Harris doesn’t reply. Then I nearly step on the wadded blue paper gown on the floor. He’s pulled it off himself. Maybe it was uncomfortable, all scrunched to accommodate the cage over his leg.
‘Are you cold? You look cold.’
His eyes are winced closed. A plate of quartered hospital sandwiches and a cuppa sit untouched on the trolley at the bedside. I wonder if he’s still too groggy or nauseated to eat. But his recovery period was last night; he should try to eat. It’s the best way to regain strength after surgery.
I carefully fold up the sheet and blanket so they’re covering his chest. Nice chest, although it’s not really my job to notice. From what I hear, Harris Derwent gets his chest admired on a pretty regular basis anyway. I keep my eyes firmly elsewhere while I’m fixing the blanket.
He turns his head towards me. ‘Do I know you?’
I lose what to say for a second. His eyes are very green and glazed, and he looks horribly tired. Which is fair – I went home exhausted after yesterday’s shift, although nothing much happened after that one emergency. But even one emergency can do that to you.
‘I-I was here when you first arrived,’ I finally get out. ‘Yesterday morning. You came in with Jared Capshaw –’
‘You counted me down.’ His voice is rough from the intubation.
‘Yeah.’
He remembers me. What else does he remember?
‘Do you know where you are? You’re in Ouyen hospital. You’ve had surgery on the bullet wound in your thigh.’ I try to think of more detail so he can orient himself. ‘You’ve been pretty out of it since you came in. Your leg –’
‘What about the others?’ His eyes hunt around, as if he thinks they might be in here with us. ‘Rachel…’
‘You were the only one admitted.’ I frown. ‘D’you want me to chase it up for you? Is there someone you need to contact? Your dad’s been in –’
‘No.’ The word comes out short and flat. ‘Don’t contact my dad.’
‘Okay… But he’s already been in once and he’ll probably come in again later. He seems pretty keen to see you.’
Harris closes his eyes and his whole body sinks, boneless. ‘Fine. Whatever.’
I squint at him. His hollow cheeks are covered in dark gold stubble. He was nearly an hour in surgery, and he would’ve been recovering from sedation all afternoon, into the evening. More drugs would’ve seen him through the night. Maybe this is really the first time he’s communicated since he arrived.
I think about what he’s communicating.
‘D’you want me to stall him?’ I say quietly. ‘I could maybe hold him over until the afternoon…’
Harris blinks up at me. ‘You can do that?’
I nod.
He holds my gaze for a moment before sinking into the bed again. This time, he looks more relaxed. ‘Thank you.’
‘Is he bothering you? Barb can ban him from the ward if –’
‘No. That’ll just piss him off.’ He stretches his neck, grimacing. ‘Dad… Dad can be hard work. That’s just the way he is.’
Which is what people say about you– the thought comes before I can stop myself. At least I don’t say it out loud.
*
For the next couple of days, Harris has a barrage of visitors.
A stocky Melbourne cop with a ginger crewcut drops by, along with some skinny English guy in a suit. Not to mention the local police, and by that I mean my dad and Jared Capshaw. Dad came back from that first interview with Harris wearing a very grim expression. Melbourne police involvement always makes him edgy.
I ask Dad if there’s any word about what happened because, after a one-paragraph mention in the local paper, there’s been no more information, and the rest of the staff have all been trying to pick my brains. Everything is gossip fodder in a small town.
‘It was some Melbourne police op.’ Dad spreads his hands. ‘One of the Watts kids – do you remember Rachel Watts? Yeah, she and her boyfriend got into trouble with some goons at the Five Mile quarry. Harris swooped in, trying to help out, and ended up getting shot for his efforts.’
