The Tapestry - part 3   by Mona Morstein Author's warning: Mona Morstein adamantly states that any reader MUST be over 18 years old to read her stories and if someone DOES read her story they are agreeing to that point and ARE over 18. If you ARE over 18, ENJOY; if you are NOT, then other authors have stories you can read and enjoy. Chapter Fourteen They knew some things. One, he had been tortured. His two fingers torn to the cuticle under the nail proved that, as, they thought, did the infected knife wound in his side, not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to cause blood loss and agony. They could see the evidence of the terrible suturing job it had had before being professionally sewn back together. They had no idea how the more jagged wound in his thigh had occurred. Two, he had been severely sunburned, but only from the neck up. Three, he had been bitten viciously by a dog. Four, he had a serious kidney infection, though they had no idea how he had developed that. He had been perfectly healthy when he left England, and it was an uncommon illness for a healthy man to develop. Five, he had been badly beaten, the bruises discoloring his skin all over his back and legs. Six, Purdey seemed to think he had a problem walking, as if his legs were weak and unsure of themselves, more so than his other physical problems would have explained. Seven, he didn't like doors slamming shut. Eight, he had gone through some sort of "test," which he did not want to go through again. Nine, Adam Willis was dead. Ten, whatever had happened to Steed had happened in the six days between his phone call saying he would be in Iraq two more days and Darius Madhi, the stupid bastard, telling them Steed was coming home a "little under the weather." Those must have been unimaginably terrible days for Steed. What they didn't know was what the hell had happened to him over in Iraq, and how all those disparate injuries were related. Nor how and why Adam had died. Nor what Steed had meant when he had stated "I can feel." It was all a mystery, and one that only Steed could answer. Once under proper medical care concerns for Steed's health were lessened, and recovery was fairly guaranteed. They put him on IV antibiotics and fluids, and cleaned and redid his bandages. They were relieved that no bones were broken, and that his wounds had not penetrated deeply into his viscera or organs. They wanted to see him walk when he was strong enough to do so to analyze any gait abnormality. That first night, Purdey called Steed's Aunt Greta in Cornwall, and told her about Steed's condition. Greta said she'd drive immediately to town and asked Purdey to get her permission to visit Steed at any time, particularly late at night, and to bring a guest when she did so, an "old, dear friend of Steed's." Purdey, as astute as they came, intuited who that person might be, and asked if that guest was female and recently divorced. Aunt Greta's affirmative reply cemented Purdey's educated guess, and she asked if the night-time visit was necessary. Aunt Greta's "Unfortunately, yes," answer made Purdey sad, and she hoped for both Steed and his "friend's" sake that one day such subterfuge would no longer be needed. Talking with Dr. Harrison, a lenient allowance to accommodate Aunt Greta and her guest was made; it was a Ministry clinic, not a typical hospital, and rules could be adjusted as per the treating physician's orders. However, Dr. Harrison wanted Steed left alone for that first night with no visitors at all allowed. He was adamant the man needed pure, undisturbed rest for at least one full day. Dr. Melvin Silver, the Ministry's head psychiatrist, was notified of Steed's condition. He would be in charge of ensuring that psychologically Steed was not suffering from any mental or emotional trauma, given the nature of what he had apparently been through in Iraq. He would also visit Elaine Willis and her children and inform them of Adam's death. Todd Penn was assigned to gather from Steed any and all information about Iraq he had personally learned or had been briefed about by Darius Mahdi, the Stupid Bastard, as he was forever secretly termed from then on by everyone. The first day Steed slept almost as if comatose; he would not have stirred if a bomb had gone off in the bathroom of his hospital room. The second day Steed was a bit more alert yet had minimal contact with people. He was still way too fatigued. He again mostly slept the day away, though he was woken to eat meals, even though his appetite was low and he was grouchy when aroused. He allowed himself to be cared for as needed, accepting the indignity of a hospital stay as he had so often before. A few times he saw Dr. Harrison's bearded face over him, attempting to ask a question or two, but Steed merely closed his eyes and returned to sleep. Sometime in the afternoon, however, Dr. Harrison persisted. "Steed, Steed," the physician repeated, gently shaking his patient awake. If he could have done so with ease, Steed would have turned from his left side to his right, rudely ignoring the doctor. However, he was too sore all over to move, so he opened up his right eye and mumbled, "Go away." "Steed, I will, as soon as you answer a couple of questions for me." Questions. Did the whole world feel compelled to ask him questions? "Later." He closed his eye. "No, now. I mean it, Steed, right now." The commanding tone of authority in Dr. Harrison's voice was not what made Steed decide to participate; he dodged around authoritative voices all the time. It was Steed's sheer need to be left alone so he could rest that garnered Dr. Harrison two open eyes. If answering a few questions would grant him that solace, he would grudgingly comply. From Steed's waist up, everything seemed to ache, burn, or throb, and the sooner he could return to sleep, the better for his and everyone else's mood. "What is it? Please make it quick." "Right," Dr. Harrison agreed, pen in hand over a chart. "I just need to know what sort of dog bit you--domesticated or wild?" Rabies. Through the fog of fatigue and pain, Steed's mind saw where this was going. Even to his rebellious nature, answering these inquiries made plain, good sense. "Wild." "I was afraid of that. Was it alone or in a pack? "In a pack." "Did they act very aggressive? Strange?" Does eating a dead person indicate a dog is aggressive? Or starting to eat someone who only appears to be dead? "Well, one bit me rather fiercely, so yes, I'd say they were aggressive." "Couldn't you defend yourself against them?" "Apparently not well enough." "Dr. Harrison wrote notes in Steed's chart. "Yes…After you were bit, was your wound washed promptly and thoroughly?" "No." "Hmm. Steed, you know where I'm going with this, don't you?" "Rabies." "Yes, rabies. I think it's fairly obvious that there is a good chance you were exposed to it. We had better give the full series of immunizations against it just in case. They aren't pleasant at all, fourteen shots over a three month period. We give them in the abdomen and yours is quite sore already--but rabies is invariable fatal if one develops it. We'll do the first shot today and then set up a schedule for the whole series." Steed closed his eyes again, and clenched his teeth, saying nothing. Things just kept getting worse, even though he was home and safe. He was too depressed and debilitated to make a quip, to state some insouciant, offhand pun. "Can I to back to sleep now?" he asked, as a yawn opened his mouth. "Well, I'd like to ask a few questions about your kidneys, too." "No, please go away." He was getting antibiotics; his kidneys would be fine. There was no more the doctor needed to be told about them. "Look Steed--" Since he didn't want to strain himself by turning over, Steed simply put his pillow up over his head. He heard a muffled voice over him, speaking in sharp, staccato tones, but after a couple of minutes it stopped and Steed peeked out. No one was in the room. Setting his head back down on the pillow, he immediately fell asleep. Steed woke up later, rising out of sleep as if he was a disseminated collections of cells that were involved in solidifying into a human body. As he created a physical self, he grew ears that heard voices above him. His eyes manifested and opened. As his vision began to clarify, he saw a man standing over him with something gleaming sharp and metallic in his hand… "No!" Steed yelled out in Arabic, his hand grabbing hold of the man's wrist. "Don't cut me! I admit I can feel!" Steed struggled with the arm as it fought to release itself from Steed's powerful grasp. A second after his outburst, Steed's mind grew attuned to reality, and he realized he was holding onto Dr. Harrison's limb, as the medico's hand held a syringe filled with some fluid. Steed released the physician's wrist letting his own arm fall back onto the bed. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply several times, his pounding heart slowly returning to a normal pace. "Steed? Are you all right?" Dr. Harrison asked, extremely concerned for his patient's panicked, confused behavior. Steed opened his eyes and looked up; the short, bearded man's eyes were full of caring, the syringe sitting on the little table by his bed. "I'm terribly sorry for shocking you that way," the doctor continued. "I obviously made a grave error in judgement. I thought it would be best to let you sleep through the injection, but didn't imagine the scare you'd have if you woke up. What did you say in Arabic?" Steed looked at the wide-eyed nurse on the other side of the bed from the doctor. She was young with a petite figure, pretty with black hair that framed a fresh, innocent face. Steed knew she had seen and experienced little of the world at large. That was fine by him. Some people should never have to wake up afraid a maniac is about to slash their skin open. Steed responded, "It doesn't matter. Is that the first shot?" "Yes." "Are there any side-effects?" "There can be, a few minor ones. Swelling, redness, pain, itching around the injection site. Sometimes a person will get a low-grade fever. Generally, nothing more than that." What a lucky day this was turning out to be. He got to have more pain, redness and irritation in his abdomen. "Well, have it, doctor. I'd rather not start foaming at the mouth in front of the nurse." Dr. Harrison picked up the syringe, and after the nurse washed the site, he made the injection into the musculature of Steed's abdomen. Steed grimaced and made a tight fist with his hand as the vaccine entered his muscle. It was over quickly, though, and the nurse put a little bandage over the injection site. Steed looked down at his torso; gauze covered his left and right sides, and now a little bandage sat in his middle. "One down. Thirteen to go, eh?" he asked. "Yes," said Dr. Harrison, standing tall over Steed. "The next will be in three days. We'll…uh, wake you up if you're asleep, from now on." "Good idea." When the medical people left Steed alone, it took some little time, but he was able to turn back onto his left side, relieving the tension on his knife wound, stop thinking about thirteen more shots to come, and return to blessed sleep. Later, it was odd, Steed woke up again in the middle of the night, with only the pale moonlight illuminating the room through the window facing him. He still lay on his left side, and behind him, towards the bathroom and the door, he thought he heard some whispering, soft wispy voices, from two separate people, both spoken with sadness and a sense of compassion. His mind was fuzzy, so only a few words--"poor, dear man," "damn Iraqis," "need him," "get him back,"--penetrated into his groggy consciousness before he slowly and painfully turned to see who was there, animalistic grunts punctuating his strained efforts to do so. Once he was on his back staring to his right, Steed saw nothing, heard nothing more, and he allowed himself to sink back down into sleep, as a feeling of familiarity and comfort filled him and he wondered who exactly the dreamed voices were supposed to have represented. Steed awoke in the early afternoon the third day, the bright sun shining in through the window of the air-conditioned room. He was much more alert than he had been the two days previously and took an interest in his surroundings for the first time. An IV line was still in his left hand, and a bag of some fluid was dripping down the line. He was in a fresh blue gown, and when he lifted it up, he saw bandages around his wounds. Everything was clean and white and quiet. A still life of a vase of flowers was on the wall; very English and very welcome. No Arabic writing was in sight. Colourful bouquets of flowers filled the tables in his room. That pretty little nurse entered the room razor in hand to shave his face of his detested whiskers. It was nice, being in a Ministry clinic; his little peccadilloes were well known and honored. Once the nurse saw that Steed was awake, she went and got Dr. Harrison, who came back with her, chart in hand. "How do you feel today, Steed? A bit more alert and rested? You were admitted in pretty rough shape three nights ago," he said. "We've got a few questions for you, by the way, when you feel up to answering them." How did he feel? Weak, tired, but otherwise not too bad. His nerves had settled down, and so had the pains in his back. He was stiff, and achy, but that was to be expected. "I don't feel too bad," he said. "We've got pain pills for you, if you need them. Nurse Maynard will give you one, if you wish, when you eat." He didn't much like medications, but a few days on them to escape discomfort seemed fitting. "That would be fine." Dr. Harrison sat down in a chair leaning forward. "Do you feel like telling me the rest of what happened over there?" The air grew heavy, like it was crushing him. "No," he said. Not yet. Maybe never. An odd thing happened as he looked at the doctor. Steed studied his face, his eyes, and realized that though Dr. Harrison's concerns for Steed's health were sincere, Steed really was just another patient to him, and if Steed died, it would be merely another medical loss, but nothing that was affect him too deeply. He was probably used to patient's dying, and Steed was just one more injured man under his care. Dr. Harrison's words snapped him from his musings. "At some point, I'd like to discuss your kidney infection. How you think you may have acquired it. It was quite serious. You'll be on IV antibiotics for the another couple of days, and then we'll put you on antibiotic pills for two more weeks. Also, Purdey is a little concerned about some weakness she perceived in your legs. We should investigate that; do you have some sort of problem with them do you think?" Steed didn't want to talk about his health, how he had lost it, or how it would return, although he was curious to learn what sort of injury could have made him paralyzed and numb for only two days. But, discussing it was a galling burden for which he did not have the energy. He decided to change the subject completely. "I believe, doctor, my barber is waiting for me." The doctor and nurse exchanged smirks. "Right," the physician good-naturedly said, as he stood up. "I can take a hint. Although we will have to talk at some point in the future. Nurse Maynard, be gentle and watch the blisters. That was some sunburn you got." A long silence as the doctor watched him. "Yes," Steed said. He had to give the doctor credit for persistence. Nodding his head in defeat, the doctor charted some notes, probably on Steed's reticence, and then left the room. Nurse Maynard lathered and shaved Steed with a regular razor, having to stop occasionally to clean his peeling skin out from between the blades. "Quite a mess, your face and neck," she tsk'd after one such cleaning. "That's not very good bedside manners," Steed complained. She laughed. "I'm sorry, but, you are dreadfully burnt. I've never seen someone peel this extensively." "I always try to excel at whatever I do." "So I've heard. Wherever you do it and whomever you do it with," she snickered, and they exchanged coy smiles. Steed was committed to not moving his lips too much so that they could finally heal from their cracks, but it felt good to be home, around people who were helping him and he could relax with. Take his mind off Adam Willis. Of all the things he knew he would be badgered to discuss giving Elaine some sort of explanation for her husband's death was the most pertinent. He had to make up something that would be believable, though a bald-faced lie. The rest of his time in Iraq he would describe in the barest terms. For Steed, it always made things worse to review the past; it was never a worthwhile cleansing or a purging. Nurse Maynard wiped the shaving cream off his face and neck and left, telling Steed she'd deliver a meal soon. She brought him a plastic container to urinate in now that he was awake. Steed thought about attempting to walk to the bathroom from his bed, but didn't have confidence in his legs. He used the container and was pleased that there was no pain involved with his voiding, and no blood either. It really looked like he had survived Iraq and Hussein after all. He was getting better. He spent the rest of the day much like he had the other two: sleeping, eating the meals they brought him, and avoiding questions from Dr. Harrison. Todd Penn came and Steed told him everything he knew about Iraq as told to him by Darius, and as he had learned himself, keeping things general enough that Penn would not know what was from his personal experience, and what was from Darius. However, he did spend a bit of time on Colonel Saddam Hussein, as it was Steed's opinion that Hussein was an anti-Western calculating despot in the making, and would probably be in charge of Iraq within several years. It exhausted him to recount his hard fought knowledge, and he defrayed questions probing a few of his statements, irritated that his report wasn't apparently enough for the man. Penn was courteous enough not to press his enquiries and Steed slept for two solid hours after that meeting. Purdey and Gambit visited him in the early evening, telling him when they saw him yesterday he was sleeping and they hadn't wanted to disturb him. He side-stepped their inquiries as well. It was tedious doing so and he wondered if everyone would be amenable to him taping a sign on the door that declared "No Questions Allowed." He didn't want to speak about what had occurred; it was over, done, a nightmare he had woken up from. He would heal, he would grow strong again, like he had before and unfortunately probably would again. The fact that as he lay in bed resting, he still saw images of Adam's head staring at him, still heard the dogs chomping on his body, still waited for a door to slam…wasn't important. Those visions would fade, as had a thousand others. Besides, doors didn't slam in hospitals. He had watched the door close following Dr. Harrison's exit in the morning, how it swung quickly close halfway and then with a small "whoosh" slowed its movements tremendously to gradually and quietly rest against the door frame. Steed hated hospitals but always appreciated one thing about them; doors never slammed in them. Steed found himself looking at Purdey and Gambit oddly when they were visiting him, trying to cheer him up by relating a Ministry mishap that had just occurred during the creation of a new code. Instead of the actual message "Send details on main network," the mistaken "Send details on main nitwit" had been delivered to Vienna, with much umbrage taken by the head of the network. Steed watched Purdey talking, and could see the affection and adoration she felt for him radiating from her face--they were the best of friends, after all--but he also noticed her engagement ring to an engineer to whom Steed had introduced her. She had lost her biological father, she had seen friends killed, she was accustomed to death. If Steed had been killed she would have mourned the loss of her dear friend and mentor, but would have nonetheless gone on living her life without it creating too great a dent in what she herself could fashion for herself and her husband in the future. Gambit. Steed knew he admired Steed and sincerely appreciated Steed's knowledge and experience, but he had had a rough life, a life of adventure and action and had seen even more death than Purdey, though not as much as Steed. If Steed died, Gambit would try to remember all Steed had taught him, would honor his memory and his worth to the Ministry, and then he would continue through life in the same manner he lived it now. Steed caught himself in his sad thoughts, and realized that it was related to Adam's "No big deal" comment that Steed should have just brushed off as the hysteria of dying man. But, here he was, watching two of the closest people to him in the world, knowing that his death would not devastate them, and a certain little emptiness filled him with angst. He was pulled from his reflections by Purdey, quite suddenly asking him what had happened in Iraq. "How did it all go so wrong?" she continued. "It was supposed to be a simple job--in, talk to Madhi--(the Stupid Bastard, she and Gambit thought)--and leave. Adam was supposed to be working at the archaeological site. What happened there, Steed? How were you captured? Were you…tortured?" They were staring intently at him, waiting for his answer. He yawned, slid down underneath the bed covers and said, "I'm really quite awfully tired. Thanks for visiting, but I'd better get some more sleep." "Steed, you can talk to us," Purdey said, a touch of hurt entering her voice. "I know," he said softly, attempting to ease the tension with his tone. "I will. Later," he assured her. She pinched her lips together for a moment and then leaned over and kissed the top of his head. "Aunt Greta sends her regards, as do your siblings. Dr. Harrison doesn't want you to have too many visitors yet, so you can regain your strength sooner." They left reluctantly, Steed watching the door slowly and softly closing behind them. Doors didn't slam shut in hospitals. That was the only good thing about them. It was after dinner that Dr. Harrison informed Steed Dr. Silver and Elaine Willis would be visiting him tomorrow, so he should be prepared to answer some questions by then. It was only due to the pain pill he took another few hours later than he fell asleep, knowing he'd have to deal with those two dreaded visitors the next day. Yet, again, there was that dream, of high-pitched whispers in the middle of the night, where it seemed he was awake in a stupor hearing behind him "getting better," "thank God," "silent as a coffin," "too many scars." Now awake, again he lifted his head up confused as to what was real and what was not, and Steed naturally mumbled "Hello?" Did he hear scurrying? A whoosh? Not moving his torso, but twisting his head to look behind him, Steed could not see anyone or anything in the darkness. He rested his head again on the pillow, sorry the voices had gone; in some inexplicable way, their tone, their presence had soothed him. He hoped he would fall back into that dream to have them resume their conversation, even if he only heard bits and pieces of it, if indeed it had been a dream…but who would visit him so late at night and why?…he was asleep before he could process those intriguing questions. He awoke late in the morning, and accepted the routine of implementing the care given to him, although he was able to shave himself, and did so with relish, hiding his dismay at the constant bubbling of new blisters up from his skin. The old ones dried up and peeled off, covering his gown and his pillow like dandruff, and instead of the skin healing it seemed that it just boiled anew from deep inside and bubbled up onto the surface of his face and neck. Steed was a vain man and for good reason; he had been a handsome devil ever since puberty and had been an adorable child before that. Looking like something out of a Lon Chaney movie was simply not acceptable to him. Dr. Harrison came in after breakfast and Steed asked him when his skin would stop blistering. "Oh, it could be weeks. With burns as bad as you had, the skin does seem to occasionally keep dying repeatedly layer after layer." Lovely. "But, it will eventually stop doing that." Eventually was too long. Steed sighed. He didn't mind the scar's on his skin from the shrapnel and the knife, they were the casualties of his profession and were hid by his finely tailored three piece suits. But his face, his neck; how could he socialize looking as he did? This would put a decided crimp into the rest of his summer's plans. He would have to become a hermit. He hoped that Carmella would have no compunction about sharing his cave with him. "Now, let's talk about your kidneys," the physician said, sitting down beside him. Steed smiled. "Let's not." "Look Steed, I've been a patient man, but I do want to know how they became infected." "I should imagine tiny little bacteria got into them." "Very funny." "Can I get off the IV today?" Dr. Harrison gave him a withering look which Steed blithely ignored. "Oh, am I to answer your questions and you not answer mine?" "That sounds fair to me." He frowned. "I'll leave uncovering your time in Iraq to Dr. Silver; how he puts up with you agents I'll never understand. To answer your question, you are doing very well, I'm glad to say. Your fever is gone and things are clearing up nicely as your urinalyses show. I should think that by tomorrow we can remove the IV and have you take those antibiotics instead. Another few days we can remove the stitches in your thigh, but it will be another full week before we remove those stitches in your torso. After that, you can go home, returning for your rabies shots." He nodded to a little brown plastic bottle on the table next to Steed's bed. "You'll have to keep taking the oral antibiotics for two weeks, once you're home. One four times a day." He leaned in towards Steed. "And no sex until those two weeks are up." "That's a rather harsh treatment plan. I think I'd rather have the infection."A good deal of resigned nodding came from the doctor. "Just take the pills and leave the women alone until the antibiotics are gone." "Is there another physician around from whom I might get a second opinion?" Dr. Harrison rolled his eyes and stood up. "Dr. Silver will be here around 3:00 p.m." That had the sobering effect on Steed the physician had expected. "You may play these games with him." Elaine Willis would be coming with Dr. Silver. Steed's deferment of having to report about Adam was ending in just a few hours. His stomach tightened at the thought. "Any other wisecracks to make before I leave?" the doctor asked, as a parent chastising a child. "No," Steed said. He was able to eat a little lunch and then asked to not be disturbed until Dr. Silver arrived. Although he disliked the entire field of psychiatry, and absolutely loathed being interviewed by Dr. Silver, he had to admit he had the highest respect for the man. Steed had met few geniuses in life--well, few that weren't demented, dangerous, diabolical, or criminal--but Dr. Silver was one. The man's ability to pinpoint the source of emotional stress in agents was legendary, and his ability to ferret out details could fit under the category of sorcery at times, as it seemed to those subjected to his profound intellect. Handicapped by a withered left leg as a result of polio when he was twelve, Dr. Silver's dreams of being an active agent had died with his infected nerves, and he was forced to walk with a cane wearing a sturdy brace on his underdeveloped limb. Yet, his brain had the speed of winged Mercury, and dashed through uncharted areas of agents' mind, discerning their troubles, discovering their blocks to returning to mental health with a rapidity that had made him as famous as Steed in the Ministry, which was, indeed, quite famous. Steed had suffered through sessions with Dr. Silver before, feebly answering posed questions, giving the barest minimum of requested information. Steed hated being asked questions about himself, hated being interrogated whether by foe or friend, hated having his brain and his thoughts offered up on a platter to someone who would judge them as acceptable or not. Time passed slowly, seconds, minutes, hours, but it passed nonetheless. Right at 3:00 p.m. Steed saw the door to his room push open and the slight figure of the bespeckled Dr. Silver entered, his limping gait quite pronounced. He carried a file on a clipboard. Elaine was not with him. Steed sat up in bed, putting his pillow behind his back, and brushing his hair into place as best as possible. "Don't worry, Steed, I'm not here to critique your coiffeur." He sat himself down in a chair next to Steed's bed by the window, put his cane against the wall, the clipboard on his lap, clicked a pen open and smiled at Steed. "Shall we begin?" Dr. Silver asked. Chapter Fifteen Steed muttered, "I fail to see the necessity of this." "Just Ministry policy, Steed, nothing personal." He looked through some pages in the folder. "Now, I've gone through the sparse information they've accumulated on you via your injuries and the kidney infection, your appearance to Purdey and Gambit, and your behavior in the car on the trip to the clinic." He looked up at Steed. "I'd like you to tell me exactly what happened from when you stepped off the plane in Iraq, to when you arrived back in England." Steed was ruled by Ministry regulations in matter such as this; he could not lie to Dr. Silver and had to answer the questions the physician asked. However, he didn't have to make the session easy. "I arrived, things went awry, I came back." "Yes, very good. Would you mind being just a teensy more detailed and specific?" "I arrived, things went exceedingly awry, I came back." "Yes, exceedingly awry, that's helpful." Dr. Silver paused for a moment. "Why won't you tell me what happened? Was it that bad? You weren't that badly injured. Yet, this sort of reticence, this sort of silence, you only act this way when you saw or did or were the victim of a very dreadful affair." Steed was silent. "Let's be honest with each other. Do you have any intention of telling me the facts of what occurred in Iraq?" "Honestly, no." This was an open admission to disdaining the official policies of the Ministry, and only John Steed could have the confidence that he would not be fired or retired or penalized in any way for his refusal to comply as directed. He was too valuable to the organization; in fact, in many ways he was the cornerstone of the Ministry, and his job was secure no matter how he truly acted in this regard. "Not even what happened to Adam Willis? His wife Elaine is in the waiting room. I asked her to let me speak to you first." "I'll tell what happened to Adam." "The honest truth?" Steed looked at the physician and for a moment neither blinked. "No, not the honest truth. Just want she needs to know." "I see. He died a nasty death?" And then was eaten by dogs. "He…died. It serves no point for anything more than that to be told to Elaine. Or, her children." He would tell her he promised to care for her and her children and that vow he would never renege on. "Yes, the children." Silence filled the room. Dr. Silver took a large inhalation closed the file and then put his clasped hands on the clipboard. "Well, Steed, if you won't tell me what happened over there, I wonder if you wouldn't mind allowing me to amuse myself by telling you what I think occurred." Steed narrowed his eyes and his senses peaked on alert. Yet, he smiled briefly and said, "Please yourself." "Might you do me a favor first?" "What?" "Walk across the room." Testing the use of his legs. Steed wondered how they were doing himself, having been in bed for the last three days. He thought of declining, but realized the uselessness of that; at some point in the next day or two he would be sent home and everyone would learn how functional his legs were. He might as well try now. Dr. Silver scooted his chair back a little to give Steed room to swing his legs over the left side of the bed, so that when he walked he could drag the wheeled IV stand with him. Steed managed to hang his long legs down to the floor, the soreness in his abdomen slowly him down as well as the fact that his legs were still quite a bit unresponsive to his mental commands to move as smoothly as usual. But, he put his feet on the floor and pushing off the bed was able to stand with assurance. He began walking, but was disappointed that his mobility was still very limited. He found himself taking small little steps as if he was a decrepit old man; he stopped and found that if he concentrated hard, he could slowly swing his leg out to a normal length and plant it on the ground, following it with another step with his other leg, performed just as slowly and consciously as if he was Frankenstein's monster fresh off the laboratory table. He made it to the wall and returned to his bed in that methodical manner, setting the IV stand in place and sitting down on the bed. He could think of nothing to say that his weakened legs hadn't already. "Not exactly ready for the dance floor, are you?" Dr. Silver said. "Well, make yourself comfortable again." Steed complied by arranging himself back under the covers. "Thank you; that was the last clue I needed. Do you know that sometimes a practicing reasoner must reason backwards, not forward. Sherlock Holmes once said that from a drop of water, he could deduce an ocean. Perhaps from the drops of information I have about you, I can do the same about your time in Iraq." He moved the chair back closer to the bed. "So, let me deduce backwards with you. Let's start with the kidney infection, as it's very unusual for a healthy man to develop; in fact, usually it comes from having a catheter inserted. One can only wonder why you would have a catheter inserted, or why you would call out 'Don't test me. I can feel!' as if at one time you were so tested because you couldn't feel. If you were tested by your captors, one could imagine it was to see if it would be worthwhile torturing you for information, and such tests might include inserting something under your fingernails and also cutting your lower torso, which would further lead me to assume that you may have not felt anything from your neck down. Now, if you were paralyzed from the neck down, and yet, only several days later, you weren't, but were still suffering from some neurological impairment in your lower limbs, I think it's fairly obvious that you suffered not a severe spinal injury, such as a transection of the spinal cord--commonly known as a broken back--but instead, a lesser injury that nonetheless caused spinal shock to occur. Spinal shock, if you don't know, is a condition when the spine is, well, shocked, or injured, and it swells, blocking off nerve condition below the site of the injury. Yet, it is temporary sometimes, when a severe injury hasn't occurred; and when the swelling decreases one's feeling and mobility returns, although not always fully. However, don't worry, with hard work and physical therapy, oftentimes recovery can be 100%." He paused. "So far, so good?" Steed was speechless. He managed a slight nod. "Right. Now, I wonder what could have caused the spinal shock, and that irregular, jagged wound in your thigh, the dog bite and the sunburn. Here is where Holmes would hold me in great disdain, as I will be guessing from now on. But, let us say that, well, something exploded near you--the shock of some sort of artillery weapon traveling through the rock of a desert is a lovely conductor of shock waves, which can travel up one's spine, causing it to swell. Also, let us suppose that perhaps you were thrown to the ground by the force of the explosion, landing harshly on your back, and that extra traumatic collision enhanced the spinal injury, causing a full, yet temporary paralysis. The explosion may also have driven a piece of shrapnel into your leg. If that happened in the desert, and you were left laying on your back, you would be unable to get out of the rays of the Iraqi summer sun, and would, therefore, suffer a terrible sunburn to the exposed areas of your face and neck. You would also be unable to completely protect yourself if a pack of wild, hungry dogs appeared. Perhaps, once you were bit you were able to use your voice as a catalyst to chase them away. This presumes that you were bitten as you lay vulnerable and near dead in the desert, and one could further extrapolate that a dead body nearby, for example, that of Adam Willis, released the scent that attracted the mongrels in the first place. I could be wrong about that. There is a chance that the bite was another test by your captors, who must have found you before you died of thirst or heat stroke. But, let me say that I do favor the wild dog in the desert scenario the best. "At some point, when your spinal swelling lessened and your feeling returned, your captors must have found out, and perhaps that was when they beat you. How you escaped from them I don't know; I wonder if Darius does, and if you won't tell us, then of course, we'll have to consider asking him. "So, to recap my postulations --something exploded near you, causing a shrapnel wound and a spinal shock injury. You lay in the desert long enough to get badly sunburned, and bitten by a wild dog. You are found by captors who keep testing you to see if you can feel, and in the meantime catheter you as you would not be able to urinate on your own. They do it in an unsterile manner and thus give you a urinary tract infection. I would go so far as to say your captors slammed a door each time before testing you, thus making you react so fearfully in the car when Gambit slammed his car door. When you could feel, they were able to beat you viciously on your back, which you were probably lying on when you were paralyzed. Then you were rescued and sewn up correctly. By the time you arrived in England you were extremely ill as the untreated urinary infection in your bladder had spread to both kidneys. "What I don't know is what happened to Adam. I have nothing to go on to make any extrapolations, except, maybe, his dead body was the scent that brought the dogs. So, tell me, was I accurate in reporting what I think happened to you?" It was uncanny, fascinating and certainly --if he could be so meretricious-- creepy how Dr. Silver had surmised so much of what had actually happened to Steed. Even though Dr. Silver didn't know for certain that was the truth, how he had put together the few clues into a cogent account of his experiences in Iraq Was brilliant, magical. However, Adam was the true mystery, and only Steed knew how awfully he had died, and how his body, which had fit so well into Elaine's arms, had been torn to pieces by feral and ferocious mongrels. There was no more point to Steed refusing to disclose his own personal tale of horror as Dr. Silver's account was so accurate, yet, he shrank from the responsibility to do so. He looked at Dr. Silver staring at him, and delved into the physician's concern for him. Dr. Silver liked him, he knew that, and held him in the utmost esteem, and considered him a captivating person, from the psychological point of view he so worshipped. Steed's past personalities and his transformation into the man he was now enthralled the doctor. Yet, if Steed died, Dr. Silver would not be stricken with grief; there would be other agents and other men to study. He would attend Steed's funeral and regret his passage, but Steed was, truly, just a man that Dr. Silver deemed worthy of studying and interpreting. "Steed? Lost in thought?" Steed pulled himself back to the moment, blinking his eyes several times. "Sorry. Miles away." "Where were you, just then?" Where had he been? "In no big deal land," he replied cryptically, on a whim. "I see. We seem to have begged the question as to whether or not my backward reasoning was on target or not." "There were touches of truth, doctor," Steed admitted. "Touches of truth? So, you're saying I was close?" Bulls-eye close. Steed grew weary of fencing with Dr. Silver. "What's so important about knowing the details, anyway? I've got the political and military information we needed, which was the point of the trip, and came back alive, although wounded and ill. Just put down in the chart, all pertinent knowledge garnered. Case closed." Dr. Silver shook his head. "Can't do that, Steed old boy. Oh, we used to let agents have their secrets, but not anymore. Not since Welton went on that rampage in Brussels, killing how many innocent people? Sure, we can create a cover story and report he was a criminal who overdosed on drugs and went out of his mind, but that doesn't mean we at the Ministry aren't responsible for ensuring that an agent never has his demons overcome him again." "I think it's rather evident I shall not be rampaging anywhere. Dirties the clothes too much. And it's very undignified behavior; I'd be black-balled from the finest restaurants." The psychiatrist smiled. "Indeed. However, we all have to deal with the new rules. Full disclosure of all injurious and captive events." He pointed a finger at Steed. "That means you, too." Steed called his bluff. "Do you really think the Ministry will support my removal from active duty if I don't succinctly narrate each minute of my time in Iraq?" Dr. Silver stood up, grabbing his cane for support. "Steed, I've never had to go up against you, but don't think that your reputation and your value to the agency will allow you to escape from this duty. However, let's call it a day, shall we? I'll come back tomorrow and we'll chat some more then. I think we've kept Elaine waiting long enough, don't you?" Elaine. "I'll go get her, Steed. I hope you don't mind if I stay in the room whilst you tell her what happened to Adam. I'll stay in the background, out of the way." "I don't suppose I have a say in the matter, do I." "You could say no." "And then you'd leave us alone?" "No, then I would just chart that you said 'no', and still stay in the room." Some people thought they were funny when they plainly weren't. Steed wanted this hospital stay to end. He wanted to be home. He hated hospitals and the lack of control he had whilst a patient in them. He hated being asked questions. "Go get Elaine," he said uncharacteristically brusquely. Dr. Silver left and returned with Elaine a few minutes later. She was dressed in a dark blue dress, and her eyes were still red from weeping. She held a handkerchief in her hand. She was a slim, petite woman, only five foot four, and had thick brown hair she wore to shoulder length. She came with a mousy, anxious look on her face and when she saw Steed it took all his fortitude to keep eye contact with her. Steed did not feel guilty or accountable for Adam's death. Their being in the southeastern desert had not been Steed's fault. Ali had set them up, and Darius had no idea Ali was a spy of sorts. It was Adam who had wanted to walk up the hill; Steed would have turned around and driven back without doing so. Yet, Adam was dead, and it was a tragedy for everyone: Adam, only forty, who was cut down in the prime of his life; Adam's family, without their figurehead; and Steed, who would always have the image of Adam's disembodied head in his mind. Dr. Silver gently pushed Elaine towards Steed, and then stayed in the entranceway himself. Elaine shuffled a few feet forward, and Steed motioned for her to sit in the chair Dr. Silver had just vacated. "Elaine, have a seat, please," he said, as tenderly as he possibly could. She sat down. "Are you feeling better, Steed? They said you were very ill." He smiled. "I'm fine." The quicker it was all over, the better. "Elaine, I'm so sorry Adam is dead." She looked down at her lap, and wiped her eyes with the handkerchief. Then she looked up at Steed, her eyes wide. "How did he die?" During those moments in his career when lying had been imperative, Steed had prevaricated with such flair that he had never been found out. Although the man he was now was loathe to lie on principle-- as a gentleman was a man with an inviolable word--there were enough times when circumstances led Steed to regress into the talents and traits he had once claimed mastery over. Now was such a time. Steed reached over and took hold of Elaine's hand. "Elaine, Adam died quickly and painlessly. We were in the desert and walking on a ridge, trying to find a ruin that had been reported as newly discovered. The rock under his feet gave way, and he fell twenty feet. It was over in a few seconds. Other men came then, and they allowed me to bury him and say a few words." "Before you were captured?" Steed's eyes flicked to Dr. Silver, who stood impassively. "Yes." He tightened his grasp on her hand. "You must know this. Adam was not tortured. That's the truth. He died quickly and, in that regard, fortuitously." "Thank God." After a pause she asked "Did you happen to remove his wedding ring?" The question surprised Steed. "No, no, I…I never thought of doing so. I'm sorry." "That's all right. I just wondered. I'm not upset he was buried with it." "Elaine," Steed said earnestly, "I'll help you and the children, in anyway I can. Adam was alive for a moment before he died and asked me to care for you and your children. I promised him I would. I mean to keep that promise." Elaine smiled at Steed through her tears. It was like Steed was some Agent Smith talking to Steed's own wife, telling her that Steed had died. Suddenly Steed saw the rationality of his having stayed a bachelor his whole life; he had made the right choice. This could easily have been his wife receiving word he was dead. And what good would that have done her? Suddenly his "no big deal" death seemed the best possible choice he had made for his life. And then, Elaine tore that idea to shreds. "How are the children doing?" he asked. "Not badly, considering. I've told them how I feel. That I miss Adam to the depth of my soul, and will grieve his death forever, but I feel so grateful to have been married to him for as long as I had. To have been blessed with his presence in my life, even if it was so much shorter than I wanted. I will cherish the memories of our time together until I die, and if I had to do it all over, and lose him suddenly this way, I would. He was such a good man, and everyday I had with him was so very special. I feel luckier than many other women; I may not have had a lengthy marriage, but I had a perfect one. There are few people who can say that, and I thank God that he gave me Adam for the short time He did." She wiped her eyes again. "I told the children that is how they should view their father; as a man there were lucky to have for the brief time he was in their life. They should always remember what a loving and caring father he was, and be assured he is in Heaven watching, loving and protecting them. Of course, they are very sad, but I think together we will all survive this horrid time. I'm sorry to have gone on so." Steed stared at her mesmerized by her words. He was filled with many things: anger at whomever had shot the mortar shell, killing a fine man who had deserved to enjoy his family until he died of old age; disbelief at the sheer courage and humble, accepting wisdom Elaine Willis demonstrated as a young widow; and a certain self-pity that he had judged things wrong, that if he had ever married and died in the line of work, it may not have invalidated the initial worth of the union. He had never anticipated a wife reacting as Elaine had, and wondered if he could have ever offered a love so pure that his wife would bless their time together more than curse his early death. Steed needed to answer her remarkable statements, and he floundered for something meaningful to say, until his heart took over his mouth and words poured from him that almost brought tears to his eyes, as they did to the weepy Mrs. Willis. "Elaine, that was the most beautiful thing I think I have ever heard anyone say. I, I…" he stammered very uncharacteristically and then felt himself compelled to speak a little more. "I married myself to a job, but if I had ever wedded a woman, I hope I would have inspired in her such exalted feelings as Adam inspired in you." She smiled at him. "You would have Steed, if you had married." She stood up. "I better get back home; my mother is with the children." "Elaine, I am serious about helping you in whatever way I can, in whatever way you need." She patted his hand. "I know. Thank you, Steed." "Stay in touch." "I will." She smiled at Dr. Silver as she passed by him and he held her shoulder as she passed. The door whooshed closed behind her. "An amazing woman, eh, Steed?" "Yes, amazing." Remarkable. Unbelievable. "There are few of those around." Amazing women; he had known one once… but that was in the past. A sudden fatigue overtook Steed, more of the emotions than of his body, but it enervated him nonetheless. "Look doctor, I've had more fun than I can stand. I'd very much like to be alone now." "Of course. I'll be back tomorrow and we'll chat again. Flesh out your experiences in Iraq a bit more fully." Exactly what he did not want to look forward to doing. "Bring some brandy with you." "Right. That was a good lie you made up about Adam." Steed was very tired. He slid down into the bed. "Good-bye, doctor." The psychiatrist nodded his farewell. "Good-bye," he said, and left. Steed lay in bed, knowing that the seconds, and minutes and hours would pass and he would have to talk to Dr. Silver again, in the hospital, where he had no control over his life, and everyone seemed to need answers from him. Except Elaine, who had all the answers because she was an amazing woman and had loved a man in the highest, purest sense of the word, as she had been loved in return. Of all the women he had been with in his life, which were almost beyond count, only one stood out to Steed as someone with whom, if he had just been given the chance, he might have been blessed with such a perfect companionship. But, Fate had ripped her from his clutches too soon, and there was no point in cursing Fate. It was a force of nature, impersonal and distant from those it affected, and one had to just accept its dictates and move on with one's life, however much one sometimes regretted the way one's life might have been if Fate had been kinder, gentler… Steed saw the new suit and Chelsea boots Purdey had brought and hung in the little clothes closet. His crutches were in there, too. From past similar experiences, he knew his wallet with all his identification sat in his jacket pocket, and had been filled with a fairly generous amount of money. He had all he needed to leave the clinic; if he took himself off the IV a few hours early, it wouldn't make a difference. He had had enough of his medical stay: of the irritating questions thrust in his face over and over again; of his having to lie to a dear, amazing woman; of Dr. Silver and his brilliant mind piecing together the puzzle of Steed's trip; of the appalling memories of Iraq that all the questions kept in the troubled surface of his mind; and of the memories of not so long ago, when maybe he had touched briefly what Adam and Elaine had blissfully owned. He had to leave. He'd return for the rabies shots--he had his second one the next day--and for the removal of his stitches, but right then he had a unavoidable urge to get to his own home and rest in his own bed. Perhaps he was being ridiculous, perhaps nonsensical, but if all he did was to make a personal statement, that was good enough for him. At least he would get a good night's sleep away from prying eyes and mouths. Steed's plan was set into action. Now he just had to wait for the seconds, minutes, and hours to pass until he could engage upon it. Chapter Sixteen It wasn't that complex a strategy. Steed knew the clinic, a hospital for various intelligence agencies members, especially those active agents for whom anonymity was crucial. He had been here before a few times when injured, just recently for the physical therapy sessions that had helped heal up his arm when he was shot in Paris. He could escape; he had done so in the past when ordered to stay longer than he wished to. It was designed to keep unwanted people out, not agents in, however recalcitrant they were. He never did sleep the rest of the evening or into the night, but watched some TV from the set up on the wall. Around 12:00 a.m. he decided to leave. First he removed the IV line from his hand, using the tape that had held it in place as a band-aid. Swinging his legs out of the bed to his right, he clambered up to his feet and then slowly made it to the closet. He brought his clothes back to the bed and sitting down dressed in his shirt, trousers, and jacket without a waistcoat or tie, not trusting his one-legged balance. He put the bottle of antibiotics in a jacket pocket, patted the wallet in his inside breast pocket and then forced his legs to get him back to the closet where he picked up the crutches. He was ready. Steed opened up the door with a hand, and peered down the hallway; the nurses station was fifteen feet to his left and the stairway and elevator was equidistant to his right. Only one nurse was at the station, and so he set himself to waiting, the door cracked open just wide enough for him to see through it watching her. Agents were experts at waiting. Forty minutes later she left the station to use the rest room and Steed was out the door in a flash; his arms were strong again, and he could move the crutches speedily. He ducked into an elevator, knowing that crutches and stairwells were not a good combination for rapid egress. He pressed "Basement" level and when the door opened, he maneuvered himself down the quiet hallway, passing lab rooms and the laundry until he came to the kitchen. There was a back door to the kitchen, where food was delivered, and Steed, flirting with a dietician once from his hospital bed, had found out from her where the key was hidden that opened that door. It was hanging on the inside of the large pantry that housed the cleaning supplies for the kitchen. And there it still was. Although the clinic was much more concerned with enemies breaking in to kill injured and incapacitated agents, then it was with such supposed agents breaking out to freedom, the large dead bolt did need to be unlocked with the key even from the inside, before he could leave. Steed unlocked the door and then closed it, locking it again from the outside; he wouldn't leave the door open and put fellow agents at risk. He pocketed the key with the intention of having Purdey bring it back the next day, when they had all figured out he had stolen it and was safely ensconced in his home. He maneuvered slowly up the flight of cement stairs to reach the street level and took a deep breath of London air. England. How he loved England. The clinic was situated on the east end of town and Steed's apartment, 3 Stable Mews, which he still kept even though he mostly lived in his home in Hertfortshire, was far across town from that, near Chelsea. He would have to take a cab most of the way there; he had every intention, though, of walking a far bit in the cool dark night. One, he wanted the exercise, and two, he had to handle the fear he had that Hussein's tentacles reached this far, overcoming his anxiety that he would be picked up off the street and taken to some warehouse in London, or all the way back to Iraq, to face the vicious man again. It was a farcical fear, Steed was sure, as Hussein certainly didn't have that sort of far-reaching power and influence, but a man's mind was not always the most rational after a he had been carved like a Christmas turkey, beaten and nearly tortured. The Soviets, if they discovered what had happened to their men, would merely hope Steed didn't decide to retaliate further against them for their Captain's unfriendly plan to kidnap Steed and send him to the Lubyanka. Steed wouldn't do so; intelligence was, really, a chess game, and he had become a pawn in Iraq, subject to any sort of move, any sort of sacrifice for the goal of winning. He held no antipathy toward the Soviets. The captain and his aides had been killed, and their families would pay the anguished penalty for the cruel machinations that had been instituted between Hussein and the Soviet. Enough was enough; violence was not the road Steed voluntarily traveled anymore. He would not seek revenge. It was an incident best let go, if only Dr. Silver would allow him do so. If his fears would allow him do so. Steed hobbled down four blocks before he caught a cab and gave him an address that dropped him off eight blocks from his flat. He was glad it was night and dark and the driver couldn't see his blistered face that clearly. It was early Friday morning, and the streets were pretty deserted. A couple of times Steed looked behind the cab to make sure they weren't being followed; it was silly and inane, but if his nerves felt better, Steed saw no reason to fight himself in performing such a common act of surveillance. He paid the cabbie when they reached the address and Steed braced the crutches under his arms and took off walking again, positioning the crutches in place, and then walking/gliding his legs. He kept an ear out for the sound of Arabic, and let his heart pound as it needed to in cadence with the fear that swirled inside him. It would take a few nights out in the dark, alone, to accept that Hussein was not coming after him, and then he would be assured he was back on mental track. Steed looked up to the sky, but the lights of the city blocked out the beauty of the stars. His arms grew tired after two blocks, and by four fatigue left his energy laying in fragmented pieces on the pavement. He obviously wasn't back to his normal stamina, nor did his knife wound appreciate being jostled so much. He paused and wiped the sweat from his brow; he should have had the cab park a little closer to his flat. Eight streets was turning out to be four too long, especially awkwardly lumbering around on crutches. He was panting and knew the remaining four streets would have to be achieved through concerted effort, one step at a time, concentrating, focusing, crutches, step/glide, crutches, step/glide…his knife wound began to ache, his shoulders were burning, his legs felt like they were marble columns, too ponderous to move. But, he kept going, forgetting Hussein, forgetting Iraq, just watching the pavement, his feet, the droplets of sweat falling off his face, pulling the crutches in front of himself, and demanding his legs catch up… He was exhausted by the time he reached the door to his Mews apartment building. He opened it and climbed the stair upwards to his two storey flat at the end of the hall. Once there, he reached up to the secret knob on top of the door jamb, not having his key. When pressed just so, the door swung silently open; any other movement of the knob emitted a screeching alarm as if five hundred cats simultaneously had rocking chairs roll onto their tails. Only once had Emma pressed it the wrong way, reaching the door before he could insert his key, and only once had all his neighbors poured out of their flats fiercely armed with cricket bats, as a group promising Steed a call from their solicitors in the morning when they discovered his alarm was the cause of their near fatal heart attacks. Calming their lynch mob sensibilities, Steed had charmingly shooed them all back to bed, and then had to ignore Emma's apologetic giggling for the rest of the night. And for three weeks afterwards. He had always wondered if she had actually mistakenly pressed the knob or if she had done so deliberately. Steed had sometimes been flabbergasted at how often she tried to ruffle his Edwardian gentleman disposition with acts like that, smirking in such an adoring and affectionate way as she did some dastardly deed he never could become angry with her. Why was he thinking of Emma Peel so much? Steed pressed the knob just so, and the door swung open. The thought of climbing the narrow circular staircase to his bedroom above seemed the equivalent of scaling Everest, so he instead made straight for his large leather sofa up against the outside wall of the apartment. Not akin to his usual innate tidiness, Steed dropped the crutches to the floor as he plopped heavily down on the sofa, leaning back, his head resting on its top. The idea of lying down came to him, but before he could do so, he was fast asleep. Not twenty minutes later the door swung open again, and two tall, thin woman, one young, one old, snuck into the room. The shine of an electric light outside spilled in through the windows, underneath was situated the sofa, and they saw Steed sitting there, hands by his side, his chest raising and sinking regularly. "He's here, Emma, as you thought he would be," Auntie Greta whispered. "I'm glad he didn't wind up in a hotel; we'd never have found him then." "No, I knew he'd want to be in his own territory once he left the clinic," Emma Peel answered, with an equally soft voice. "And I didn't think he'd want to go all the way to Hertfordshire tonight." Then she added, sadly, a few seconds later as she stood over him, "Oh, Greta, look at him." They stared at him, the light glaring over his body. His face and neck and even his ears were peeling and blistered. They saw sweat under his arms and on the front of his shirt, which was hanging part way out of his trousers. His hair was drooping over his forehead. His long, lean body and broad shoulders--usually magnificent in their masculine definition--seemed feeble shadows of their former glory; an aura of weakness and frailty lay over Steed. His bandaged fingers, white and smooth, were, they knew, the tip of gauze iceberg that lay beneath his clothes. "Emma, do you remember where John keeps his spare blankets?" "Yes. Upstairs in a closet." "Go get a blanket and pillow. We may as well arrange him more comfortably if this is where he's spending the night." "Be right back." Whilst she was gone, Greta stood the crutches against a wall. Then she removed Steed's jacket one sleeve at a time, and took off his Chelsea boots. His body was completely limp and never gave a sign of waking. Emma returned and put the pillow down at an arm of the sofa; then together, they slowly laid him down, supporting his head as it came to rest directly on the pillow. Emma lifted his legs up one by one and put them on the sofa, and they made a few cursory adjustments to his body until he was resting on his back, his hands placed onto the tops of his thighs. They covered him up with the blanket, leaving only his burnt face above it. Emma, making a final compulsive tuck, paused for a moment when done and then so delicately even a fly could not have landed lighter, pressed her lips against his soft, brown thatch of hair, forcefully keeping her hands between her legs, so they would not caress his face. "Steed," she whispered so faintly, Greta could hardly hear her words, "take me back." She closed her eyes and then gathering herself, stood up and smiled wistfully at Steed's aunt. "Don't give up hope," Greta whispered. "I haven't. I can't." "He's stubborn and impossible, but he's not stupid." "No, he's not stupid." They smiled widely at each other. "Let's have a seat, then, and I'll tell you a tale or two about my obstinate nephew, if you'd like. If he begins to wake up, you'll just dash out the door, and I'll stay here caring for him." "You're really very helpful." "Well, ever since you enlisted my aid in getting him back into your life, I've begun to see it as his only viable option. He would never admit it, and he hides it well, even from himself, but he's a very sad man without you. I must say, though, I didn't do much good for you when I was living with him in the spring. After you and I met, and I heard he was shot, I thought moving in with him would set everything straight." She sighed. "Oh, I'm sure you planted some seeds. Chasing away those women--" Emma snickered"--that was above and beyond the call of duty." "I thought you'd like that." "Oh, I did. I did," she giggled. "Come, let's have a seat way over here, and whisper about him, making his ears burn even more than they do now." Greta pulled the chair from Steed's desk over to the hallway leading to the closet, whilst Emma carried a chair from the kitchen. In soft tones and with constant glances over to Steed, high-lighted in yellow light from the lamp post down the street, they leaned close to each other and continued speaking. "Emma, when did you first know you had made a mistake returning to Peter?" Greta asked. "Honestly? After the first year. Everything was so crazy that first year with all the newspaper and television stories, all the socializing we did, and both of us trying to rediscover each other. When the glory and the excitement died, all that had sustained me from being away from Steed died, too. It was as if after the last newspaper article appeared, after the last party was over, an emptiness inside me that lay in waiting finally claimed hold. I tried to be happy, I knew I should be happy, I knew Peter tried to make me happy, but slowly I had to realize that I had changed a great deal from the Emma Peter knew, and he had changed, too. It was work, to be together, and more and more I could not take my mind off of Steed. Where he was. What he was doing. Who he was with. Did he still love me." "He had told you he loved you?" Aunt Greta asked, the rising tone of her question proving her surprise at the thought. Emma's face softened and her eyes drifted off into memories of the past. "Surprisingly enough, a few times, probably by accident, he did, verbally, late at night, after we had made love and he was drifting off to sleep. But, non-verbally, there were many more times, oh, all the time, by how he looked at me, how much he worried about me, how much he wanted to be with me, how good he wanted me to feel when we were together… " "He was, you know, absolutely devastated when you left." Emma looked away from Greta. "I…heard some rumors. How he had changed. Stopped driving the Bentley. Became a workaholic and as a result advanced very far up the Ministry ladder. Began womanizing again. Grew even more reserved, private and silent about himself. Was a bit more fierce at first with the men he was assigned to foil. I feel terrible for all this. What a mess." "Emma, don't feel bad. It's not your fault, or John's, or Peter's. It just happened. You and John, the most perfect couple I think I've ever seen together, were torn apart by forces that neither of you had control of. You had to return to Peter, and John had to let you go, however much the best part of him was destroyed by watching you leave his life. Now, I'm sorry I interrupted you. Tell me, when did you know you needed to divorce Peter?" "Oh, at least two years ago. But, it was hard to do, even for me. There were so many expectations on us from society, and our family and friends, and especially ourselves, that to stand up and say 'I want a divorce' was the second hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life." "The first being…?" "Leaving Steed." "Of course. Pardon me. Go on." "But, it finally reached a point between us that neither Peter nor I were happy, and I realized that it was time for us to move on. Peter understood, even agreed, and the divorce went smoothly." Emma closed her eyes. "I had the idea that Steed would run back to me when he learned I was no longer with Peter, or at least would allow me to run back to him. But, I sensed that that was not the case in our phone call, and then learned that he was still dating other women. I thought about bursting into his house demanding we reunite, but realized I had no right to make such a demand. If he did not wish to contact me I had no justification for barging into his life. That's when I called you, to ask your advice and to start you working behind the scenes, more subtly. Greta, I have to be with him. I can't think of anything else. I love him so very much." "And he loves you, although I know it doesn't seem that way right now. But, he does. I know he does. Deep down inside, where he hides all the pain in his life, silently and privately, he cherishes that love for you." They were silent for a few minutes, watching his sleeping form. "I hate it when he's hurt," Emma said. "He's such a gentle man, even though he can be violent, I know. But, he loathes and abhors violence and I've seen him handle with tolerance and patience the most evil and insane men. I would denounce and curse them, and he would just shrug his shoulders and stop them with a forbearance that truly impressed me. He has the kindest heart I've ever seen." "Yes," Greta answered. "He was a wonderful youth. Tall, handsome, athletic, popular, oh he was so popular. Everyone always wanted to be with him, and he accepted everyone, valuing loyalty above looks and wealth. He smiled so often back then and was so extroverted and open. He did well at school, too, although being inside studying drove his active bones to boredom and distraction. He had the world in his charismatic hands; he could have done or been anything he wanted. And then…he changed." "When was that?" "After the war. That dreadful nightmare that ruined so many fine lads. What exactly happened to him during it is a mystery to us, his family, although his exploits are recorded in some military archive somewhere, I suppose. He came back from service a morose, solemn and angry lad. He was impossible to reach. Then he left us again for some sort of wandering life and what he did for several years after the war, and where he was, before he returned to England to enlist with Intelligence, no one but him knows. The war scarred him, like it did so many others, but…that wasn't what affected him the most." "What did?" "Did John ever tell you about Nee San?" "The Chinese prison camp?" "Yes. In Manchuria." "Not really. We investigated a missing set of scientists once, and discovered they were being held prisoner in a mock Nee San recreated on the floor of a luxurious hotel. During that case I learned that Steed had been a prisoner there, too. He knew too much about how the camp worked to not have been a captive himself. After the case was over, I asked him about it, when had he been there, for how long…and he changed the subject in that effortless way he has about him. I never tried to pry into Nee San again. I don't like the part of him that is so private, but I respect it." "Well, let me tell you a little about all that. He was there for a year and a half, in his early thirties. Believe it or not we all thought he had died in Hong Kong, but we found out later that is what the Chinese had wished us to believe, whilst they had him all the while. And what they did to him, oh, God, may they all rot in Hell for eternity. But, I don't need to discuss that now. It's better if it's just forgotten. And I'll skip over the machinations of his return home, too. Anyway, when he arrived back to England, he didn't even weight nine stone, not even nine stone!, and was entirely mute. It wasn't just that he wouldn't talk about what had happened to him in Manchuria; he just wouldn't or couldn't talk at all. He was that traumatized. And confused; for awhile he would only answer to the name of his cover identity; he had so submersed himself in that role to keep himself from talking, from telling secrets. Over time at the clinic they put him in he gained back weight, realized who he really was, and began healing from his injuries and his illnesses. Yet, he still wouldn't speak. Not one word. He understood things completely, but wouldn't comment about anything. He was slightly outside real life, living in a numb and unreachable place, like a living ghost. He watched things with a blank face, devoid of any emotions except a terrible fear of the dark. It was like he had locked himself deeply inside himself, away from everything, in some sort of protective measure against the tortures he had endured in Nee San, and he was still trapped inside himself, not able to find the key to the cell door and come out again. Finally, once he was relatively healthy again, we all agreed--the doctors and us, his family--that I'd take him back to Cornwall with me, to my cottage where he would be out of the clinic environment, to see if that would, well, return him to us. "He was not a problem in the least. I mean, he was fully able to dress himself and eat, and take care of himself. I wasn't his nursemaid. We went on walks together, me gabbing away nonstop, he as void of reaction as ever. He would sit for hours under a little tree that grew on the edge of a hill, where he could watch the channel sea and the boats that floated by. Whether he thought about anything or was completely empty-minded I had no idea. He may just have liked the wind and the sun on his face after so long in filthy, dank, cramped cells. I took him to movies, on drives, and we walked about Poughill and Bude, the towns nearest my cottage. At night, I would read to him, or just knit and let him sit in a chair, as still as a statue. Sometimes we listened to music or watched TV together. "One night, about two months after he'd moved in with me, we were watching a Charlie Chaplin movie on TV called 'The Circus.' And the strangest thing happened. During the hilarious chase scene in the movie where Chaplin is falsely accused of stealing a man's wallet, I was astonished to hear John begin to laugh, just a chuckle or two at first, and then in ever increasing outbursts, until he was laughing wildly. I just sat and stared at him, on the one hand joyous that some sort of break-through had occurred, on the other hand very concerned because the laughter seemed so unnatural, so, well, hysterical. "And then, I became glued to my seat as John's laughter began transforming itself into tears, and he began to cry, weeping in rough gasps, as he covered his eyes with his hands and turned away from me. He cried for a long time, Emma, a very long time, sobbing uncontrollably. After awhile, when I hoped I wouldn't threaten his emotional release, I moved closer to him and kept my hand on his back as he sat forward, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands, weeping softly as he slowly recovered. Eventually it stopped, although he didn't move for even longer. When he finally sat up, wiping his face with his shirt sleeves, he then leaned over, kissed me on my forehead and went for a long walk. I wanted to wait up for him but by 1:00 a.m. I was so tired I had to go to bed even though he hadn't yet returned. "The next morning I found him in the guest room packing up his luggage." "'How are you feeling, John?'" I timidly asked, hoping beyond hope that there would be a verbal answer." "'Fine, Auntie.'" "I thanked God to finally hear his voice, however abrupt, fatalistic and resigned it sounded." "'That was quite a release you had last night.'" "He kept packing, not looking at me. 'Uh-huh,' he mumbled." "I realized that I was not going to get any more explanation or discussion out of him regarding his breakthrough of the previous night, or of his time at Nee San, so I gave up attempting to do so. "'You don't have to leave, John,' I said." "'It's time for me to go, Auntie,'" he said. "You've been very kind to allow me to recuperate here, and I thank you for that, but now, I need to move on.'" "'Where are you going?'" "'Back to London.'" "'What will you do there?'" "'Get strong. Then get up on the old horse again, and go back to work.'" "Can you imagine, Emma?! Go back to work? Anger poured out of me." "'Go back to work? To that world of violence? To killing or being killing? Hurting or being hurt? Where you can trust nobody and nobody trusts you? Why, John? Why return to that horrid life?'" He closed up his suitcase and did the clasps, lifting it off the bed and setting it on the floor. "'It's what I do.'" "'You could do anything else! Why choose that?'" "'I'm good at it. I like it.'" "'You like it? Did you like what happened at Nee San?'" "'No.'" "Can you imagine, Emma, he just curtly said 'no'. I wanted to wring his neck." "'And who will capture you and torture you the next time? The Soviets? The Germans?'" I asked. "Emma, what he said next chilled me to my bones, though it wasn't the tone in his voice that struck a chord of horror in me, even though it rolled out of his throat like the growl of some gruesome beast, it was his eyes, how they narrowed, darkened, and lost all lightness and charm, and his hands, how they curled into tight fists. "'No one will ever torture me again, don't worry.'" "It was the implied threat that broke my heart, the knowledge that not only was John returning to that nasty world, he was doing so voluntarily and entering into it with a foresight that whatever violence he needed to do to survive, he would willingly do. No one would hurt him that way again, because he would, I knew then and there, beat or maim or kill them first. "I realized that though the man in front of me could speak, John had not come back to us; a man who looked the same but was actually very different had emerged from that dark, rotten cell hidden in his mind. We wouldn't see the return of the real John Steed for another ten years, which coincidentally occurred right around the time he met you. He was active in overseas work, doing God knows, for about five years after Nee San, coming home only very rarely. What little we heard of him through colleagues led us to believe that Steed was a top notch agent, continually successful, though very independent and hard to control. He started working in England more when he was thirty-nine and I could see that he was trying to fit back into English society, trying, if I may, to re-civilize himself after those last five years. And, little by little we all started to see our John come back, finally, and my heart leapt for joy. The icing on the cake was him meeting you; everything fell into place for him then. He had regressed to the playful, delightful, charming lad he was as a teen, except for that occasional steely glint that glowered in his eyes when he got very aggravated at someone. And still glowers, occasionally." "You've made a doctoral study of your nephew, Greta." "Even in the dark, Emma could see Greta's eyes moisten. "He was always doted on by all his aunts, and there were many of us, and still are a few left, but he and I formed a special bond early on that we've shared ever since his childhood. I do love him, Emma, as much as my own son, and I think he is one of the most remarkable men there's ever been. I think he should write his autobiography, and astound the masses with the life he's lived, and if you want to see the most peculiar, perturbed look on John's face, just ask him if he has any intention of doing that." "I can imagine," Emma grinned. Then her face grew serious. "Thank you for telling me about Steed. I had inklings into his past, but nothing solid, nothing really factual, per se, to consider. Just snippets of his working with this agent, of that gun fight, of meeting those Russians, and so forth. If he wasn't so wonderful, so handsome, so witty, so playful, so noble, so generous, so sexy, so perfect for me, I don't think if I'd bother with him and all his secret nooks and crannies." "Yes, if he wasn't so all that, none of us would. But, unfortunately, he is." "Oh, yes, he surely is." "And now, the dear man was captured and dreadfully abused again. Almost twenty years later. How I have begun to despise his commitment to his career." They sat in silence for a few minutes staring at Steed's sleeping form. "Emma, do you believe in reincarnation?" Emma was surprised by the question. "I don't know. I suppose it could occur. Why do you ask?" "Oh, I wonder about it, myself. Heaven and hell never sat well with me, nor did just having one life to experience. I mean, what about poor, little children who die so young; is that all the life they're forever destined to have? Seems rather pointless to me." She paused for a moment. "And him, over there, my nephew John, as a skinny bright lad he was so interested in knights, so enamored with tales of chivalry and courage. I watched him play with his mates, and he never wanted to be the commanding king. He always wanted to be the First Knight, the protector of his sovereign and of his country and of fair maidens, in particular. Of course, many English lads are enthralled with our country's idealized knightly past, but for John it came so natural and seemed so much a part of who he was and how he viewed the world. By the time he was six he memorized pages of different knights, and knew what each had done in life. It was like he had already been a knight himself in the far distant past, and was just rediscovering his true self in his new incarnation as John Steed. As if he was, actually, not some fresh soul inhabiting Earth for the first time, but indeed was the spirit of an ancient, eternal knight. "And I see him now, here, and review the life he's had as John Steed--the little I know if it specifically--and if I was still to believe that John is a reincarnated knight from old, isn't is obvious who he would have been, whose soul he carries with him in his heart? Emma didn't answer Greta's sincere question, not wanting to interrupt her fascinating chain of thought. "Sir Lancelot, of course. The parallels are eerie, if we believe the concept of reincarnation that people are fated to repeat set patterns in their lives until somehow they learn whatever lesson they were supposed to learn. Then, and only then, can they free and live unfettered from then on. Sir Lancelot was the most noble, most handsome, most able, most committed knight in Camelot, journeying all throughout the kingdom doing good deeds, fighting and winning battles no one else could. But, he was also haunted and driven to despair because of his intense yet ill-fated love of another man's wife. Greta turned to Emma. "Oh, I know Camelot may be mythical, but I have always held the fanciful belief that it indeed existed, and the stories about it are true. Even old women may harbor a romantic notion or two. John was indeed knighted, by the way, in a quiet and unpublicized ceremony, about eight months ago. He told me, and, I think, only me; no other family members or friends. Maybe Purdey and Gambit know; he's very close to them. I think the idea of everyone calling him Sir John and deferring to him and his title more than they already do is anathema to him. Well, what do you think about this senile crone's idle, rambling thoughts…Guinevere?" Guinevere. Sir Lancelot's illicit love. King Arthur's wife, torn between her love for two men, chose to stay with her King, not the passion of her life. Emma rested her hand on Greta's thin and bony hand. "I think you are the best aunt in the world, and Steed is very lucky to be related to you. And if I am Guinevere, and Steed is Lancelot, then there will be the grandest rewriting of mythical history ever to have occurred. I have broken my own pattern, by leaving Peter for Steed. And, if Steed's pattern now needs to be broken, by him finally happily marrying Guinevere, I'll make sure he does so." "Just don't break his head whilst you're at it," Greta smiled, placing her other hand on top of Emma's. "I've thought of that, believe me, Greta, I've thought of that." "Oh, I believe you, my dear. I do indeed. I think one thing Steed loves about you so much is your fire, your verve, your ability not only to keep up with him, but to make him keep up with you." "You're talking in the present, not the past." "I know. I know I am. Because it is as true now, as it was then. Just give it a bit more time. A terrible experience like what he went through in Iraq must make a person reevaluate what's truly important in life. And Steed does think deep thoughts occasionally. Let's give him the benefit of the doubt at this point." "There's nothing else to do, anyway," Emma sighed. "Chin up, dear. Moping gives you wrinkles." They sat silent for a few minutes again and before they could begin another conversation, they heard a slight cry come from Steed, and glancing at him, they noticed he was becoming restless, tossing his head back and forth on the bed. "No!" he cried out, in English this time. "No, not again! Don't cut me again. I can feel!" Eyes widened, mouths open, Emma and Greta stared at each other. Greta put her hand in front of her mouth. Steed's breathing rate increased rapidly as he continued to writhe his head around on the pillow, oddly not moving the rest of his body. "No, not the dogs. I'm still alive. Don't let the dogs near me. Adam, they ate Adam, don't let them eat me." "Oh, God, he was bitten by a wild dog," Greta said. "Did he really see dogs eat his friend? How awful. No wonder he won't talk about what happened to him." Emma tilted her head down and closed her weepy eyes. "Emma, get ready to leave. I think he's going to wake up any moment. We'll talk later, dear." "Yes. Later…" was all Emma could whisper, her voice full of sympathy and pain for Steed's tormented dream. Steed grew more frantic, shaking his head wildly. "NO! Stay away! AHH!" He woke up suddenly, and then he could use his arms and legs and he fought the blanket off his body, as if it was the pack of dogs itself, almost rolling onto the floor in the process. Aunt Greta raced to his side, blocking his view behind her as Emma stood up and solemnly left the apartment, closing the door softly behind her. "John, settle down, settle down," Aunt Greta said, holding his body to keep him from thrashing about. "You're safe; you're in your apartment." Steed's pitched battle with the nightmarish dogs retreated back into his subconscious and he looked about the dark room for a moment disoriented and not knowing where he was. The sight of his aunt above him, her face glimmering from the light that came in through the window calmed him enough he could recall where he was. "Auntie, hello. How did you get in here?" Steed asked, lying back down to stretch out on the sofa, his long body taking up its whole length. He ran his hands through his hair and then flopped them down by his side. They had thought of that, thank God. "I've got a key," she said. And she did, Emma's key. Which Emma had never returned to Steed, and he had never asked for. "I don't remember giving you a key." "It was years ago." Changing the subject seemed the best route. "You had a nightmare." Changing the subject seemed a good idea to Steed, too. "Did you lay me down? Cover me with the blanket?" "Of course. I was busy all day and couldn't see you in the clinic so decided to visit you during the night. Imagine my surprise, and the clinic personnel's, when we found you were gone. You've ticked off a good number of people tonight, my dear nephew. Anyway, I figured you'd come here. I had my key with me and let myself in." "How coincidental." He didn't believe her story, but calling her a liar after helping him would demonstrate unmentionable manners and unforgivable rudeness. In confirmation of his suspicions, he squinted his eyes to see across the room; were there two chairs set up next to each other? "How long have you been here?" "Oh, a little over an hour. Are you up? Do you want a cup a tea? Do you think you can make it upstairs to bed?" Steed yawned widely, and he covered his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes began closing on their own, the mere one hour of sleep he had garnered having no effect on revivifying his constitution. He murmured, sluggishly, "No… no tea or bed… just sleep here… no chickens, here…" He quickly fell back asleep. Aunt Greta wondered if she had actually heard him say "no chickens, here" then replaced the two chairs in their proper positions. She then spent a few minutes staring down at her weary and haggard nephew, then she too, bent down and kissed his forehead, before climbing the spiral stairs to his second floor to sleep in his king-sized bed. Chapter Seventeen The next morning Steed woke up to the smell of fresh brewed coffee and eggs and rashers being cooked. Grunting in several different octaves and keys, Steed got himself sitting up, his abdomen feeling as if someone had run across his stomach wearing cleats during the night. "Steed, are you up?" his aunt's voice came from around the corner, by the kitchen's stove.