Steps moved round to behind Bond’s right shoulder. There was the click of a knife opening. An arm in some grey material came into Bond’s line of vision. A broad hairy hand emerging from a dirty white shirt-cuff was holding a thin stiletto like a fountain-pen. It poised for a moment above the back of Bond’s right hand, immovably bound with flex to the arm of the chair. The point of the stiletto executed three quick straight slashes. A fourth slash crossed them where they ended, just short of the knuckles. Blood in the shape of an inverted ‘M’ welled out and slowly started to drip on to the floor.
The pain was nothing to what Bond was already suffering, but it was enough to plunge him again into unconsciousness.
The steps moved quietly away across the room. The door was softly closed.
In the silence, the cheerful small sounds of the summer’s day crept through the closed window. High on the left-hand wall hung two small patches of pink light. They were reflections cast upwards from the floor by the zebra stripes of June sunshine, cast upwards from two separate pools of blood a few feet apart.
As the day progressed the pink patches marched slowly along the wall. And slowly they grew larger.
CHAPTER 19 – THE WHITE TENT
You are about to awake when you dream that you are dreaming.
During the next two days James Bond was permanently in this state without regaining consciousness. He watched the procession of his dreams go by without any effort to disturb their sequence, although many of them were terrifying and all were painful. He knew that he was in a bed and that he was lying on his back and could not move and in one of his twilight moments he thought there were people round him, but he made no effort to open his eyes and re-enter the world.
He felt safer in the darkness and he hugged it to him.
On the morning of the third day a bloody nightmare shook him awake, trembling and sweating. There was a hand on his forehead which he associated with his dream. He tried to lift an arm and smash it sideways into the owner of the hand, but his arms were immovable, secured to the sides of his bed. His whole body was strapped down and something like a large white coffin covered him from chest to feet and obscured his view of the end of the bed. He shouted a string of obscenities, but the effort took all his strength and the words tailed off into a sob. Tears of forlornness and self-pity welled out of his eyes.
A woman’s voice was speaking and the words gradually penetrated to him. It seemed to be a kind voice and it slowly came to him that he was being comforted and that this was a friend and not an enemy. He could hardly believe it. He had been so certain that he was still a captive and that the torture was about to begin again. He felt his face being softly wiped with a cool cloth which smelt of lavender and then he sank back into his dreams.
When he awoke again some hours later all his terrors had gone and he felt warm and languorous. Sun was streaming into the bright room and garden sounds came through the window. In the background there was the noise of small waves on a beach. As he moved his head he heard a rustle, and a nurse who had been sitting beside his pillow rose and came into his line of vision. She was pretty and she smiled as she put her hand on his pulse.
‘Well, I’m certainly glad you’ve woken up at last. I’ve never heard such dreadful language in my life.’
Bond smiled back at her.
‘Where am I?’ he asked and was surprised that his voice sounded firm and clear.
‘You’re in a nursing home at Royale and I’ve been sent over from England to look after you. There are two of us and I’m Nurse Gibson. Now just lie quiet and I’ll go and tell the doctor you’re awake. You’ve been unconscious since they brought you in and we’ve been quite worried.’