Soft Scottish tones. Jeannie MacClain.
He turned to see her as she moved into his view, and a bolt of pain tore through his head.
‘Aaargh!’ he groaned.
‘Don’t move,’ said Jeannie. ‘The doctor said the bullet just grazed your skull, but it took a chip of bone out. Only a small chip, but painful. You were very lucky, but you need to rest.’
He was aware of bandages around his head, like a turban. He lay there flat, looking about him as best he could without moving his head, eyes going left and right, then upwards.
He recognised the decor. It was the room at the guest house he and Lauren shared. Or, had shared, before she disappeared.
‘The doctor said he thought it best to leave you here,’ said Jeannie. ‘There’s no hospital on the island, and he thought, as your injury isn’t life-threatening, you’d be better off here than being transferred to the mainland.’
‘What about Mrs Gordon?’
‘She’s alive, but the bullet broke her leg. The air ambulance took her to Oban. She’s in hospital there. They say she’ll be all right.’ She looked worried. ‘You’re both lucky to be alive.’
‘Do they know who shot us?’
Jeannie shook her head.
‘Now, rest,’ she said. ‘The doctor’s given you painkillers and something to help you sleep. He’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.’
‘Lauren?’ said Jake.
‘Who?’ asked Jeannie.
I mean Helen, he thought. Helen Cooper. I feel tired. Very tired. My head feels numb. I’ll ask about Helen tomorrow . . .
He woke at some time in the early hours of the morning. It was dark. Everything was dark. There was no light at all.
I have to get up and find Lauren, he thought, and he tried to sit up in bed, but then he felt weak, all his energy fading and slipping away from him, and he sagged back on to the bed . . .
‘It looks good,’ said the doctor, examining the side of Jake’s head.
Dr Patel. A young doctor. He had checked Jake’s pulse and heart and breathing before he’d begun unravelling the bandages from around his head. A close inspection of the wound, followed by a satisfied grunt.
‘Very clean,’ said the doctor. ‘No infection. And, luckily for you, the bullet only grazed you. There’s no permanent damage. Comparatively, it’s little more than having a bang on the head. Of course, it will continue to hurt for a while, but you have a very thick skull, which is fortunate.’
‘How long do I have to stay here?’ asked Jake.
He was fed up with lying in this bed as if he was an invalid. Lauren was out there somewhere!
‘You can get up today,’ said Dr Patel. ‘But don’t do anything too energetic to start with. Take it easy. Sit around the lounge. Or in the garden outside. Some fresh air will do you good.’
He set to work re-dressing the wound, this time using plasters.
‘I have had to shave the area around your wound, so you may feel you look a little odd,’ said the doctor. ‘But you can always wear a hat.’
He finished dressing the wound, and nodded approvingly at his own handiwork.
‘A very neat job, though I say it myself.’ He began to pack his bag, and added, ‘The police want to talk to you, of course.’
The police again, groaned Jake. He seemed to have spent most of his time on Mull being questioned by them.
‘Are they here?’
Dr Patel nodded.
‘They’re waiting downstairs. A Detective Sergeant Stewart and a constable.’ He gave Jake a wry smile. ‘It might be as well to talk to them now and get it over with, then you can rest.’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Jake.
‘So, shall I tell them they can come up?’
‘OK,’ said Jake.
‘Good. I shall call in on you again tomorrow. I’ve left some painkillers on your bedside table. If you feel the need, by all means take them. You can take two at one time, but no more than two every four hours. Is that understood?’
‘Yes,’ said Jake. He was tempted to nod, but knew if he did, it’d hurt his head.
‘And if anything gets worse, or if you’re worried, just get Mrs MacClain to call me. I’m available twenty-four hours a day.’
He headed for the door.
‘I’ll tell Sergeant Stewart he can come and see you, but I’ll ask him to go gently with you. And not to keep asking questions for too long.’
Jake smiled his thanks, and let himself sink back against the pillows. His head still ached, but not as badly as it had done the day before. I’m not doing badly for a guy who got shot in the head, he told himself.
There was a brisk knock at his door, then it opened and Sergeant Stewart walked in, followed by the same constable who’d arrested Jake and taken him off in handcuffs.