‘No. He telephoned you. He said afterwards that he knew something was wrong. He rang me in my office and asked me to nip along and make sure you were on your way to meet him. I walked in through the door … and you were on the floor.’ He tried to laugh. ‘You still had the Famous Assassinations assignment in your hand.’
I said nothing. He needed to say this.
‘Your face was bright red. I knew at once … carbon monoxide … I dragged you out into the corridor. Markham was walking past. We did everything we could. Helen arrived. She did everything she could. Everyone knew it was far too late and that it was all useless but we did it anyway. Then Leon arrived.’
He stopped. I wondered if I should stop him talking. He was so weak, but he needed to say this.
‘It was bad for us, but for him … His life just stopped. You could see it in his face. For him, everything just stopped dead. And it never started up again. Oh, he went through the motions, but when you went away, a large part of him went with you. He wasn’t the only one. Dr Bairstow was devastated. Both Mrs Mack and Mrs Enderby cried. And as for Kal … It was a terrible time for everyone.’ He tried to laugh. ‘Especially you, of course.’
I tried to laugh, too. ‘In my world, it was Leon who died.’
‘Tell me …’
So I did. In fact, apart from Mrs Partridge’s role in all this, I told him everything. Right up to the hearing.
Another long silence. I helped him to more water.
‘We didn’t treat you very well, did we?’
‘Well, what were you to think? You saw me dead. Everyone was bound to think that I was some sort of imposter. Or that Leon had lost his mind and picked up some bint who just happened to look like me. I don’t hold any grudges.’
Except maybe for one.
‘But even so, Max …’
‘Well, you’re right, my life is not good at the moment. But every time I feel like giving way, I remember the day I walked into a pod and saw Leon Farrell stretched dead on the floor, and I know that however bad things are, they’ll never be that bad again.’ I grinned in the dark. ‘Plus, every time you see me, like it or not, you’ll remember that you’re only alive today because of me. Because I’m absolutely bloody wonderful.’
‘And let’s not forget modest either.’
‘As if you’ll ever get the chance.’
So we talked. And slept. And talked again. A lot was said although not all of it was spoken.
I woke early. At some point in the night, he’d reached out his hand and grasped a fold of my dress.
I wondered who was comforting whom.
My estimate of two days for Peterson to be strong enough to get back to the pod proved to be wildly over-optimistic. Brother Anselm refused to bring the handcart and even I had to admit that Peterson was nowhere near well enough to be moved. The fever had gone, the swelling had disappeared and his wound was healing, but he was frighteningly weak. He had lost an enormous amount of weight and he’d been skinny to begin with. I could clearly see his cheekbones showing under yellow skin that seemed stretched too tightly across his face.
He slept a great deal and although he did his best, forcing down a few mouthfuls of every meal, he could not disguise his lack of appetite and lethargy. I told myself there was no point in dragging him back to St Mary’s for proper medical treatment if the journey killed him.
Brother Anselm continued his fascination with Peterson’s recovery, visiting two or three times a day to question me closely about his treatment. In the end, I told him I’d seen a horse with a swollen leg treated in a similar manner and just copied what I’d seen. He seemed amused. Peterson wasn’t.
After four days, however, he agreed to bring the handcart. I told him we had a small hut behind The Bolles Hede and once he realised I wasn’t going to drag Peterson back to Rushford there and then, he nodded.
Part of me was sorry to leave. It was quiet, peaceful, the food was good and plentiful, and I liked Brother Anselm, but deep down, I worried that Peterson might still die. That he might take a turn for the worse, or pick up the pox or something. He was my responsibility. If this was a normal assignment, I’d have stuffed him full of antibiotics and had him back to St Mary’s. They would have confined us to the pod, but getting him back would have been the sensible thing to do.
I said this to Peterson who laughed and said if I was talking about the sensible option he now knew I couldn’t possibly be the real Maxwell.
He indignantly refused to lie down in the cart, and so we heaved him, sitting bolt upright like Patience on her monument, through the gardens, down the passageway and out into the dusty High Street.
We halted outside the pod. Peterson slithered off the cart and leaned against the door for support.
We all looked at each other.
Peterson stretched out his hand. ‘Thank you, Brother. I am sorry I have no money left to pay for my care. But when I return to Rushford, I will make a donation to the poor in gratitude.’
And he did. He never made a big thing of it, but he sent off a generous cheque to the free clinic in St Stephen’s Street.