Free The Bellwether Revivals by Benjamin Wood Page B

I know. We all got a bit carried away in there. But
please
. Please don’t leave. He was just trying to—oh, I don’t know what he’s trying to do.’
    Oscar said nothing. He couldn’t find the words to express how angry he was, how much he objected to being made a fool of, experimented on,
used
. He stood there in the dim hallway, breathless, shaking his head. Iris turned her eyes to the floor. It was as if she had seen something in his face—a sight that could explain his feelings much better than words. ‘Look, perhaps it’s better for everyone if you go home and cool off,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you, okay?’
    ‘Don’t bother,’ he said. The words sounded so definite, so final. He pulled back the door with his good hand, walking out into the fading remnants of the night, where the glow of TVs burned blue in upstairs windows along the street, oblivious and unreachable. All he wanted was to go home and get up for work again in the morning and never see Eden Bellwether again.
    Nobody at Cedarbrook noticed the wound on Oscar’s hand—none of the residents, none of the other nurses—because the next day it had almost disappeared. He’d gone back to his flat, swallowed a codeine with a gulp of vodka, and fallen asleep with the wound still aching. The medicine had kicked in overnight, or so he assumed, because he’d woken up feeling no pain at all. The cotton dressing was spotted with blood, dried to a blackish burgundy. But, lifting it back to check the skin underneath, he’d found only two faint scabs below his knuckles, no bigger than freckles. It didn’t seem possible. He had the vaguest memory of the night before: the initial panic of seeing the wound, the mention of broken glass, and the sheer persistence of Eden’s grip on his hand. Maybe, in the anger of the moment, the injury had seemed worse than it was. Maybe he’d overreacted. But if he’d really fallen, like Eden said, shouldn’t there have been some indication of it: a lingering soreness in his body; a bruise, a mark—
something
?
    Still, he was glad that he didn’t have to explain his injury to anyone at work that week. It was better that way. No fuss, noquestions, no time to dwell on what a fool he’d been. From Tuesday to Sunday, he harboured the shame inside him like a pilot light. He stayed behind an extra few hours at the end of every shift, helping Jean and the other nurses. He signed himself up for nights the week after, five in a row—and weekends—every available slot until the end of November.
    Dr Paulsen was easy to evade. He’d withdrawn into his room again, still raw from the incident at Sunday dinner, and too stubborn to press the nurse-call when he needed attention. So Oscar arranged for Deeraj to take the old man his meals, and empty his urine bottles, and change his bedding, and bathe him. In exchange, he agreed to take on all of Deeraj’s least favourite duties. ‘You can start with Mrs Radnor’s corn plasters,’ Deeraj said, ‘and then you can shave Mr Clarke, and I’ll see what else after that.’
    For two weeks, Oscar found no time to read—or rather, no will. The thought of it overwhelmed him now; seemed futile and humiliating. A whole fortnight had passed by the time he noticed
The Passions of the Soul
was still lying on his night table, untouched. On Monday morning, he gave it to Deeraj.
    ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’
    ‘I need you to return it to Paulsen for me.’
    ‘No chance,’ Deeraj said. ‘If he thinks I’ve been anywhere near his precious books, he’ll start with the spitting again.’
    ‘But I can’t give it back to him myself.’
    ‘Why not? I thought you two were friends.’
    ‘I just can’t, okay.’
    Deeraj chewed on his lip. He gathered a fresh set of towels from the store cupboard. ‘Sorry, pal. Better handle this one yourself.’
    Tuesday was a pleasant, sunny day—a break from the flat grey weather that had pervaded the previous week—and Oscar worked so hard