‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it’s not far and you’ll be okay. We’ll soon have you patched up.’ She just grunted in response.
They continued on towards his place and he could feel the adrenaline wearing off. ‘I’m James; or Jamie, if you like.’
‘I’m Jane; pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’
They reached the bungalow and he helped her inside, through the hall and into the kitchen. She sat down on a chair at the table and he took the shotgun off his shoulder, propping it against the wall by the door.
‘Would you like a shot of something stronger before your coffee?’
‘Oh God; yes please!’
He took a bottle of whisky off a shelf, got a glass and poured her a stiff measure. She downed it in one and he poured her another, which she drank half of.
‘We need to take a look at that leg of yours. We’ve got to remove the pellets as soon as possible and wash the area and treat it, to stop infection.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ she replied, with no great enthusiasm.
‘If you go into the bathroom and take your jeans off, there’s a bathrobe on the door. I’ll put some water on to heat.’
She nodded and he helped her to stand up, then she limped to the bathroom. She took her jeans off, wincing in pain, and suddenly felt a bit self-conscious of her hairy legs. She hadn’t really thought about it in the months on her own, but no man had ever seen her with hairy legs before. She shrugged and thought Don’t be stupid, Jane!
He busied himself with the stove and kettle, then got his first-aid kit from a cupboard and took it into the conservatory, putting it onto a low table next to the sofa. When he came back into the kitchen she was standing there in his robe.
‘Where do you want me, doctor?’ she smiled nervously. The initial shock was wearing off and she was lightening-up a bit.
‘I think the conservatory’s best,’ he replied. ‘It’s warm in there and you can lie on the sofa. This is going to hurt like hell, and I’m afraid I haven’t got any anaesthetic, apart from the old-fashioned kind,’ he said, pointing at the Scotch.
She nodded. He poured her another good measure, which she picked up and drank, before moving through into the conservatory and lying face-down on the sofa. He occupied himself in the kitchen for a few minutes; she could see him in there checking the water and looked at him. He was around six feet tall, with a medium build and looked in good shape. He had longish dark hair flecked with grey and a beard to match, with friendly blue eyes and an open face.
‘You’re not the man-in-the-hat any more,’ she said.
‘Eh? I’m not with you,’ he replied, turning towards her.
‘Well, I’ve seen you several times over the last month or more, though you’ve only seen me the once; that time on the beach when I ran off. In my mind I called you the man-in-the-hat.’ She giggled; the whisky had gone straight to her head and she was feeling slightly tipsy already. He smiled in understanding and she continued: ‘And now you’re not: the man-in-the-hat, I mean. You’re just Jamie.’
He came in carrying a bowl of hot water. ‘Well, I’ve been called worse things in my life, so man-in-the-hat’s not bad,’ he smiled. ‘Right, let’s take a look at the damage.’
He put on a pair of latex gloves, knelt down and examined her leg. It was smeared with blood, which he washed off with hot water to get a better look. There were six puncture wounds in a small group, between the top of her calf and the back of her knee. He pressed gently next to one; she winced and blood oozed out. There were also several large red areas from where the man had kicked her.
‘You’re lucky they were only loaded with small bird-shot. If it had been bigger shot, like BB for instance, you’d have been in real trouble. I’m going to have to root around with some forceps to get the pellets out. Tweezers are smaller, but I’m worried they won’t grip the pellets enough for me to pull them out, so it’s really going to hurt. Do you want something to bite on?’
She shook her head. ‘No thanks; just get on with it and let’s get it over with.’
He dipped the forceps’ jaws first into surgical spirit, then put his fingers either side of the first wound, stretching the skin to widen the hole. She squirmed and then held her leg as still as she could, gritting her teeth while he probed with the forceps. He felt the pellet, maybe half an inch below the surface, and opened the jaws wide enough to go around it. He got a firm hold on the piece of lead and pulled it out, examining it. He was relieved to see that it was intact, as he’d been worried that some might have broken off, especially if it had been from a ricochet off the ground.
He wiped the blood away, then put a jeweller’s loupe into his eye and bent down for a closer look. He opened the wound as wide as he could and examined it closely. Just inside, he could see some fibres from her jeans that had been punched into the wound, which he pulled out with tweezers. He then put a few drops of iodine tincture from an eye-dropper into and around the wound, and she jumped and winced, then relaxed and let out a deep breath.
‘One down; five to go!’ he said.
She reached for her whisky and took a long gulp. ‘Bugger me, that hurt!’
It took him over forty minutes to remove all six pellets and more fibres from the wounds. He was as sure as he could be that there was nothing left in any of them, and all the pellets had been intact. He cleaned the remaining blood from her leg, dried it with cotton wool and put plasters over the wounds, before helping her to sit up. By now, Jane was feeling rather groggy from the pain and the whisky, so he went into the kitchen to make some coffee.
‘Thank you, Jamie. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’
‘Don’t mention it. I don’t think they need bandaging, so I’ve just put plasters on them to stop the bleeding. We can have a look later to see if any need changing. You’ve got some nasty bruises forming as well. Have you checked the rest of your body for more?’
‘No, not yet, but it hurts in several places. Have you done anything like this before?’
‘Never: you’re my first, and I hope my last, surgical patient!’ he smiled. ‘Why don’t you go into the bathroom and check yourself, and put some of this on them.’ He handed her a bottle of witch hazel and some cotton wool balls. ‘It will help with the bruises.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ she said, getting up stiffly and making her way to the bathroom.
Meanwhile, he got a fire going in the log-burner to warm up the kitchen for her and poured some coffee for them both. She came out smelling of witch hazel, still in his bath robe, and sat at the table to drink her coffee.
‘Oh God, that tastes good! I’ve missed real coffee; thanks.’
He smiled at her and she smiled back over the rim of her mug.
‘I was just about to make some breakfast earlier, but I seem to have got distracted! Do you want some? I’m cooking pancetta with baked beans and some flatbread I made. I’ve also got one carton of orange juice left. It’s a bit past its use-by date, but it’ll be fine.’
‘I’d love some, but do you mind if I have it later? I’m feeling a bit groggy and think I need to lie down for a while.’
‘Of course you can; no problem.’
He helped her through into the conservatory, where she lay down again on the sofa. He walked through to the lounge to fetch a blanket for her and by the time he came back she was fast asleep. He laid the blanket gently over her and then went back to the kitchen to make breakfast, feeling pleased to have her there and also relieved that things had turned out as they had; it could have been a lot worse.