How long Arlette sat, bowed, limp, she had no idea. Very gradually, bit by bit, she came to herself.
The soft rain was still pattering on the roof. It was not cold, but she was cold and getting colder. With every moment that passed she was getting stiffer, more cramped. Soon she would be able to do nothing at all. She must move. Moving would start the blood flowing again. Her hand was just a sticky wet mess: she could not tell if blood were still flowing. She thought not. The palm. Surely there was no artery there. Or was there – how deep were the cuts? Small blood-vessels – with any luck the constriction of the tape on her wrist, and the rough bandage, had stopped the bleeding, and coagulation would begin.
God – suppose there are tendons cut. I may never again have my right hand to use.
You better not think about that. Just do something. Now your legs are not tied. With a fumble you ought to be able to unlock the car, get out on the road. Walk? No, not walk: walking with the wrists taped to your knees – ever try it? You could get across a room, but you’re not getting far on a deserted country road, and there’s nobody much around at three in the morning – how late is it? Had she been unconscious? Examining her body, and thinking about it – there seemed nothing much wrong there except – yes, she had wet her trousers. Too bad about those trousers. And Annick had done a lot of work there. But there were more important things in the world. Like her head, which was alarmingly swimmy, empty.
Get your head down. It needs to be lower than the rest of you. Wriggling slowly and timidly, because if she fell between the two sets of seats she wouldn’t be able to get out again, she got herself lying laterally. Head down, legs up.
She could kick the window out. What good would that do? It might not be as easy as it sounds, with safety glass, and apart from a spoiled car will it be of any use? Somebody comes and sees feet waving out of the window?
Help yourself. Do not rely on others to help you.
One could get the head down on to the thighs. The electric insulating tape is smooth. But it has rough edges where it is stuck to the fabric of the unpleasantly sodden trousers. If you rub away at the edge with the other edge, the sticky edge under your ear, you might get this gag off. And that will be a start.
This worked. A good deal slower and more laborious than a dog scratching or a cat washing itself but by repeated efforts of the head and neck the plaster rolled itself back, millimetre by millimetre, very slow but it became less slow and at last, oh what bliss, she could breathe through the mouth, move it, yell, but she wasn’t going to waste energy yelling. Her mouth was bruised, and messed up with sticky goo tasting unpleasant, but she now had teeth again, and teeth worrying at the tape around her left thigh would, with lots and lots of patience, eventually free her left hand. This was interminable, but this too gave results in the long run. Yes. Long run. A marathon. She was breathing heavily, sick and giddy and a horrible mess, but she got her left hand free, and that freed her eyes, and now it was only a matter of being patient and exceedingly relaxed.
Sometimes one was too relaxed, and sometimes not relaxed enough. The scales were too delicately balanced altogether.
Now she was altogether free, with an unusable right hand wound about with sticky sopping plaster. It wouldn’t do any good but it might keep things cleaner: she used the plaster off her mouth and eyes to make further vague bandaging. It frightened her to think she had lost a lot of blood. She tried to use her common sense, and tell herself that all this immense mess of gore amounts probable to a cupful. Less than you’d give as a transfusion donor, woman. And you can now move. What is more, Arlette, you are going to drive this car.
God. They would have taken the keys and tossed them in the bushes.
No they hadn’t. The keys were still in the lock. Kneeling on the driving seat, she got the parking brake off with her left hand.
Now what? You can drive with your left hand, but you shift gears with your right, and it’s unusable. With some more manoeuvring she dragged the gearshift into second. Lovely, beautiful little Lancia, you are going to get me home in second gear.
There were lots more difficulties. Starting the car, putting on the wipers, putting on the lamps. Then she got halfway across the road and had to reverse. This was the worst yet. The gearbox moaned and screeched. Would she get picked up by the police for being drunk?
She weaved around a great deal, in roads that looked vaguely familiar and then turned out unfamiliar, and kept on coming back to the same crossroads, but she got the string untangled at last and yes this was now definitely the Rue Melanie.
Down at the bottom of the Rue Melanie, just before getting out on to the High Street of the Robertsau, is the Hospital Saint-François. She thought about this, knowing the hand must be looked to by a professional – ho ho. But blurrily – no. The priority was to get home. And they’d ask such a lot of questions. That much of the lesson had been learned. She did not want a lot of questions, and the more because none of the answers would be of any use.
It was only two-thirty – she’d thought it must be four at least. There were still belated revellers on the main road, but nobody who saw anything noteworthy in a small wet car travelling slowly. She crossed the big bridge past the Palais de l’Europe, turned to skirt the Orangery, came out on her familiar peaceful Boulevard de la Marne. Nobody was afoot in the Rue de l’Observatoire. As she walked tipsily up to her front door a car that had been parked drove away, but she wasn’t bothered about it. They might be checking up on whether she had got home, and it might be pure coincidence, and she just did not care. All she needed now was Arthur. She had strength enough to get up the stairs: no more effort was needed. She switched on lights.
‘Arthur. Arthur. Arthur!’
However absent-minded or uncoordinated these English may be in the small day-to-day affairs there is nothing found wanting when the going is tough. He was out of bed and standing upright at the mere tone of her voice, before he found his glasses, snapped them on, and took one look. He laid her down on the bed, put pillows behind her, made one brisk smack with the lower lip on his teeth at the sight of the hand, and was back in ten seconds with a bottle of alcohol. She waved her left hand feebly to say no no, bad for me, don’t, but drank some, and felt the better for it.
‘Tea,’ she said.
‘Of course.’ An English remedy for anything short of death. Not Arab tea, Annick dear, though yours did me all the good in the world. Thick soupy milky English tea, Super-Ceylon from Lipton, please. Instinctively, this was what he provided. He took a look at the hand.
‘This is a horrible mess, but seems to have stopped bleeding. I don’t want to frig at it now.’
‘It’ll stain the sheets. Get an old torn pillow case. No, help me undress, first, I pissed my trousers. I want a shower. Or a bath. Help me.’
The poor boy wanting to do ten things at once, and all efficiently! She felt sorry for him, all white and shaky. In common with most women, she knew that it didn’t do to be ill. Husbands will end up a great deal iller. One thing however he could control was his tongue. Not a single question!
‘Help me balance,’ wobbling on the bathroom floor. ‘Ow.’
‘Is it too hot?’
‘Yes it is rather. No, don’t touch it, it’s splendid … Ahhh,’ breathing strongly out.
‘This has to be drunk very hot too.’
‘Help me sit up. I’ll sip. Have you noticed? – people in Newsweek always sip, they never drink. Likewise they never eat, they munch or they nibble.’
‘Don’t talk so much.’
‘No, but let me. Travis McGee sits in hot baths and drinks ice-cold gin.’
‘What would you expect? – he has gin-coloured eyes. All right let’s look,’ hitching the stool closer. He had put a pillow on the edge of the bath. There was a lot of heavy breathing during the peeling process. The wound gaped nastily. The heat of the bath was doing things to her circulation and it oozed.
‘Keep it well up. Is this a car windscreen or a metal edge or what?’
‘No the car’s all right.’
‘A fat lot I care about the car. Was there nobody to drive you to the hospital?’
‘I didn’t want that.’
‘But who bandaged this? Rough but luckily fairly efficient. Who drove you home?’ Now that he was no longer so worried the floodgates were unloosed.
‘Arthur, please. I’ll tell you as soon as I can.’
‘Sorry.’ He poured a big slosh of whisky for himself, crossed his legs and studied her carefully.
‘Your arms are bruised, and around your neck. Nothing seems broken and you’ve no internal injuries.’
‘Darling, please. I’m just shaken up nervously, I promise. All I ask is that you don’t let me fall asleep in the bath.’
‘Good. Just tell me what it is you do want.’
‘I want to move the hand, very slowly, just to see there are no tendons cut. I don’t want any doctors. I’ve seen too many just recently. I want a clean nighty. I want to fall asleep in my own bed. First I want to tell you that there’s nothing to worry about. No, first I want to tell you I love you.’
Hm, yes; that was all very well: there was a face there full of disquieting Britannic obstinacy. She was awfully sorry; she just didn’t care. Total lethargy was now arriving in great galloping waves. She managed to get out and stand, and be dried, and hold arms out, and not burst the seams of the clean nighty. The hand was swathed up, and the arm put in a sling. She managed to say, ‘One more thing, darling – no cops.’ His lips were set in a horizontal line; he only nodded.
She slept till midday. She felt refreshed. Everything was fine. She got up to go to the lavatory and everything wasn’t fine at all: she was extremely light-headed and tottery. Arthur appeared at once, all cool competence, sat her on the lavatory, helped her back. Her senses were oddly alert; the living-room door was open; there was a funny smell.
‘Who’s there?’ as though it were a burglar.
‘A doctor. Do not fuss. Discretion is assured.’ The doctor appeared. A young girl. She had to laugh really – one of Arthur’s little fiddles …
‘I’m not a doctor at all, I’m only a student. So this is illegal practice. Show me. Oh well, that looks pretty awful but it’s not really bad, I think,’ touching with gentle fingers. ‘It’ll heal all right. Thing is, not being done properly, likely leave a scar. Oh well,’ with some relish, quite enjoying this, ‘if you’d taken it to surgery they’d have made a fuss. That hospital would kill you quicker than this will. You’ve lost a lot of blood though. I fiddled some stuff from the pharmacy, haemoglobin and whatnot. Still – clean. Stay quiet and keep it quiet. Eat a big steak when you can. We’ll have to watch it though, make sure you get all the movement back. When did you have an anti-tetanus last? Look, Arthur, I’ll be in tonight, and I’ll get a second opinion. No it won’t leak out.’
He didn’t say much when he came back. Only, ‘Can you eat?’
‘You bet.’
‘It was a razor cut, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
He brought scrambled eggs, tomatoes, coffee. It was delicious. She ate like a wolf, and promptly fell asleep again.
It was nearly twilight. The curtains were drawn but she looked. And Arthur was conspiring again, damn it. The doors were opened, to hear if she yelled or had nightmares. She could hear muttering, and smell cigar smoke.
‘Arthur,’ she bellowed.
He appeared at once, falsely genial.
‘Ah, you’re awake. Splendid. Like some coffee? I’ve a splendid steak when you want it, or liver if you prefer.’
‘Look, are you taking more of your girlfriends into my confidence?’
‘Ah. Caught me, have you? Just as well. Yes. I’ve a visitor for you. Do you feel up to it?’
Might have known, she supposed. He didn’t breeze in with false geniality – not his style – but it was the commissaire of police just the same.