Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [5]
‘Come on. Come on, lad!’ he hissed between his tiny teeth. Carefully he lifted the heart a little way out of the soldier’s chest, a membrane of fibrous tissue straining beneath, and began to massage it. White sweat coursed down his face, forming sticky rivulets in his beard.
The heart remained still despite Maconsa’s efforts and he looked up desperately at the anxious faces of his orderlies. They could offer no advice, no support. Blood began to pool in the boy’s chest cavity.
‘Swab! Swab it for God’s sake!’
One of the orderlies was shocked out of inaction and began to drain the blood from the gaping rib‐cage with a pad of cloth.
Maconsa bent low over the table, claws gripping the fragile heart, just as a long, rasping, unquestionably final breath streamed from the soldier’s clenched mouth. His face seemed almost peaceful, its grey‐green pallor untroubled by care or age. His blue eyes rolled upwards.
The surgeon gently let go of the heart and it slipped wetly back into place. He stepped down from the table and sank back onto a bench, immediately swallowed up by the shadows.
The orderlies were already fussing over the corpse, removing the brace and mopping up the blood which pooled like thick scarlet glue over the whole area.
‘Lost another one, Maconsa?’
The old man looked up wearily, scarcely bothering to acknowledge the stranger’s voice. Some of the orderlies were peering inquisitively over their shoulders into the gloom.
‘Who’s there?’ barked Maconsa. ‘Show yourself. I’m in no mood to play games.’
It was Grek’s first officer, Ran, who stepped into the pool of light thrown by the gas jets, his flattened crest and tic‐ridden face thrown into sharp, gargoyle‐like relief.
Maconsa made his usual grumble. ‘Yes, Ran, I’ve lost another one.’
‘“For the Greater Glory”,’ said Ran.
‘“For the Greater Glory of the Ismetch. My Country of My Soul.” I know, I know…’
Ran strolled up the old surgeon, one claw resting on the hip of his breeches. ‘Do I detect a note of dissent, Maconsa?’
Maconsa sat back against the dug‐out walls and the boards groaned, streams of muddy water trickling down from the surface.
‘You do, Mister Ran, you do.’
‘Careful. I could have you shot.’ Ran’s twitching face almost cracked into a smile.
‘I’d thank you for it.’
This time Ran did smile and laughed; a high, humourless chuckle. ‘Oh, come on, Maconsa. You positively thrive on all this! The pressure, all the odds against you…’
Maconsa turned bleary eyes onto the young officer. ‘All this death?’
‘Yes! Why not? After all, that’s what we’re here for. These lads didn’t come here for a holiday, my friend, they came to lay down their lives for the Cause. “For the Greater Glory of the Ismetch. My country…”’
‘We’ve done that bit.’
Ran smiled again. The muscles under his eyes twitched convulsively. ‘What’s the matter? We’ve won, Maconsa. Another week and we’ll all be on our way home. Isn’t that what you want?’
Maconsa stood up suddenly. ‘Of course it’s what I want!’ He thrust his claws into the pockets of his apron and bit his lip angrily. ‘It’s just… well, this wasn’t just another war, was it Ran? I’ve been in enough of those. This was different.’ He tailed off, chin sinking onto his chest.
‘Go on.’
Maconsa looked up, his blue eyes peering deep into the shadows. ‘When I was drafted again I was so… relieved. Another few years in civilian practice and I’d have curled up and died through sheer boredom. It was good to be back at the Front. With people I understood.’
‘And the Cause?’
Maconsa flicked a glance at Ran. ‘I believed. I believed absolutely that the Cutch had to be utterly destroyed.’
Ran crossed his legs and leaned back