Silence for the Dead by Simone St. James Page B

hungry.”
    I heard the bed creak, and turned to see he had moved to the table and was sitting down before the bowl of soup. He took the spoon in one shaking hand, dipped it in the broth. I stood frozen by the door, watching in helpless fascination. The spoon lifted slowly, so slowly, from the bowl of soup. He levered the spoon up, with painful deliberation, the tremors shaking the liquid from side to side, jettisoning broth over the edges. By the time the spoon reached his mouth, only a tiny amount of liquid was cradled in the bottom; much of this was lost down his chin as he tried to empty the single swallow down his throat. The entire maneuver was executed in perfect silence.
    Sixteen months like this,
I thought. All I could say was, “Archie.”
    He dabbed the napkin to his chin with a shaking hand and looked me in the eye, speaking with perfect clarity. “You’re not much of a nurse, are you?”
    I shook my head. “No. Actually, I’m the worst nurse you’ve ever seen.”
    Suddenly we were both laughing. And that’s how I made friends with my first patient at Portis House.
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    â€œ Y ou should be eating your meals downstairs,” I said to Archie the next night as we managed his soup. I’d dumped out his tea and transferred the soup into the cup. It wasn’t perfect, but it had a better success rate than the spoon.
    â€œDo you think this”—he gestured to the setup, he and I at the little table, trying to get food into him—“would go over well with the others?”
    It wouldn’t, of course. “I only meant that the infirmary is horrible, and you’ve nothing to do. You should at least be getting exercise with the other men.”
    â€œI’m mas-master of the house here.” He gestured around the former master bedroom. “The finest—finest suite. And I have something to do now,” he said, taking a shaky sip of soup. “I can gossip about the others with you.”
    â€œIs it so bad?” I said.
    He shrugged. “Matron—Matron gives me extra time to eat my—meals in the dining room. I do—I do the best I can. The others like to have a go at me, especially Creeton, but I can—I can handle it.” He looked at me. “You’re wondering why I’m in the infirmary, aren’t you?”
    â€œIt crossed my mind.”
    He scratched his forehead slowly, his hand juddering. “A few days ago I had a par—I had a par—” He took a breath. “I had a particularly difficult episode.”
    That seemed to be all. I frowned at him. “What happened?”
    Now he looked distressed. “I had a particularly difficult episode.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    He closed his eyes. “Is it Monday?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThe doctors will—will be here in two days, then. Wednesday is when they come. Matron said I’m to—to stay here until the doctors say I can leave. It’s safer here.”
    What did “safer” mean? I looked at his gaunt arms, his sunken cheeks. “You said you could handle it.”
    â€œYou don’t—you don’t like it here, do you?” he said.
    I crossed my arms. “You’re parrying me. Again.”
    He smiled a little.
    â€œWell,” I said, “perhaps it’s best if you do come down. It’s extra work to bring your meals, you know. You and the mysterious Patient Sixteen.”
    A spark of interest crossed Archie’s eyes. “He hasn’t come down, then?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI see.”
    I pictured a man disfigured, his face part gone, or maybe burned away. Ally had seen men like that in London, their noses blasted off or their eyes seared shut, and she’d been quiet when she spoke of them, dragging painfully on her cigarette, her eyes looking old. “I don’t even know what he looks like,” I ventured, hoping