Free Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) by Colin Campbell Page B

E-13. The nurse raised an eyebrow. “It’s all over the news. You can’t hide in that orange signpost.”
    â€œI’m not trying to hide.”
    â€œMaybe you should try ducking then.”
    She stepped forward and helped Grant slip his arms out of the sleeves. He tugged the T-shirt out of his jeans, and she pulled it off over his head. She was about to throw them into a grey plastic bag marked MGH, but he took them from her and folded them up. Military training stretched to more than self-defense and typing. If he’d ever known his mother he might have blamed her, but keeping his clothes tidy was an army trait.
    The nurse began tapping her shoe again.
    Grant paused in mid-fold. “Don’t tell me you’re Irish too. Hated the English from birth?”
    The shoe stopped. “Third-generation English. From York.”
    â€œA Yorkshire lass. Hallelujah. D’you know the secret?”
    She looked nonplussed. “What secret?”
    â€œFor making Yorkshire puddings. The one thing you can’t get supersized in America. A decent Yorkshire pudding.”
    â€œWell, don’t hold your breath. Hospital food is functional. Not big enough to feed you, not good enough for you to want to stay.”
    â€œI don’t want to stay.”
    â€œWe’ll see after I’ve examined you. Drop your pants.”
    â€œBut nurse, I hardly know you.”
    â€œYou’re not going to get to know me either.” She produced a hospital gown and dropped it on the bed. “Put this on and lie down.”
    â€œI hope you warm your hands before you ask me to cough.” He thought that got through her defenses because there was a hint of a blush. It took a lot to make a nurse blush. He turned away from her and dropped his jeans. The laugh was deep and throaty, and he glanced over his shoulder. The nurse was looking at the No Entry sign above his back passage.
    â€œNo confusing your sexual leanings.”
    â€œLike an orange jacket in a gunfight.”
    â€œRight. Well, let’s see what’s wrong with the rest of you.”
    It was like waiting to see the school nurse at Moor Grange. Grant shrugged the hospital gown on and prepared to be abused.
    There were no broken bones and no internal injuries. That was the conclusion after four hours of poking and prodding and examinations by all manner of electronic devices. The ER was busy and quiet in waves. From his place inside the curtained cubicle he could hear emergencies rolling in, followed by periods of relative inactivity—just like any hospital in any major city. It was only the scale that separated the MGH from the BRI. Bradford Royal Infirmary performed the same function in Yorkshire but with a smaller population and restricted budget.
    Americans even supersized their hospitals.
    The voided bowels and antiseptic smells gave way to perfume and hot food. When the nurse came to check on him, it was the perfume. When she fed him, it was the food. No Yorkshire puddings. There was a brief spell when he could smell gunshot residue, like a freshly struck match or the aftermath of a fireworks display. Some kid shot over on Parker Street. A second victim had been taken to Brigham and Women’s Hospital but died on arrival. Grant picked that up by listening to the attending officer. He picked up a lot by simply listening. It was a cop’s most important tool.
    The x-rays and scans confirmed what he already knew about his own injuries. The rest was simply scratches and sore eyes. The nurse cleaned and dressed the cuts. She rinsed his eyes with some kind of solution that stung at first, then produced blessed relief. His ears had stopped ringing hours ago, but his hearing was muted slightly. She told him that would ease by tomorrow.
    The main concern was the bang on the head and his initial disorientation. He hadn’t told the doctor about the combat trousers and boots but had to admit to feeling woozy when he’d come