Free Winter of Discontent by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

what’s been stolen. We won’t until Derek and his crew have made an exhaustive inventory.”
    “Which,” I said, pouring myself another slug, “will be extremely difficult to do with Bill gone and Walter unconscious. Almost impossible, really.”
    “A nasty job, certainly. There is a catalogue of acquisitions, but it won’t list every single paper clip and pencil in the place. The diary and the atlas won’t be in there, for example.”
    I sighed. “I must say I don’t envy them the job. Reminds me of cleaning out a gigantic attic, except worse, because nothing can be thrown away. You know, Alan, eventually somebody’s going to have to sort through all the piles up there in Bill’s storage area. I suppose the job officially belongs to Walter, now that Bill’s gone, but the poor boy won’t be up to it for a long time. If ever. I wish I knew how he was doing. Do you suppose you could call the hospital again?”
    “It’s only been an hour or so since I called,” Alan pointed out.
    “Well, I’m going over there. We’re not getting anywhere, and I can’t stand it, not knowing.”
    “I’ll drive you, then. I confess I’d like to see for myself.”
    I wasn’t at all sure they’d let us in, but once more Alan’s influence was a help. With strict instructions not to touch the patient, not to talk, and especially not to disturb any of the tubes and wires, we were allowed five minutes in the ICU.
    I wanted desperately to touch Walter’s hand, make sure he was still warm. I would never forget the dreadful coldness of Bill’s cheek. Walter looked exactly like a crash dummy, plastic and inhuman. He lay unmoving. I couldn’t even detect a rise and fall of his chest, but the monitors displayed rhythmic lines that meant, I presumed, that his pulse and respiration and so on were normal.
    Yes, and what about his brain?
    We asked the nurse when we had tiptoed out of the room. “We won’t know for a bit. Perhaps another twenty-four hours, perhaps longer. He’s—you’re not family, are you, Mr. Nesbitt?”
    “No, just friends. Actually my wife and I found him.”
    “Yes, I know. Do you know anything about his family?”
    Alan looked at me. I shook my head. “I’m afraid I know very little about him, other than that he works at the museum and is reading history at the university. You might check with the registrar, or wherever student records are kept.”
    “Yes, we’ve done that, and we talked to the woman where he rooms, but we can’t seem to reach his parents. I thought you might know if they’re away on holiday, or something.”
    “Is it—I know you’re not supposed to talk about patients’ conditions, but is it a case of notifying his family because he might—that is, is he really—” My voice was unsteady. I stopped.
    The nurse looked at me with sympathy. “I wish I could tell you he’ll do splendidly, but honestly there’s no telling yet. He’s stable, which is a good sign, but he was very badly hurt.”
    I cleared my throat. “Yes. I see. There was another woman here to see him a little while ago, wasn’t there?”
    “Yes. I told her she could look in again in an hour. I think she went downstairs for some tea.”
    “Thank you. You’ve been kind. May we come back too, in a little while?”
    “You won’t see a change, but yes, you can come and at least look in. I do understand how you feel, but we’re doing all we can for him, you know.”
    “We know.” Alan nodded his thanks and tucked my hand over his arm. We went to find Jane.
    She was in the hospital canteen, drinking tea from a cardboard cup. She had been, anyway. A lot of the tea was left in the cup and after one look at it I could see why. Jane doesn’t take milk in her tea, and the fluid in the cup resembled something one might use to pave roads.
    We sat down at her table. “Don’t get the tea,” she said gruffly.
    “I hadn’t planned on it. Jane, we just saw Walter.”
    “Looks like nothing on earth, doesn’t