down. Instead, he clamped his eyes shut and struggled against the powerful, ironlike tug of the hand.
“Up. Up.”
“No. Please. I can’t. I can’t.”
“You will.”
“I can’t.”
“You will, damn you.”
The boy felt his shoulder being torn from its socket. He struggled to dig his fingers and heels into the hard, unyielding oak of the stair. But, inch by inch, he could see himself losing ground, drawn irresistibly into the heights of the tower. There were no more words between the two adversaries. Only the panting and grunting of a grim struggle. Then the boy heard the loud ratcheting click-clack of the tower clock flywheel rotating slowly round above them.
Suddenly the hot dusty air in the steeple appeared to shudder, to break outward like some huge cloth rending. A pigeon fluttered wildly upward and something enormous exploded inside the boy’s head as the chimes of noon began to bong.
“Wake up. Wake up, Mr. Watford.”
Watford sat bolt upright in bed shaking his head. “My gosh. What happened?”
“I don’t know. You must’ve been dreaming.” The stout lady in the starched white uniform pushed him gently back down onto his pillows. “Just a dream, Mr. Watford. Nothing more.”
“S’funny. I can’t recall a blessed thing about it.” Watford started to sit back up, then clutched his head.
“Still that headache?” the nurse asked, speaking in her warm Gaelic lilt.
“I wish you could let me have a bit more medication.”
“I really can’t, Mr. Watford. Not until either Dr. Shavers or Dr. Rashower sees you.”
“But Dr. Shavers left instructions about my medication.”
“Yes, he did. But we really can’t give you any more Demerol without your physician first seeing you and approving it. Now if you’re good, perhaps I can let you have some Empirin with a wee bit of codeine.”
Watford groaned and held his head.
“Hush.” The nurse pressed a finger to his lips and gestured with her head to the bed beside him. It was the first time he’d noticed someone else was there.
Momentarily distracted from his own discomfort, Watford peered hard at the pale shape slumbering there beneath white sheets. In profile he could discern sharply defined features, surmounted by a wreath of white hair. Except for an occasional flutter of eyelids, the expression on the pallid, waxen face was one of peaceful repose. Staring at the new patient, Watford felt a pang of resentment.
“Who’s he?”
The nurse shrugged. “Name’s Boyd, I think. He came in last night. Some kind of accident. Hurt his leg. They put twenty stitches in his thigh. Quite a mess, I hear. Ought to be coming out of the anesthesia any time now. Be nice company for you, I should think.” She handed Watford an empty jar. “We’ll be needing a specimen from you. No rush. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
“Won’t you please just see if you can’t find me a bit more medication?”
“Absolutely not.” The nurse beamed benevolently. “Not another drop until Dr. Rashower sees you. Now be sure to give your supper order to the nurse, like a good fellow.”
She departed on a wave of rattling trays and the odor of starch and antiseptics. Watford turned and stared disapprovingly at the sallow, waxen mask lying on the pillow across the way. Several rubber tubes had been inserted in the man’s nostrils and coiled upward like ivy tendrils into large hanging glassine bags of fluid nutriment.
Watford stared at the man, following with his eye the rhythm of his respiration. His sleep appeared to be deep. In the next moment Watford picked up the phone by his bedside and asked to be connected with the hospital dispensary.
“Dispensary,” he snapped smartly into the phone. “This is Dr. Rashower in 418. Would you please send up a seven-hundred-milligram packet of meperidine? Patient’s name is Charles Watford. If you don’t have the liquid, the tablets will do fine. Soon as possible, please. He’s experiencing a great deal of
“Up. Up.”
“No. Please. I can’t. I can’t.”
“You will.”
“I can’t.”
“You will, damn you.”
The boy felt his shoulder being torn from its socket. He struggled to dig his fingers and heels into the hard, unyielding oak of the stair. But, inch by inch, he could see himself losing ground, drawn irresistibly into the heights of the tower. There were no more words between the two adversaries. Only the panting and grunting of a grim struggle. Then the boy heard the loud ratcheting click-clack of the tower clock flywheel rotating slowly round above them.
Suddenly the hot dusty air in the steeple appeared to shudder, to break outward like some huge cloth rending. A pigeon fluttered wildly upward and something enormous exploded inside the boy’s head as the chimes of noon began to bong.
“Wake up. Wake up, Mr. Watford.”
Watford sat bolt upright in bed shaking his head. “My gosh. What happened?”
“I don’t know. You must’ve been dreaming.” The stout lady in the starched white uniform pushed him gently back down onto his pillows. “Just a dream, Mr. Watford. Nothing more.”
“S’funny. I can’t recall a blessed thing about it.” Watford started to sit back up, then clutched his head.
“Still that headache?” the nurse asked, speaking in her warm Gaelic lilt.
“I wish you could let me have a bit more medication.”
“I really can’t, Mr. Watford. Not until either Dr. Shavers or Dr. Rashower sees you.”
“But Dr. Shavers left instructions about my medication.”
“Yes, he did. But we really can’t give you any more Demerol without your physician first seeing you and approving it. Now if you’re good, perhaps I can let you have some Empirin with a wee bit of codeine.”
Watford groaned and held his head.
“Hush.” The nurse pressed a finger to his lips and gestured with her head to the bed beside him. It was the first time he’d noticed someone else was there.
Momentarily distracted from his own discomfort, Watford peered hard at the pale shape slumbering there beneath white sheets. In profile he could discern sharply defined features, surmounted by a wreath of white hair. Except for an occasional flutter of eyelids, the expression on the pallid, waxen face was one of peaceful repose. Staring at the new patient, Watford felt a pang of resentment.
“Who’s he?”
The nurse shrugged. “Name’s Boyd, I think. He came in last night. Some kind of accident. Hurt his leg. They put twenty stitches in his thigh. Quite a mess, I hear. Ought to be coming out of the anesthesia any time now. Be nice company for you, I should think.” She handed Watford an empty jar. “We’ll be needing a specimen from you. No rush. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
“Won’t you please just see if you can’t find me a bit more medication?”
“Absolutely not.” The nurse beamed benevolently. “Not another drop until Dr. Rashower sees you. Now be sure to give your supper order to the nurse, like a good fellow.”
She departed on a wave of rattling trays and the odor of starch and antiseptics. Watford turned and stared disapprovingly at the sallow, waxen mask lying on the pillow across the way. Several rubber tubes had been inserted in the man’s nostrils and coiled upward like ivy tendrils into large hanging glassine bags of fluid nutriment.
Watford stared at the man, following with his eye the rhythm of his respiration. His sleep appeared to be deep. In the next moment Watford picked up the phone by his bedside and asked to be connected with the hospital dispensary.
“Dispensary,” he snapped smartly into the phone. “This is Dr. Rashower in 418. Would you please send up a seven-hundred-milligram packet of meperidine? Patient’s name is Charles Watford. If you don’t have the liquid, the tablets will do fine. Soon as possible, please. He’s experiencing a great deal of
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