The Forgotten Holocaust (Ben Hope, Book 10) by Scott Mariani Page B

clearly remembered seeing two ambulances at the scene. Had she been in the other? Either they didn’t know, or they wouldn’t say.
    Every hour, a different nurse returned to do a neuro check on him. ‘It was just a bang on the head,’ he told each one in turn. ‘If I was going to drop dead, I’d have done it by now.’
    After half the night seemed to have dragged tortuously by and they finally seemed satisfied that he hadn’t suffered a major concussion and wouldn’t fall into a permanent coma the moment he shut his eyes, he was moved to a ward and allowed to sleep. He didn’t have much choice in the matter, because whatever cocktail of stuff they’d pumped him full of made him woozy. He laid his head on the pillow and was instantly floating.
    But it was an uneasy sleep. He kept seeing Kristen in his mind, snatches of their conversation drifting through his consciousness but meaning little. Then his dream turned darker and he replayed the images of the two men chasing her along the beach. The fight. The baton held up in the air and then flashing down towards him—
    He woke with a start. Blinked. Focused. White ceiling. Sunlight streaming through blinds. It was morning. He’d slept right through the night.
    He craned his head to the side and saw that his bed was at the end of a ward. Most of the other beds were occupied by much older men. One of them couldn’t stop hacking and coughing. A large, intimidating matron was doing the rounds. A clock on the far wall read just after ten past eight.
    Ben was feeling a little stronger, less hazy, but his headache was still thumping painfully. It was partly thanks to the smart couple of blows his skull had received, partly a hangover from the Laphroaig. He missed his Gauloises and wanted another drink.
    He drew his hand up from under the crisp sheet and touched the thick dressing on his brow. It hurt, and so did the bruises on the rest of his body from the fight. But what really pained him was that he’d failed to protect someone who was vulnerable, who needed his help.
    He’d never failed like that before. He lay restlessly in the bed, haunted by self-blame, tormented with questions. Where was Kristen? Was she okay? When could he see her?
    The ward clock was showing eight thirty by the time Ben finally decided he needed to get out of here and find some answers before he went insane. He was just about to throw back the bedcovers and get up when a hospital orderly, an ancient man with wizened arms protruding from his blue smock, who looked like he should be in one of the beds himself, appeared with a trolley and brought Ben his meagre, tasteless breakfast. Ben told him he didn’t want anything and turned the tray away, inquiring urgently about Kristen. The old guy just blinked at him and tried to urge him to eat. Ben told him to go away.
    The exchange drew the matron to his bedside. Up close, she was a veritable bison of a woman, who berated him for skipping breakfast and thrust some painkillers at him. After he’d grudgingly washed them down, he asked her the same questions, thought he saw a look flash through her eyes and wondered what it meant.
    ‘Where is she?’ he repeated. ‘Is she all right? Tell me. I need to know.’
    ‘I can’t tell you.’
    ‘Then I’ll find someone who can,’ he said, flipping back the sheet.
    ‘You can’t just wander about the place,’ she said fiercely, drawing herself up so that she looked even larger.
    ‘Where are my clothes?’ he demanded, getting out of the bed and eyeing the matron with a look of savage intent that made her back off a step.
    ‘I see our patient is feeling sprightlier this morning,’ said a voice. Ben turned to see Dr Prendergast walk in. His paisley bow tie was even more garish than the one he’d been wearing last night – but what instantly caught Ben’s eye instead were the grim-looking pair who had followed him into the ward. They certainly didn’t look like medical personnel.
    ‘You have