YANNIS (Cretan Saga Book 1) (55 page)

‘How much is left?’ he asked of Spiro.

‘About half.’

Doctor Stavros nodded. As he had thought, it would not be enough. Reaching the bone he placed the knife in the bowl and took up the saw. The rasp of the blade set Yannis’s teeth on edge and the effort brought out beads of sweat on the doctor’s forehead which he wiped away impatiently with his arm. The grating noise continued and Yannis head began to throb in rhythm with the sound. Flora moaned and Spiro shook the bottle.

‘That’s it,’ he announced.

‘Hold her,’ commanded the doctor.

He cut as swiftly as he could through the mass of pulpy flesh. Flora screamed. An ear-splitting, shattering, inhuman scream and it took all their strength to hold her. Each time she tried to wrench herself away the doctor had to stop and wait until she had calmed herself a little. Yannis was talking to her, he appeared to be telling her about his childhood, but the doctor was not really listening. With a sigh of relief he sliced away the last remnant of skin and tossed the limb aside. Liberally he applied methylated spirits to the raw area, which diluted the red blood, making it trickle away in pale pink rivers. Pinching together the open ends of the artery and veins he inserted stitches to keep them closed.

Between each stitch Flora sobbed and each time the needle was inserted she screamed and tried to drag herself away from the burning pain. Releasing the tourniquet Doctor Stavros watched carefully to see how much blood she was likely to lose, thankful to see very little seeping through. Once again he doused the wound with methylated spirits, pulled the ragged edges of skin together and sewed as rapidly as he was able. He removed the tourniquet completely and watched for any sign of bleeding. Satisfied that there would be very little blood loss he made a pad from a bandage, soaked it in iodine and placed it over the stump, bandaging it firmly into place.

As he finished he was suddenly conscious of eyes watching him and he looked up to see that he was ringed by silent lepers, Father Minos had been unable to keep them away from the scene any longer. Doctor Stavros rose to his feet.

‘That’s it. Ask one of the girls to give her a wash, then we’ll take her back inside.’

Andreas moved slowly from his position at her legs, he felt stiff and cramped, thankful the ordeal was finally over. Yannis was finding it impossible to leave; Flora was holding his hand so tightly he could not release himself. Manolis came to his aid, prising the girl’s fingers up, releasing Yannis and taking his place. Yannis rose, staggered to the side of the path, pushed his way through the silent watchers and was violently sick. He leant his head against the building, clutching his stomach and sweating.

Doctor Stavros picked up his jacket from the ground and looked at it ruefully. It was completely ruined, creased and covered in blood. He looked at his shirt and trousers. They were in the same state and would have to be thrown away; no amount of sponging would get the stains out. The throng of watchers still stood silently.

‘Say something,’ Father Minos hissed in his ear. ‘They’re uncertain of you.’

Doctor Stavros felt an insane desire to laugh rising up in him. They were uncertain of him! He took a deep breath to quell his hysteria. What could he say? What did they want from him? ‘My friends,’ his voice sounded weak and shaky. ‘I have done my best.’

The crowd murmured sympathetically, then Christos’s voice could be heard.

‘Cut her up like a piece of meat on a butcher’s slab.’

Doctor Stavros went white. ‘I did what I had to do.’

‘Poor little devil! I heard her scream. A butcher, that’s what you are.’

Helplessly Doctor Stavros stood as people moved away from him and Christos, leaving them facing each other. Doctor Stavros dropped his eyes. He did not have the energy left for a confrontation.

‘You don’t deny it, then, butcher?’ Christos limped forward.

‘I did my best with what I had,’ the doctor defended himself.

‘Did your best,’ sneered Christos. ‘You cut off her arm whilst she was conscious and say that’s your best! Why didn’t you go back and get more morphine? Why didn’t you take her back to the hospital with you, where she could have been treated properly?’

Doctor Stavros ran a trembling hand across his forehead. He lifted his head and looked at the menacing figure before him. ‘I couldn’t get any more morphine, that was all the hospital could spare.’

‘Why didn’t you take her back for proper treatment?’

‘They would not have admitted her. Please, I’m very tired.’

‘How would you like your arm cut off?’

‘There’s no need.’ The doctor wished he had put away his knife and saw. He would be helpless in their hands. The grin on Christos’s face and that of his cronies was most unpleasant. The doctor took a step backwards and felt a hand on his arm. He wheeled round to find himself looking at Spiro.

‘Leave him to me.’

Doctor Stavros watched in horror as he saw Spiro advance, the knife that had been used earlier to sever the girl’s arm in his hand. He waved it in Christos’s face.

‘Go home. Go home, or I’ll cut your arm off and when I’ve done that I’ll cut off your leg. You won’t get any morphine, not a drop. By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll be pleading with me to cut your throat!’

Christos held up his hand. ‘Hold on, now. I didn’t mean it.’

‘Then apologise.’

Christos looked round for his friends, they had moved further back as Spiro approached. Spiro ran his deformed thumb along the blade.

‘Apologise.’

By way of an answer Christos spat at Spiro’s feet, turned and began to hobble away. In a flash Spiro had darted forward and kicked the crutch away from under Christos’s arm, sending him sprawling. A string of obscenities came from his mouth as he struggled to rise and a ripple of amusement went through the watching people, removing the tension from the scene. Spiro walked back to Doctor Stavros and handed him the knife.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll see to Flora now, then you’d better tell me what I have to do for her each day until you can come back.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Doctor Stavros was visibly unnerved by the recent scene. He looked down at his hands, still stained with blood. ‘I’d like to wash.’

‘Come with me.’

Yannis joined them. He had hurried down to the port as Christos had limped away and rinsed his hands and face in the sea. He removed his shirt, still covered in blood, and threw it to one side, sitting down beside the doctor.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ he apologised. ‘I should have warned you that I haven’t a very strong stomach.’

Doctor Stavros looked at him puzzled and Yannis went on to explain. ‘I was sick.’

‘There’s no shame in that. I was sick the first time I saw an operation.’

‘Really? I didn’t think it affected doctors that way.’

‘It’s far worse to watch. When you’re doing it you’re concentrating and haven’t time to think what it looks like. I doubt if I could have held her whilst you operated.’

‘Will she recover?’

‘I can’t say. She won’t die from gangrene, but she could easily die from shock. She was very brave.’

‘She was conscious once the morphine ran out. She must have suffered agonies.’

‘What were you talking to her about?’

Yannis frowned. ‘I’ve no idea. I was just talking. I was probably trying to calm myself as much as her.’

‘I have to apologise also.’

The doctor looked at Father Minos. ‘Whatever for?’

‘I couldn’t keep them. As soon as she screamed they left me.’

‘Human nature,’ smiled Doctor Stavros.

‘What are we going to do about Manolis?’ Father Minos looked first at the doctor, then at Yannis.

‘Who’s Manolis?’ asked Yannis, pursing his lips and looking up at the sky.

‘Oh, you mean the boatman who went off fishing.’ Doctor Stavros spoke very deliberately.

Father Minos sighed with relief. ‘I’m so glad he spent his time profitably.’

‘What would happen if the authorities knew?’ asked Yannis.

‘I’ve no idea. I shall send them a full report, telling them how Manolis came for me and then waited until I was ready to return.’ Doctor Stavros rose. ‘I’ll look at my patient; then I’d like to return to the mainland. I do have other patients over there that I need to visit.’

Yannis rose with him. ‘We do appreciate you coming so quickly – and what you did.’

Doctor Stavros smiled. ‘That’s what I’m for. Just don’t make too much of a habit of it. Save your problems for a Thursday, please.’

On his subsequent visits to the island Flora was his main concern. For ten days she had lain in a state of shock from which she appeared unlikely to recover, then she had murmured her first words to Phaedra, who had hardly left her side.

‘My arm hurts.’

‘It will a little, just at first.’

Phaedra was not sure if Flora had understood as she closed her eyes and appeared to be asleep. The next time she woke it was to complain of the pain in her fingers and Phaedra was seriously worried. The girl had no fingers to give her pain. When Doctor Stavros arrived that week he removed the dressing gently. The skin, pink and puckered, appeared healthy. He spoke to Flora gently.

‘Can you hear me, Flora? Are you awake?’

Her eyelids fluttered open. ‘It hurts,’ she whispered.

‘It will hurt, my dear, for another week at least, but the hurt will get less and the pain will go away as you get well.’

‘What did you do? It hurt so much?’

‘Your arm was badly infected. I had to remove the infection.’

Flora appeared to accept the explanation and closed her eyes again whilst her stump was re-bandaged. Doctor Stavros left the house with a feeling of accomplishment. The amputation had been successful and all the signs were that the girl would make a complete recovery from her ordeal.

Despite the fact that he had been successful in his treatment of Flora, two other women died, the disease creeping into their lungs until they could no longer breathe. Doctor Stavros could not get the incidents out of his mind. He had witnessed both deaths and their subsequent disposal and for him it had been a horror that far surpassed anything else he had seen so far on the island. He wished he could talk to Father Minos, but the priest had returned to Heraklion, not mentioning again his desire to live on the island.

Flora continued to progress slowly and she had become something of a celebrity. Manolis sneaked onto the island to visit her whenever he could, ignoring her missing arm and assuring her she looked healthier than she had before. He brought her little presents, a scarf, handkerchief, a comb for her hair or a bunch of wild flowers. She thanked him for each one, delighting in his attentions, but the flowers enraptured her.

‘They’re beautiful,’ she exclaimed, burying her nose deep into the posy. ‘I hadn’t realised how much I miss flowers.’

‘Why don’t you grow some?’ suggested Manolis.

‘Where would you grow flowers? There’s nowhere on this rock that you could plant a seed and expect it to grow.’

‘I’ll bring you some every week,’ Manolis promised. An idea had taken hold of his mind. He knew the other fishermen would laugh when they saw, but he would ignore that if he could bring pleasure to the crippled girl.

The sacks of sand and cement were no longer being sent over. Yannis had called a halt as the winter was approaching, not wishing to risk damaging his precious building materials, instead he had sent a message to Andreas to ask if more mattresses and blankets could be sent out. He inspected the houses thoroughly and declared himself satisfied that they should be watertight during the worst of the rain.

He consulted Spiro and Panicos about an idea that had come to him one night when he had been unable to sleep. He sat between the two men and spoke softly; he wanted no eavesdroppers.

‘Suppose we asked each house to take an extra person for the winter? They’d have to be fit enough to help repair a house we haven’t touched yet, and it would ease the congestion in the church.’

Panicos considered. ‘Some of them could probably take two.’

‘I don’t want to push too hard. If they offered that would be different. It’s the very sick no one really wants to be responsible for, not that I blame them. I wouldn’t want some of them with me for very long. What do you think, Spiro?’

‘I think we should forget building houses for a while.’

Yannis turned to him in amazement. ‘Are you ill? I thought you’d become as enthusiastic as I am.’

Spiro grinned at him. ‘It’s hard not to be, but I think we ought to repair the hospital.’

‘And who would look after the patients?’

‘I would. Some of the others would probably help.’

‘You’re serious, aren’t you, Spiro?’

‘We’d be able to use the footings and a good deal of the masonry. If we could manage to get somewhere habitable to put all the chronically sick before the winter sets in it would give us a few more places in the houses. No one wants to be cooped up with someone who can’t control their bowels, but they’ll make room for someone who can look after themselves.’

Yannis viewed the sprawling ruins. ‘If we did rebuild how many do you think we could house?’

Spiro squinted; the sunlight was beginning to hurt his eyes. ‘At least twenty, maybe thirty.’

‘And how many chronic sick do we have? At least sixty! It seems a bit pointless.’

‘No building will ever be pointless here! If we could get thirty in it would mean that the church was available for the rest and the conditions would be a lot better.’

Panicos had sat silently during the discussion. ‘Do I count as chronically sick?’ he asked.

‘Of course not,’ Yannis assured him.

‘How ill do you have to be to be classed as “chronic” by you?’

‘Someone who cannot move from their bed to perform nature’s necessities, someone who has become blind and cannot manage to look after themselves, or someone who’s mind has gone making them incapable.’ Spiro ticked them off on his deformed hands before Yannis could answer.

‘Then I think you should try to do it before the winter. If you tell people that the church occupants are going to be placed in their houses unless they help to build a hospital for them you’ll have more volunteers than you can use.’