LITMIR.BIZ

       3

      And two months later in another hospital, Our Lady of Mercy in New York, on the other side of the Atlantic as darkness fell, young Tony Jackson clocked in for night duty. He was a tall, handsome man of twenty-three who had qualified as a doctor at Harvard Medical School the year before. Our Lady of Mercy, a charity hospital mainly staffed by nuns, was not many young doctors’ idea of the ideal place to be an intern.

      But Tony Jackson was an idealist. He wanted to practise real medicine and he could certainly do that at Our Lady of Mercy, who could not believe their luck at getting their hands on such a brilliant young man. He loved the nuns, found the vast range of patients fascinating. The money was poor, but in his case money was no object. His father, a successful Manhattan attorney, had died far too early from cancer, but he had left them well provided for. In any case, his mother, Rosa, was from the Little Italy district of New York with a doting father big in the construction business.

      Tony liked the night shift, that atmosphere peculiar to hospitals all over the world, and it gave him the opportunity to be in charge. For the first part of the evening he worked on the casualty shift, dealing with a variety of patients, stitching slashed faces, handling as best he could junkies who were coming apart because they couldn’t afford a fix. It was all pretty demanding, but slackened off after midnight.

      He was alone in the small canteen having coffee and a sandwich when the door opened and a young priest looked in. ‘I’m Father O’Brien from St Mark’s. I had a call to come and see a Mr Tanner, a Scottish gentleman. I understand he needs the last rites.’

      ‘Sorry, Father, I only came on tonight, I wouldn’t know. Let me look at the schedule.’ He checked it briefly then nodded. ‘Jack Tanner, that must be him. Admitted this afternoon. Age seventy-five, British citizen. Collapsed at his daughter’s house in Queens. He’s in a private room on level three, number eight.’

      ‘Thank you,’ the priest said and disappeared.

      Jackson finished his coffee and idly glanced through the New York Times. There wasn’t much news, an IRA bomb in London in the city’s financial centre, an item about Hong Kong, the British colony in China which was to revert to Chinese control on 1 July 1997. It seemed that the British governor of the colony was introducing a thoroughly democratic voting system while he had the chance and the Chinese government in Peking were annoyed, which didn’t look good for Hong Kong when the change took place.

      He threw the paper down, bored and restless, got up and went outside. The elevator doors opened and Father O’Brien emerged. ‘Ah, there you are, Doctor. I’ve done what I could for the poor man, but he’s not long for this world. He’s from the Highlands of Scotland, would you believe? His daughter is married to an American.’

      ‘That’s interesting,’ said Jackson. ‘I always imagined the Scots as Protestant.’

      ‘My dear lad, not in the Highlands,’ Father O’Brien told him. ‘The Catholic tradition is very strong.’ He smiled. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way. Good night to you.’

      Jackson watched him go then got in the elevator and rose to the third level. As he emerged, he saw Sister Agnes, the night duty nurse, come out of room eight and go to her desk.

      Jackson said, ‘I’ve just seen Father O’Brien. He tells me this Mr Tanner doesn’t look good.’

      ‘There’s his chart, Doctor. Chronic bronchitis and severe emphysema.’

      Jackson examined the notes. ‘Lung capacity only twelve per cent and the blood pressure is unbelievable.’

      ‘I just checked his heart, Doctor. Very irregular.’

      ‘Let’s take a look at him.’

      Jack Tanner’s face was drawn and wasted, the sparse hair snow white. His eyes were closed as he breathed in short gasps, a rattling sound in his throat at intervals.

      ‘Oxygen?’ Jackson asked.

      ‘Administered an hour ago. I gave it to him myself.’

      ‘Aye, but she wouldn’t give me a cigarette.’ Jack Tanner opened his eyes. ‘Is that no the terrible thing, Doctor?’

      ‘Now, Mr Tanner,’ Sister Agnes reproved him gently. ‘You know that’s not allowed.’

      Jackson leaned over to check the tube connections and noticed the scar on the right side of the chest. ‘Would that have been a bullet wound?’ he asked.

      ‘Aye, it was so. Shot in the lung while I was serving in the Highland Light Infantry. That was before Dunkirk in nineteen forty. I’d have died if the Laird hadn’t got me out, and him wounded so bad he lost an eye.’

      ‘The Laird, you say?’ Jackson was suddenly interested, but Tanner started to cough so harshly that he almost had a convulsion. Jackson grabbed for the oxygen mask. ‘Breathe nice and slowly. That’s it.’ He removed it after a while and Tanner smiled weakly. ‘I’ll be back,’ Jackson told him and went out.

      ‘You said the daughter lives in Queens?’

      ‘That’s right, Doctor.’

      ‘Don’t let’s waste time. Send a cab for her now and put it on my account. I don’t think he’s got long. I’ll go back and sit with him.’

      Jackson pulled a chair forward. ‘Now, what were you saying about the Laird?’

      ‘That was Major Ian Campbell, Military Cross and Bar, the bravest man I ever knew. Laird of Loch Dhu Castle in the Western Highlands of Scotland, as his ancestors had been for centuries before him.’

      ‘Loch Dhu?’

      ‘That’s Gaelic. The black loch. To us who grew up there it was always the Place of Dark Waters.’

      ‘So you knew the Laird as a boy?’

      ‘We were boys

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