Black Feathers

28

A day after surgery, Mordaunt Pike limped into Sickbay 7 of the Ward’s private hospital in Piccadilly looking for Skelton.

The boy’s knife attack had damaged a tendon in the crook of his right groin and, though the surgeon who’d sewn the tendon up and the entry wound closed said he’d make a full recovery, Pike wasn’t so certain. The sinew, which had been so nearly severed, felt badly repaired. Instead of a smooth line of cabling, a lump rose beneath the stitched lips of his wound whenever he moved his right leg. Given time, the surgeon had assured him, he would heal.

Time was what they didn’t have.

He tried to walk normally as he made his way down the lengthy sickbay with beds to left and right. All were filled by Wardsmen injured while quelling riots, searching houses or arresting members of the Green Men. More wounded arrived from around the country all the time. Those who couldn’t make it to London, Birmingham or Manchester died in transit. The Ward’s influence was strongest in the cities. Medical facilities outside of them were basic: clumsy first aid applied in Ward substations like Monmouth.

His and Skelton’s injuries had been swabbed and dressed without much care or ceremony by a junior Wardsman trained in the basics. Then, looking like a pair of hastily bandaged soldiers returning from frontline duty, they’d been driven back to London.

Skelton had muttered and sworn and seethed the whole way.

“The demonic little cretin took my eye, Pike. He cut out my eye. I still don’t believe it. The chief says we’re to bring him to HQ. Interview him and put him down with an injection. Quick jab, end of problem. Not a chance of that now, Pike. Not a bloody chance.”

Skelton wept then. Pike hadn’t known which way to look in the back of the Range Rover. He tried to ignore it but Skelton’s hand had clamped around his thigh.

“Don’t you turn away, damn you. Don’t ever do that.” Skelton’s grip tightened. “Look at me, Pike.”

Pike had looked. Tears streamed from Skelton’s remaining eye. Blood and mucus seeped through the bandages covering the space where his left eye had been. The grip on his leg released a little.

“I’m still the same old Skelton, see? A little piece missing but the rest is still me.”

Pike hadn’t been able to speak.

“Pike? I’m no different, honestly.”

Pike had glanced into the front of the car. The driver didn’t seem aware of what was taking place in the back seat.

“OK,” he said.

And Skelton had smiled for the first time since their encounter with Gordon Black earlier that day. The grip had released and Skelton’s claw became a soft, fat hand again, pale and well-manicured. The hand patted Pike’s thigh, stroked it appreciatively before withdrawing. When Pike looked over again, Skelton was asleep, a small smile tickling the corners of his mouth. By the time they’d reached London, Skelton’s sleep had deepened into unconsciousness.

Now, having asked to be notified the moment he woke, Pike still found his pace slowing as he neared Skelton’s bed. Even one-eyed, his partner spotted him before Pike could change course or leave.

“Ah, Pike. You’re looking better. Still limping, though, I see.”

There was no point trying to hide it.

“Surgeon was a butcher.”

“Well, you’ll live. They tell me I will too.”

Skelton’s bandaging was much reduced compared to the half-mummification of his head the Wardsman in Monmouth had wrought upon him. A large white patch of bandage was held in place with strips of translucent tape. Black stitches were visible to either side of the bandage.

“It’s a funny thing, Pike. Even though I can’t see anything from the left side of my face, I feel as though my eye has been widened or opened somehow. It’s like I’m looking into space or something. Very curious sensation.” Skelton looked over at Pike, who had stopped walking in the middle of the sickbay and now stood there like a lost giant. Skelton gestured to a chair at his bedside. “Why don’t you come and sit down here, Pike?”

Pike creaked into action and walked, one leg stiff and straight, to the chair. When he sat, the wounded leg stuck straight out.

“Does that hurt?” enquired Skelton.

“No.”

When Pike didn’t add anything, Skelton asked:

“What’s been happening? Any trace of Satan’s little helper?”

“No sign. Agents searched the fields and woodland all around the house. He vanished.”

“Not possible, Pike.”

“I know that.”

“So he must still be there somewhere. I don’t think he’ll go far, knowing his family is in our hands. We should try to draw him in.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Skelton pulled back the sheets and blankets and hefted his short, stocky legs over the side of the bed. Pike had never seen his feet before. They were very pale, the skin soft and puffy. Skelton’s hand resting on his shoulder for support broke Pike’s gaze. Skelton was standing up now, his fat hairless chest close to Pike’s face. His hospital pyjama top was unbuttoned. He had chubby breasts instead of pectorals and his belly was round, white and smooth. Pike couldn’t stand because Skelton was using him to stay upright – the man was clearly still weak with shock and blood loss. Nor could Pike back away, because his chair was against the sickbay wall. All he could do was remain intimately positioned as Skelton tested his balance.

“What are you doing, sir?” he asked eventually.

“Leaving,” said Skelton. “Get my uniform, will you, Pike?”

“It’s only been a day. You should rest more.”

“If I rest, those Monmouth idiots are going to let the boy get away. We have to get back there and find him. Get him quick and finish him at leisure.”

Pike noticed a slight bobbing and swinging in the crotch of Skelton’s pyjama bottoms.

“Come on, Pike! Get my clothes and let’s go.”

Pike rose very slowly from his chair until he once again dwarfed the man beside him. Nevertheless, he felt himself very small in the man’s shadow.