Page 27 of The Savage

They don’t leave but they turn away, faces blank to the wall, as I lift my nightie above my head, fold it neatly and place it on the bed. Then I dress, supremely conscious that my underthings weren’t packed.

The white habit’s wool scrapes my naked skin; the veil clings, carrying the faint scent of candle smoke, incense and lavender from the convent. It feels wrong, sacredness dropped into chaos. I knot the rosary at my waist with hands that won’t stop shaking.

When I’m done, I draw myself up, spine straight despite the trembling. ‘Now will you tell me what’s happening?’

The younger one exchanges a glance with her companion. Then, almost grudgingly, she mutters, ‘Stop asking questions. You were brought here to serve the purpose you were chosen for.’

‘Chosen… for what? To tend a patient?’

The younger one strides to the door and holds it pointedly open. ‘Something like that.’

I swallow as trepidation rams down my spine, threatening to weaken it. This is far from the norm of things and we all know it. ‘Who is it?’

The older one gestures again. ‘You’ve already met him, Signorina. Now let’s go.’

* * *

You’ve already met him.

I try not to think of how ominously the words pound through my veins as they lead me through a warren of hallways.

Everything gleams, the floors polished to a mirror shine, walls lined with abstract art that seems more about money than beauty.

Staff pass occasionally, men and women in pale-blue coats, but no one makes eye contact. Doors slide open at our approach then seal again behind us.

The air hums faintly, heavy with electricity and secrecy.

I count at least three layers of security between the helipad and wherever they’re taking me. And the farther we travel the tighter unease knots in my stomach.

Finally, we stop at a heavy door set apart from the rest. There’s no sign or number or a lock. Just a sleek electronic panel that one of the soldier’s inputs with several numbers before unlocking.

The taller woman turns to me. ‘Inside. Do not touch anything.’

Her tone makes it sound like touching something could kill me.

The door slides open.

I step through, and I freeze.

The room is dimmer than the rest of the building, lit by the soft blue glow of monitors. There’s a wider than normal hospital bed in the centre, its occupant half-buried under sheets and wires. Machines whisper and beep in slow rhythm. A faint scent of antiseptic mixes with something else – sweat, metal, the edgy pulse of life itself.

The soldiers remain at the door, silent sentinels staring at the wall opposite.

I look from them to the still form and back again before I take a hesitant step forward.

It’s him.

The man from the convent. He looks different lying down instead of towering over me, yet still imposing enough to bend the air itself around him… to command a room even in sleep.

In all of my visits to the hospitals with the nuns, every patient has been old and female.

The man in the bed looks young, younger than I expected. Maybe late twenties. His skin holds the pallor of someone who’s lost too much blood, yet his features are impossibly striking – sharp cheekbones, thick, sooty lashes dark against bruised eyes, a mouth that looks made for defiance.

There’s a bandage over his shoulder, the edge of a tattoo peeking from beneath it. More tattoos are etched into the skin not covered in bandages.

Something in my chest stirs. Deep empathy for his clear suffering? Yes. But there’s something else. A kind of mild disconcerting, suspenseful sensation I don’t recognise.

I stop closer against my will and my rosary rattles, my shaking intensifying.