Peter Corris - The Black Prince

The door opened and a nurse came in. She seemed glad to see me awake if the wide smile on her pretty Asian face was anything to go on. It made me wonder how bad I’d been on arrival. Punctured lung? Cardiac arrest?

‘Good morning, Mr Hardy.’

Was it? Of course, light showing around the edges of the blinds. My voice was a thin squeak through my clamped bones and I realised that my mouth was desert dry. ‘Good morning, nurse. Would you mind telling me where I am and how I got here?’

She did nursely things to the bed and looked at the chart. ‘You’re in the Charlesworth Private Hospital’

‘And where’s that?’

‘In Ryde. You were found in a car parked in the hospital entrance.’

‘With a broken jaw and ribs.’

She nodded. ‘Your jaw was broken in two places. You have four cracked ribs but none broken. You were having breathing difficulties and they thought you might have a punctured lung, but you don’t. They also suspected a cracked vertebra but there isn’t, just compression of two vertebrae which is bad enough.’

‘Good news,’ I wheezed. ‘I… ah, must have been a mess.’

‘I wasn’t on duty. I gather your clothes have been sent to the laundry. Would you like some water?’

‘Please.’

She poured water into a glass from a covered jug and inserted a straw. I tried to struggle up and gasped with the pain. She put a cool hand on my forehead.

‘Stay there. You can use the straw.’

The water I sucked up tasted better than a cold beer on a hot day. But somehow the drink and the relief it afforded caused me to lose concentration. My eyes fluttered and I saw the nurse move away. I wanted to stop her. I had more questions, but I couldn’t summon the energy to speak. All the shapes I could see and everything I could feel seemed to soften and I felt the dope they must have given me kick in and I floated away.

When I woke up again the attractive Asian nurse had been replaced by an older woman and a concerned-looking man in a suit. I kept my head very still but I moved my arms and legs, just to make sure I still could.

‘Mr Hardy, I’m Matron Costello and this is Mr Barnes, the administrator of the hospital.’

‘Forgive me for not shaking hands.’ It would have worked better if it hadn’t come out all squeaky.

The Matron gave a thin smile and consulted the chart. I’ve looked at charts like that myself and they never seem to convey anything, but she looked satisfied.

‘You’re responding well. Do you feel up to answering a few questions from Mr Barnes?’

‘If he’ll answer a few from me.’

She didn’t like that much but she let it pass and went off to be bossy somewhere else. Mr Barnes drew up a chair, checked his watch, clicked a pen and held it over his clipboard.

‘I have to decide whether or not to report the assault you obviously suffered to the police.’

‘You won’t believe an accident?’

‘Certainly not. But Dr Sangster has prevailed upon me to talk to you first.’

It transpired that they’d gone through my wallet when they collected me and found the card that tells anyone finding me in distress to contact Dr Ian Sangster. Ian had come himself and okayed a surgeon to do the wiring and strapping. He’d advised them not to contact the police without talking to me first. Ian can be very persuasive when he tries.

‘We saw your investigator’s licence,’ Barnes said. ‘And assumed this has something to do with your profession.’

‘Something,’ I said. ‘I would prefer you don’t tell the police. I need to pursue this in my own way.’

‘Very well. Not for a while, I’m afraid. You’ve been quite badly hurt.’

‘I’m grateful for the attention I’ve had. I guess they found my health insurance card, too?’

Barnes scribbled a few words and smiled.

‘You’re fully covered. I’ll hand you back to Matron.’

‘I’d prefer the Asian nurse.’

‘That was hours ago. She’s gone off duty.’

‘Can you tell me where my car is?’

‘It’s in the hospital grounds, locked up and safe. Do you want something from it?’

I doubted that they’d let me have the beer and I hoped I wouldn’t need the cosh or the gun. ‘No, I just wondered. Will you charge me for parking?’

‘You really shouldn’t talk so much, Mr Hardy. It can’t be easy. I just have a few things here for you to sign.’

I signed and he went away. The Matron came back and asked me if I was in pain. I was and told her so.

‘I’m not surprised. You have a wire connecting the hinge of your jaw to the bone. You should by rights be wearing a neck brace, but Dr Sangster said you would refuse.’

‘He was right.’

‘Pills in an hour,’ she said.

‘I’d like something to read then, to take my mind off the agony.’

A nurse came in with the day’s paper and a couple of magazines. There was nothing new: unemployment wouldn’t go down, Australian tennis players still weren’t making it past the semifinals and the cure for cancer was just around the corner. The magazines were full of gossipy stories about models, rock singers and film stars I’d never heard of. The pills arrived with some churned-up muck they told me would be good for me. I felt like a steak and chips and said so. The nurse laughed. I took the pills, swallowed as much of the muck as I could and went back to sleep.

The next day I phoned Wesley and he visited and told me I was an idiot for getting so close to such a dangerous man. I concurred. Mandy was on the improve from a pinched nerve and a consequent panic attack. We agreed to take the matter further when I’d recovered. He smuggled in a flask of Scotch which I drank with water, incurring the wrath of the Matron when a nurse found the bottle.

I phoned Clive, the taxi driver, and told him where I was. He said he’d watch the house and collect the mail, again. He visited a few hours later, saying he’d had a fare in the area but I suspected he was just showing how much he liked me. The Matron and I were now enemies after my infringement. She wore a cross around her neck. I didn’t notice this until she asked me if I’d like to see the chaplain.

‘Not only do I not want to see him,’ I said, ‘if he puts a foot inside this door I’ll sue the hospital for violating my religious faith.’

Despite herself, she was intrigued. ‘And what faith is that?’

‘Absolutely none,’ I said.

Ian Sangster turned up very early the next morning, reeking of tobacco and the three cups of strong black coffee he uses to start his motor. He inspected his colleague’s handiwork and nodded with satisfaction.

‘Not bad,’ he said, ‘for a young feller. Thank you, Clifford, for giving a tyro a chance to improve on his skills.’

‘Fuck you. When can I get all this junk off my face and live a normal life?’

‘When did you ever lead a normal life? You’d die of boredom after a week of it. You were really pretty lucky, especially with the vertebrae. Oh, I’d say, you could take solids in a couple of weeks. Tough guy like you won’t worry about a few cracked ribs, eh? You can walk about a bit this arvo if you feel up to it. I’ll prescribe some steroids to help with the mending process.’

‘What?’

He explained that steroids had a legitimate role in helping tissue and bones to heal, especially after surgery, as long as the doses were correct and the medication properly produced. I asked him what he thought about athletes using black-market steroids.

‘Fine, if you don’t mind your balls shrinking and your hair falling out. Don’t worry, mate, this stuff won’t compromise your manhood.’

‘What about women using them?’

He shook his head, felt for a cigarette and remembered where he was. ‘More delicate hormonal balance. Women do actually produce some testosterone, but stick in some more, especially the sort of adulterated crap you’re talking about, and you’re just asking for trouble.’