It wasn't like waiting in a London hospital. Here, the nights were so quiet you could hear the frogs discussing amphibian romances somewhere beyond the bedraggled willows outside the window, and every car that passed on the lane was an event. It wasn't that the nurses had nothing to do - there were other patients down in the ward - but in this private room Purdey was barely aware of the rhythms of the hospital unless one of them stepped in to take Gambit's temperature, or give him an injection.
It wasn't that the nurses were neglecting him, Purdey knew. If he weren't sequestered off here to keep some unauthorized person might hear him muttering secrets he'd probably have all the feminine attention he could hope for. But since someone from the Ministry had to keep an eye on him anyway, she'd volunteered for a good bit of the schedule. A chance to catch up on her crosswords between Gambit's intermittent forays into consciousness, she'd told Steed, and keep her head down for a while since Uncle Elly had gone and blabbed about the whole thing to her mum.
"Excuse me, miss." The voice from the bed was so hesitant that for a moment she thought she'd imagined it. But no, his head had turned on the pillow to face her. "Could I have a drink of water?"
"Of course," she said, getting out of the chair and coming over to stand by his bed. She poured some water into the glass from the pitcher and found a straw so that he could drink without shifting position while she held the glass. After a couple of sips he sighed and pushed the straw away, and she turned to put the glass onto the side table, expecting him to fall asleep again, the way he had done each of the other times he'd roused.
But when she turned back his eyes were open and he was still watching her, blinking now and then, but with no sign that he was going to fall back into dreaming.
"Do you know where you are?" she asked, wondering if this time he'd finally slept himself out.
"Hospital somewhere, I s'pose." He smiled a bit crookedly. "I got the cr... got the stuffing kicked out of me again, didn't I?"
"Something like that." She couldn't help but hope he'd remember himself now. But how to find out, without asking straight out and agitating him? "You wouldn't know what day it is..." she said to herself, trying to think of a different question.
"Sunday?" he guessed, and when she shook her head, got a panicked light in his eye. "Monday? But I was due back aboard by midnight. Has anyone told the captain where I am?"
"The captain?" she asked, holding him back far too easily against the pillows. Well, that didn't go very well.
"Captain Rogers. He'll think I've gone AWOL." She'd never heard Gambit sound quite so frantic - like a kid who was certain he'd landed in trouble. She'd never heard the Cockney quite so strong, either, unless he was exaggerating it for effect.
"I'm sure the nurses have notified anyone who needed to be notified," she temporised. "And I'll check myself, in a moment, but I wish I knew what you remember."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, it's actually Tuesday," she said. "Do you remember what day you got hurt? What date, I mean."
He had to think. "The fifth, I think."
"The fifth of..."
"April." He looked up at her with an uncertain smile, his eyebrows gathering worriedly. "It's not April, is it?"
She shook her head again and took up his hand, feeling sure now that something was desperately wrong, but hoping not to alarm him. Much. Memory gone or not, he was still quick on the uptake.
"Is it 1961, then?" he asked after a moment, biting his lower lip against her answer.
"No."
He closed his eyes, and if it hadn't been for the way he was hanging onto her hand she might have thought he hadn't heard her. At long last, in a very small voice, he asked. "Can I call my Gran?"
She bit her own lip, then. She didn't know much about Gambit's family, but she was afraid she knew the answer to that one. "I'm sorry... it's... she died, I think. Years ago."
His eyes flew open, bright with alarm. "Years ago? What year is it?"
There wasn't any way to cushion it. Not when he asked a direct question. "It's 1976."
"Seventy-six?" he repeated desperately, as if he were hoping she wouldn't confirm it. At her nod he started trembling. "But that's... that's impossible. Isn't it? I can't have lost fifteen years."
"You haven't lost them." She was quick to offer that reassurance. "Just misplaced them, temporarily."
"But if I've been in coma..."
"You haven't. Not for fifteen years. You've just forgotten. You ..." She hastily exchanged 'were shot' for something less frightening. "You have a head injury." She reached over to brush a fingertip along the swirl of bandages. "A little amnesia, that's all."
"I thought amnesia meant you couldn't remember who you are," he protested, tears coming easily to confused eyes. "I know who I am. I'm Mike Gambit. I am. I haven't forgotten."
"It will be okay," she said soothingly, doing the mental calculation. In 1961 Gambit couldn't have been more than eighteen. No wonder he was frightened! "I'm sure you'll remember the rest in time. You've only just woken up."
"I was in a coma then."
"You've only been unconscious for a few days," she tried to explain, but he'd pulled his hand out of hers and turned his face away on the pillow.
"Gran's dead," he said thickly, squeezing his eyes closed. "Please, miss... go away..."
"Mike..."
"Just for a little. Please."
The note in his voice made her feel like crying herself, although she knew that part of that feeling was from lack of sleep. But the waters were too deep. Maybe the doctor would know the right things to say.
Purdey fled.
Steed was just finishing up the summary report on the 19th Commando operation and considering ruefully how easily he'd slipped into the habit of fobbing off the paperwork onto Gambit or Purdey. Still, something had to go in the files, if only to justify an occasional review of the supply chains leading to the most self-sufficient military units. Miller had been pushing his luck, but if it hadn't been for the coincidence that brought Travis's films and General Stephens's disappearance to Purdey's attention at the same time, he might have managed to create a crisis of global significance.
Instead, he's only managed to create a crisis of personal significance. Although, to be fair, "crisis" was hardly the right word. Gambit was in no danger of dying, if Dr. Peterson were to be believed, and Steed had no real doubts on that score. But head injuries were always tricky. More than one field agent had been forced into retirement - or worse, a desk job - by the long term consequences of a blow to the head.
Purdey wouldn't like it, that was certain. She was fonder of Gambit than she'd ever admitted, except that once, when she'd thought she'd been facing his murderous doppelganger and not the man himself. Although in a way she'd admitted it again, hadn't she, by her insistence on staying at the hospital nearly the clock-round? Steed found his gaze wandering in the direction of the telephone. It wasn't that late. Perhaps he could give her a call, just to see whether there'd been any more progress.
As if the thought had been a summons, the telephone began to ring. He picked up the receiver, knowing without question that Purdey was on the other end of the line. "Yes?"
"Steed." She didn't sound happy. "Can you find out where Gambit was on April 5th of 1961?"
Steed scribbled the date on the corner of the report. "I can," he said. "Why do I want to?"
"Because he's finally awake and that's the day he thinks he got hurt. He's scared, and I don't think it's just the amnesia. He decided to go out the window the moment I left him alone."
"With that knee?" Steed exclaimed, looking at the neat stack of civilian clothes he hadn't got round to taking over yet. "And wearing what? A hospital johnnie?"
"Yes. He didn't get far. We caught him up in the car park, and managed to talk him into taking something for the pain." Purdey snorted. "You should have heard what he had to say when he realized he'd been sedated. What was the Merchant Navy teaching young lads fifteen years ago?"
"How to swear like sailors," Steed answered with absentminded flippancy. Of all the problems he'd envisioned, partial amnesia hadn't entered in to it, and he was trying to consider the ramifications. "He doesn't remember anything after 1961? Are you certain?"
"As certain as I can be without asking him. Right now he's pretty loopy, but he's still furious with me for tricking him." She hesitated a moment and then added. "I've never seen him lose his temper like that. He took a swing at me. Missed, of course, but still..."
"Are you all right?" Steed asked.
"I'm okay," she answered, a bit too quickly. "He was already getting unsteady on his feet. Unsteadier, I mean. All he actually managed was to fall down and wrench his knee again. Dr. Peterson says he doesn't know how Gambit managed to walk in the first place."
"I think I'd best come over there," Steed decided. Some situations benefited from personal inspection and this was definitely among them. Besides, he could chase Purdey home for a decent dinner and a night's sleep. It sounded to him like she needed both. "Just let me make a call to Files, first."
He found Purdey in the corridor outside of Gambit's room, deep in thought judging from the pencil she was tapping against her lower lip. The crossword lay untouched on her lap. But she pulled herself out of her reverie when she saw Steed.
"Well?" Steed asked, coming to stand by her chair.
"He's convinced we're trying to trick him, for some reason. Says we could have fixed up the newspaper and radio and television just to fool him and he won't be fooled, thank you." Purdey shrugged. "And when I showed him his own reflection in the mirror he decided that he was hallucinating because of the pain medications and declared that he wasn't going to listen any more. But Dr. Peterson's nearly as stubborn as he is." She grinned suddenly. "They're in there banging heads now."
"Other than the amnesia, how is he?" Steed asked.
"Not too bad, except for the knee, I think." She angled her head up to meet Steed's eyes. "Did you find out anything about 1961?"
"If I'm not mistaken, the fifth of April, 1961 was the third time Gambit nearly got himself killed." Steed said. "He was hit by a car - spent most of a month in hospital."
"The third time?" she asked.
"He was one of three survivors of an engine room fire in December of the previous year while his ship was in Singapore, and was mixed up in some kind of scuffle in Egypt in March that saw him bailed out of the local jail by the ship's doctor with a stab wound to one leg," Steed told her. "I think it might be well worth our time to hunt out the original ship's records, if they still exist."
"Then it's not a coincidence that he thinks he's eighteen. He's remembering being hurt before." Purdey collected her newspaper and got to her feet, studying the door to Gambit's room thoughtfully.
"Yes." Steed nodded. "I'm not entirely certain that he could have had such an exciting year by coincidence either. He might have a very good reason to think he's being tricked."
Purdey bit her lip. "This isn't going to be easy, is it?"
Steed smiled. "Oh," he said. "It might be easier than you think. I've got the perfect bribe." He waggled the paper bag in his hand and Purdey gave him a quizzical look. "Trousers." he explained and pushed open the door.
Gambit was sulking when Steed went into the room and wouldn't even look at the new arrival. Purdey, who in Steed's experience never stayed discombobulated for very long, hid her smile behind her newspaper and propped herself against the windowsill. Steed watched for a moment as the doctor tried to elicit some useful information from the injured man's monosyllables, but it was clear that Gambit was not only uncooperative, but belligerent. Not that Steed blamed him, really, since someone had taken the precaution of tying both wrists to the bedrails with strips of bandage.
He stepped forward and nodded to the doctor. "Good evening, Dr. Peterson, Gambit," he said cheerfully.
The grey-blue eyes flickered towards him for a moment before fixing stubbornly on one bound wrist. "Who the fuck are you?" Gambit growled.
Steed hadn't expected anything better, but he admonished Gambit cheerfully anyway, "Language. There are ladies present."
Gambit flushed and hunched his shoulders, but he didn't apologize or answer. Steed rattled the paper bag on the bed as a distraction. "I'm the man who's brought you something to wear," he said, taking the pile of clothing out and depositing it on the bed to prove what he was saying was true.
Gambit blinked at the offering, clearly confused. His mouth worked for a moment, but it wasn't until Steed added the shoes to the stack that he found his voice. "Those aren't mine," he said, less certain than he wanted to be.
"Does it matter, so long as they fit?" Steed asked.
Now Gambit actually looked at him and Steed smiled, not letting his own uncertainties show through. Gambit still had the black eye, of course, and the bandage around his head, but even with those distractions it was plain that something was very wrong. He waited while Gambit thought his statement through, wondering how much of the uncharacteristic slowness was due to the sedatives and how much to the head injury. But slow or not, Gambit still came to some kind of conclusion. "Guess not. Doesn't matter, anyway, with me stuck in this f.. flaming bed till someone cuts me loose."
"How long that is will depend on you," Steed said. "If you'll give me your word of honor that you won't try to run off again, I'll do what I can to persuade Dr. Peterson."
Gambit looked away and shook his head, his lower lip quivering for a moment before he set his mouth in a stubborn line.
"I already tried that one," Purdey contributed quietly from the windowsill. "No dice."
Steed raised an eyebrow, looking from her to Gambit. "Then there must be a good reason," he deduced. "What is it? A promise you've already made?"
Gambit hunched his shoulders. "Doesn't matter, you're in on it with them anyway."
"Indeed I am," Steed agreed, startling Gambit into looking up at him for the second time in five minutes. "But I'm afraid you've mistaken the point of the conspiracy. We're trying to keep you from doing yourself more damage, not fool you into believing something that isn't true."
"But it can't be 1976," Gambit protested. "It can't!"
"It can and is," Steed said relentlessly. "And I'll prove it to you, once the doctor's given you leave to take a trip to London. I'll take you to any street you like, providing it still exists, to any shop, and you can buy a newspaper. Now, I might have arranged to distort the television and radio here, and printed up a fake paper, but you must admit that no one could possibly replace every newspaper in the City with a fake."
Gambit swallowed hard and tears sprang to his eyes. "But how long before I get leave to go?" he asked, nearly whining. "I'll be stuck in here forever."
"You'll be able to take a short excursion tomorrow afternoon if you cooperate now," Dr. Peterson said. "You've got to learn to use the crutches first, of course, and I'd be happier if you were under medical observation for the next few nights, but if it will keep you from being so agitated I'm all in favor of Steed's suggestion."
"Crutches?" Gambit tugged at his bonds, but less like he was trying to get free than as if he wanted a hand to be able to wipe at his eyes.
"Crutches," Peterson repeated firmly. "You keep putting weight on that knee and you'll be using a cane for the rest of your life."
"I don't know what to do," Gambit admitted, his face crumpling. He tried to bury his face in his shoulder, to hide the tears, but the sobs came anyway. Steed touched Peterson on the shoulder and shooed him out, sending Purdey along as well with a brief inclination of his head. They didn't argue, although Purdey hesitated for a long moment in the door before leaving Steed alone to cope with Gambit.
Steed had seen how fear and pain and medication could combine to leave a man in shatters before, far too often, and he knew that Gambit wouldn't cry for very long, if only because he didn't have the strength. Once the worst of the storm had passed, Steed produced a handkerchief and used it, wondering what Gambit would have to say about being ordered to blow his nose like a small child once he was himself again - something pithy, no doubt. But the courtesy seemed to work, and Gambit emerged from the folds of linen watching Steed with something much closer to trust.
"I'll tell you what," Steed said. "Why don't you cooperate for twenty four hours - mind your manners and do as the doctor says - and if we haven't managed to convince you that we're telling the truth by then I'll drop you off in London, my word of honor as a gentleman."
"My ship's in Bournemouth," Gambit objected, hiccuping as he sagged back against the pillows. Even as clearly exhausted as he was, the core of stubbornness remained.
"Then I'll drop you at Waterloo Station," Steed said. "With train fare."
"Twenty four hours?" Gambit tugged at one wrist. "I wouldn't be able to tell. No watch."
Steed unbuckled his own watch and put it on one wrist below the bandages, which he tapped lightly once he'd done. "Come on now, a promise for twenty four hours. You shan't be able to sleep with your hands tied, unless the doctor drugs you much more heavily, and you don't want that, do you?"
"I don't even know your name." But the objection was softer now, as if the mention of sleep made Gambit all the wearier.
"It's Steed. John Steed." He considered throwing in something to eat as further incentive, although he thought that Gambit would fall asleep before ever he managed to consume it. But he'd already won the day.
"Okay," Gambit conceded, "I promise to be good. But only for twenty-four hours. After that..."
"After that you can do what you think is best."
Purdey let the door slip closed, certain that Steed had things well in hand. There was something infinitely reassuring about Steed - she'd felt better the minute he'd turned up, and obviously he knew exactly the right tack to take with Gambit, even when the man was in this wretched state. She smiled at Dr. Peterson, who was waiting nearby. "It's all right. Steed's got him to promise to cooperate. For the next day, anyway."
Peterson nodded acknowledgement. "Excellent. Gives me a chance to go through my library for everything I can find about amnesia. I'd like to get another EEG strip to send to London as well. Neuropathology isn't really my field."
She cocked her head at him. "Do you think there's permanent damage then?" she asked.
"Well, it's difficult to tell with the pain medication masking possible symptoms," Peterson said. "But, on the whole, I'd say that he's displaying fewer problems than a man with a deleterious brain injury." He gave her a brief, professional smile. "Try not to borrow trouble, if you can. If I'd thought he was in real danger I'd have had him shipped to a neurosurgery ward days ago. Most of what I've seen so far tonight is fairly typical of anyone coming out of a sustained period of unconsciousness."
"Even the swearing?"
Peterson's smile became a little more genuine. "Especially the swearing."
"Well, that's something anyway." Purdey pushed open the door a crack and peeked again, but Steed had moved around to the near side of the bed and she couldn't see Gambit's face now. "I wonder if he's hungry." Now that her own stomach was beginning to unknot she'd become aware of how empty it was.
"He might be. There should be some rice pudding in the ward refrigerator - would you mind fetching a bowl while I see if I can get some useful answers?"
"Rice pudding?" She pulled a face. "That ought to be popular." But she went to see if he were right, regardless.
Steed intercepted her as she returned with the offering. "Thank you, Purdey," he said, co-opting bowl and spoon.
"It's for Mike," she protested.
"And I'll see that he eats it - or at least some of it," Steed replied, taking her by the shoulders with his free arm and steering her towards the outside door. "You, on the other hand, are going to go and find yourself a proper meal and then get a decent night's rest."
"Steed..."
"No, I mean it," he said in the tone he rarely employed but was meant to be instantly obeyed. "Eat. Sleep." He suddenly grinned. "And be back here by noon tomorrow to help me charm Gambit out of the sullens."
She couldn't deny that she was hungry and tired, and it wouldn't do any good to try, but she wrinkled her nose at him anyway. "Like you need help with that from anyone," she snorted. "If you took up snake-charming you wouldn't even require a flute."
"Just as well, since I play the flute nearly as poorly as I play the violin." The automatic doors opened as they reached them and he bowed her out as if he were standing on his own doorstep.
But Purdey paused, a few feet away and looked back. "Steed," she said. "You will call me. If anything changes, I mean."
"Of course I will." She couldn't see much more than his silhouette, standing solid against the light from the corridor, but somehow that was enough. "Goodnight, Purdey," he said, fondly.
She took a deep breath, enjoying the sensation of letting the worries fall into Steed's capable hands. "Good night, Steed," she answered and turned to go to her car. Italian? she asked herself. Or curry? Or better yet, the first thing I find?!