Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [31]
“What’s all this then?” he snapped, indicating his boots.
Nettleton lacked the nerve to point out that splashed or not splashed Renshaw’s boots were pretty much the same.
“Mr. Treves is scrubbing his Elephant Man,” he said placatingly.
“Elephant Man?”
“Yeah—I hear it’s a real horror. Even made Mothershead scream.”
Renshaw’s brows contracted. He hated Mothershead, who had frequently threatened him with the loss of a job that was the cushiest number he’d ever had.
“Fiend of the night, eh?” he grinned. “I think I’ll ’ave me a look at that.” He turned as if to go, but wheeled at the last moment and shot out his foot. His brass-heeled boot caught the other bucket, which Nettleton had stood on the ground, sending its contents soaking over the young porter.
“Now you need scrubbing, ducks,” Renshaw told him genially.
He waited to see if there would be any back talk. When he was satisfied that there wouldn’t he turned on his heel and wandered back down the alley at a leisurely pace. He turned at the corner, to see Nettleton frantically shaking his wet trousers. He was grinning as he walked on.
The tidbit of news had stayed with him all day, not as a matter of importance but as a morsel that might provide a little innocent diversion for a bored man in the long watches of the night. It rose again in his mind now, as he came within sight of the hospital.
He could see that the process of settling down for the night was well under way. Windows that he knew belonged to wards were already black. Other windows that led onto corridors showed a faint glimmer of light, indicating that half the gas lamps had been left burning, as they would be throughout the night. Renshaw turned longing eyes to a large building at the side which he knew was the Nurses Quarters. Pale gleams came from it, but soon it too would be all in darkness.
As soon as he slipped into the front hall Renshaw saw that the place was deserted except for Nettleton, who still occupied the porter’s cubbyhole.
“Anyone been down?” Renshaw demanded.
“Not recently—” Nettleton said uneasily.
“So no one knows I’m late?”
“No—”
“Good. And you’re not going to tell them, are you?” The young man shook his head, dumb with nerves. “All right, cut along.”
Nettleton didn’t stop to argue. He’d given up arguing long ago about the times he had to cover up for Renshaw, who never paid the favor back.
It was two in the morning before Renshaw moved. That was the safest time. The emergencies that always followed the closing of the pubs were over by then. The hospital would have settled down again, and with luck many of the night nurses would be asleep at their desks. Now was the safest time for a little prowl.
He took another swig at his gin bottle, and settled it comfortably in the pocket of his coat. His brass-heeled boots echoed as he crossed the hall to the stairs. He often regretted wearing them on these expeditions, and constantly resolved to get something quieter. But he never did. He could not have borne to part with the feeling of power and manliness that the sensation of metal beneath his feet gave him. The brutal sound it made in these echoing corridors pleased him even while it made him glance over his shoulder.
On the second floor he stopped, and paused outside the door to one of the women’s wards. He knew Nurse Waters was on tonight, and Waters had an unfortunate weakness that made it hard for her to stay awake after midnight. A little visit would be perfectly safe. Tentatively Renshaw pushed at the door.
Every lamp in the ward was in darkness, but the moonlight slanting through the tall window showed Renshaw all he needed to know. Nurse Waters was at the far end, bent heavily over her desk, representing no danger. Renshaw began his slow, curious progress down the center aisle. About him he could hear the nighttime noises of many sick women, trapped together. Some were coughing fitfully; others moaning in their sleep. Many were very old, some had obviously been sent here to die. These Renshaw ignored. His eyes were flickering