should be lying down?’ Victor asked.
The movement had been painful and Stratton lowered his head to ease the dizziness. He focused on his bare feet and arms. Most of the ash and smoke-soot had been washed off but his skin was still dirty. He realised suddenly that he was wearing only his shorts.
‘You’ll probably fall back down again in a minute.’
Stratton wanted to say something but the sides of his mouth and throat felt as if they were stuck together. He mimicked drinking from a cup.
‘Yes, of course,’ Victor said, reaching for a mug that was beside the jug and handing it to Stratton. ‘Drink slowly,’ he advised.
Stratton tipped enough water between his lips to wet his tongue and repeated the process until the vital liquid was flowing down his throat. He tried to say something but his larynx was still too dry so he filled his mouth with water and tilted his head back before swallowing.
‘How are the others?’ he rasped, his voice barely audible.
But Victor understood him. ‘Miguel is dead. So is Umberto. Eduardo is badly burned. The doctor gives him a fifty per cent chance of survival. Carlos is not quite as bad. He has a broken arm but the doctor thinks he will be okay. David will be fine, as will you be. The doctor removed a piece of metal from your back. He said it did not penetrate your lung cavity.’
Stratton thought about the information, saddened by the loss of the men even though he had not known them. He emptied the mug of water into his mouth and handed it to Victor to refill.
Victor obliged. ‘Do you know what happened?’ he asked.
‘Have you asked David?’
‘Not yet. I wanted to hear it from you first.’ Stratton cleared his throat. He was starting to feel better now that he could swallow again. ‘It was a booby trap.’
Victor’s mind raced. ‘You’re sure?’
‘A hand grenade, set to go off when the box was opened.’
Victor looked disturbed. ‘We’ve never had sabotage before, not like this.’
‘Where’re my clothes?’
Victor indicated a pile of fatigues on the other side of the room. They looked like those worn by the rebels. ‘Yours were too badly burned,’ he said, pointing to a charred pile of material on the floor. ‘Your carbine is under the bed, along with your pistol. I don’t think the carbine will work any more, either.’
Stratton leaned down, pain stabbing his back, and pulled the guns out from under the bed. The M4 was a mess, its plastic stock and butt brittle and broken in places. The magazine was gone and when he tried to pull back the breech it didn’t budge. He dropped it to the floor and checked the semi-automatic pistol. The grip was a little charred but the magazine slid out easily enough and, yanking back the top slide, he found that the mechanism was working smoothly when a round flew out of the chamber. He put the pistol on the bed to deal with later.
Stratton got unsteadily to his feet. ‘Well,’ he said, stretching his back and ignoring the pain. ‘I don’t think I can take any more of your hospitality.’ He went to the pile of fatigues and looked for a pair of trousers and a shirt that might fit.
‘I understand, of course,’ Victor said, noticing that the dressing on Stratton’s back was bloody. ‘We’ll need to change your bandage before you put your shirt on.’
Stratton pulled on a pair of trousers that were long enough in the leg but big around the waist. ‘My boots?’ he asked, looking around.
‘Yours are no good. Try those,’ Victor said, pointing to an open box filled with jungle boots of various sizes.
Stratton went to the box and rummaged through it, checking the sizes, pulling out a boot attached to another by its laces. He noticed that his wristwatch was broken. ‘I don’t suppose you have a box of watches around here too?’
‘I’ll see what I can do. They’re not a common resupply item.’
‘What is the time?’
‘Almost six p.m. . . . It happened yesterday,’ Victor informed him.
Stratton looked at him quizzically.
‘The doctor put something in your drip to keep you asleep.’
Stratton checked his forearms to find the tell-tale puncture made by a drip-feed needle.
The Frenchman went back to the top of the stairs. ‘I must go. I’ll be back later.’
‘Victor?’
Victor paused to look back at Stratton.
‘Can you get me to the border? I want to go home to heal.’
‘Oh.’ Victor looked disappointed.
‘What?’
‘I thought you would want to find out who did this to you.’
‘No. I just want to go home.’
Victor nodded. ‘I’ll arrange something for you,’ he said, starting back down the stairs.
‘Why are you trying to make me feel bad about going? This isn’t my fight.’
‘It’s a struggle between good and evil. I thought that was everybody’s fight.’
‘It’s not the only one out there.’
Victor nodded. ‘True enough.’ He continued down the steps and out of the cabin.
Stratton sat heavily back down on the bed and lowered himself onto his side. He lay there for some time, fighting the urge to sleep. Fearing that he would lose the battle he sat up, got to his feet and collected together the various items of clothing he’d selected. As he finished threading the laces through the eyelets of the boots he heard the door of the cabin open and close and footsteps on the stairs.
‘You’re going to have to check every one of those boxes,’ Stratton said. ‘I’ll show you a way of doing it safely before I go.’
When he looked up it was not Victor at the top of the stairs but Louisa. She looked different. The coldness in her eyes had gone. She was staring at him in silence as if unsure what to say or do.
Unable to think of anything either, Stratton picked the shirt off the bed to put it on.
‘Don’t do that,’ Louisa said, walking over to him. ‘Victor said your bandage needed changing.’ She was holding a couple of packets of medical lint, a roll of surgical tape and a pair of scissors.
He put the shirt down and held out his hand for them.
‘You’re a talented man but I doubt even you could change that dressing on your back by yourself.’ She walked around the other side of his bed. ‘You were right, what you said earlier. I’m not a whole lot of use here really. But I have learned how to change a dressing. I spend a few hours most days helping out in the clinic. It also allows me some interaction with the people. Sit down, would you, please.’
Louisa’s voice was gentle and sincere. Stratton found it disarming. He sat down and she knelt on the bed behind him, gently placing a hand on his arm to steady herself. Her touch was soft and he had no control over the sudden rush it gave him. The contact weakened him but in the most pleasurable way. Her proximity, the brush of her shirt against him, her breath, they were all sensual to him. He tried to block the feelings, fighting them, but it was like refusing water while dying of thirst. She placed her hands on his shoulders and he quivered.
‘I’m sorry. My hands can be cold even in this part of the world.’