ANGEL OF MERCY
'I don't know what I'm doing here,' she says. 'It's not as if I can make any difference.'
She is standing by a bed. It has a rusting cast-iron frame, a thin mattress and a red-cross blanket. The woman in the bed, not much more than a teenager, with livid burn marks across her face and arms, is moaning and trying to remove the bandages around her eyes. Outside there is the thump of artillery and the occasional crack of rifle fire.
'You always make a difference,' I say. 'Look at me.'
She faces me, a mask over her nose and mouth, her hands gloved, her eyes cast down as if looking for a hiding place in the floor. I place my hands on her shoulders.
'Look at me.' I shake her shoulders gently. 'Come on.'
Slowly she raises her gaze, large soft eyes tilting upwards, tears rimming the lower lids, bulging outwards, waiting to fall. She angrily scrapes them away with the back of a sleeve and blinks a couple of times.
'You just have to get through this,' I say. 'Think about your place here. We cannot manage without you. Really. If you give up, then we might as well all go home.'
'But there's nothing we can do to help these people,' she says. 'They may as well already be dead.' She gestures towards a tiny baby with its huge head and staring eyes and little twigs of arms, its withered legs drawn up to its belly in a tangle of pain.
'There's not much I can do for this little fellow,' I say, 'but you will give him love, you will help him in his final moments, and this woman here.' I look at the old lady in the bed behind us, curled up asleep, breathing evenly. 'We have saved her. Remember the story of the starfish?'.
'What's the story of the starfish?' she asks. She knows I love telling stories.
'There was a man walking along a beach after a tidal surge on the Massachusetts coast,' I begin. 'There was hardly anyone about. There'd been warnings the day before to stay away from the shore, but the danger was over now. Among the flotsam and the stinking seaweed there are thousands of starfish washed up above the tideline. He sees a young boy, tousle headed, rough clothing, no shoes, picking up one of the starfish and preparing to throw it into the sea.
'Whatever are you doing?' says the man. 'There are thousands and thousands. You can't possibly save them all.'
The boy doesn't answer, just looks at him as if he is stupid, then he takes a little run forward and throws the starfish as far as he can out to sea.
'I saved that one,' he said.'
'Hmmm. And what about him?' the nurse says, removing her mask and pointing to a bed beside the wall, her pretty mouth downturned in distaste. The rebel soldier is propped up on pillows, bloodied bandages binding his chest, a deep cut across his right cheek carving an ugly 'V' across his ear, a crazy paving of stitches and sutures. 'What are we saving him for?'
'We must not take sides,' I say. 'We are all God's creatures. We must have compassion for everyone.'
'But when he leaves here, he will go on to kill and rape and maim more than we can possibly save,' she says.
'We must not take sides. You know that.'
I can see her looking at the soldier. He is strong despite his wounds. He looks back at her, eyes narrowing. There is another rumble of artillery fire, getting closer, and he grins. She is thinking, chewing her lip. She looks brighter; suddenly a new perspective has opened.
'You're wrong,' she says to me, very matter of fact; there is no argument; she is very sure of herself. 'We cannot stand and watch. It's a bit like the starfish. We have to act.'
Smiling now, the nurse strokes my arm as if to comfort me, to reassure me, and takes the key from her apron pocket and picks her way between the beds to the locked cabinet near the operating table. She unlocks the cabinet, takes out a ridged green bottle and loads a syringe from it, enough to kill a horse. She looks back as if daring me to make a move. She goes over to the soldier and holds his hand, caresses his forehead and makes soothing noises in his good ear. He closes his eyes. She takes his arm and pushes the needle deep into the muscle.
Published in anthology Twisted Tales,
Ragingaardvarkpublications 2016
Find your copy here
About the author
William Wilson pursued a business career and travelled extensively before retiring in 2003. He subsequently took a BA Fine Art degree course, graduating from Brighton University in 2010, followed by Creative Writing Course with New Writing South. He is a widower with two daughters and four grandchildren, and lives in Hove.
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