Chapter Text
"I fear the Inspector's going to be 'out for the count', so to speak, for some time, Sergeant Bordey. He's had a nasty bump on the head, causing probable concussion. Fortunately, the CT scan was favourable, so no likely permanent brain damage, but there's no telling quite how long it will take him to wake up. When he does eventually 'surface', he may or may not be very lucid.
"I'm sorry not to be able to give you more positive news, but unfortunately we can't really predict what will happen yet. The Inspector may be comatose for a relatively short time, and when he does eventually wake up, he may have not only an aching head, but issues with disorientation and recollection.
"We'll keep you posted, but for now it might be best if you went home yourself and tried to get some rest. There's nothing more you can do for the Inspector here, I'm afraid."
Camille walked slowly and sadly into the Honore Police Station the following morning. Explaining to her colleagues, Dwayne and Fidel, how she had called round to his little beach house the evening before (at which the lads exchanged knowing glances) as he had not been answering her calls or text messages, and found him out cold on the floor of his 'living room'. Unable to wake him, she phoned for an ambulance which rushed him to the hospital, while she followed in the Defender.
"So how's he doing, then?" asked Fidel. "Is he any better this morning?"
Camille shook her head sadly. "Apparently, he still hasn't woken up yet and the doctor says he might be concussed; either way, when he does eventually regain consciousness, he might be a bit confused. At least his CT scan was okay - he's not bleeding internally in his head, so he's not at death's door..."
Dwayne made the same unusual gesture with his neck, head and eyes that he had done after her friend Aimee's death, and Fidel squeezed her upper arm. Clearly, there was an unspoken code for 'solidarity' gestures in this part of the world.
They then heard footsteps coming up the steps to the station and realised that Commissioner Patterson had arrived. Standing to attention in their customary fashion, complete with the Officer Myers salute, they proceeded to pass on the information regarding Richard's progress to the Commissioner.
"I'm sure you are all very concerned for the Inspector, but hopefully he will make a full recovery quite soon. I gather it is a very good sign that he does not seem to have sustained any significant brain damage or cranial haemorrhaging.
"Camille, if you would like to take the rest of the day off to go and visit Inspector Poole in hospital again, I'm sure the rest of us can hold the fort." The boys nodded their assent in unison. "If anything comes up for which you are needed here, we can always contact you."
Camille fought back tears as she smiled weakly and said, "Thank you, Sir; I appreciate that. I'd like to go to the hospital shortly if that's alright."
"Yes, yes, Sergeant, I'm sure that will be fine. And please, give him my best regards if you are able to speak with him."
Camille raced the Defender to the hospital somewhat faster than she really should have, but she could barely contain her anxiety. What on earth had Richard done to cause him to fall over in the first place, let alone hit his head so badly that he knocked himself out? He was a lot of things - fussy, pedantic, uptight and reserved at times - but he hadn't struck her as particularly clumsy. True, he didn't seem the most nimble person she could remember, but neither did he seem seriously physically inept.
All sorts of alarming and upsetting possible scenarios went through her head. Maybe he has some mystery illness that is as yet undetectable by the scanners, but which is making him dizzy and unbalanced? Maybe he has an infection or blood disease that has been weakening his defences and...?
Oh stop it! This is crazy - you'll torture yourself to death with fear and speculation at this rate, and that won't help anyone, least of all Richard.
She was able to find a parking space with surprising ease and dashed up to the relevant floor, where she flashed her police credentials and was shown to the door of his private room. Well, at least the Met look after their own, she mused.
The senior nursing sister who stood with her outside the door - peering through the glass panel - spoke kindly.
"He's still asleep, Sergeant Bordey, but the doctors think he may wake up fairly soon. His monitor shows he's been displaying signs of restlessness, so he doesn't seem to be in a deep state of unconsciousness like we might see in a medium to long term coma."
Camille's eyes widened with horror. Medium to long term coma?? What the... ?!
"But I thought he just tripped and fell over, or something like that!" she exclaimed, unable to conceal the alarm in her voice.
"Did you see it happen??" asked the nurse with considerable interest. A witness might be able to shed some light on the incident.
"Oh no, I just meant that that was what we all assumed. He was lying on the floor of his house when I arrived... " Camille's voice began to crack.
"I see. Well, why don't you take a seat in the waiting area, and I'll go and see if the doctor can come and talk to you soon? If he gives his approval, he may even let you sit in the room with Inspector Poole; I'm afraid it's not up to me," she explained.
Sister Derby led Camille to the waiting area, pointing out the vending machine where she could get tea and/or coffee, and a small snack, if desired. Alternatively, there was also a cafeteria for visitors on the next floor up, for anyone wanting something more substantial.
Sitting with her coffee in her hands (no snack; worry over Richard had ruined her appetite), she shot up the moment she spotted the man she assumed to be Richard's doctor approaching her.
"Good morning, Detective Bordey," he greeted her. "I'm Dr Lee, and I'll be looking after Inspector Poole from now on."
"Thank you, doctor," she said quickly, adding, "how is he?"
"Well, all the signs are good, he just seems to have knocked himself out. But the scan was normal and apart from a bump which you would expect, he doesn't appear to have any severe injuries to his head. Do you happen to know if he's ever suffered from seizures or fits of any kind? - not that he has had one here, please don't be alarmed. We're just having to ask anyone who knows him well. I gather he doesn't have any family close by?"
"No, they're all back home in England." It occurred to Camille that while she had said 'all', she had, in fact, been under the distinct impression that Richard actually came from a small family.
"I see. Well, not to worry at this stage. It's very early days, but there's no reason to believe he won't make a satisfactory recovery. He was a bit restless earlier this morning, which we felt was actually a good sign, so we are now cautiously optimistic that he will probably waken a bit sooner than we first suspected."
"Is it possible to go in and see him?" ventured Camille.
"Yes, I don't see why not. You could even try talking quietly to him, nothing too taxing, of course," agreed Dr Lee.
Camille breathed a small sigh of relief. At least she could go in and be near him. "Thank you, doctor," she said in a voice barely louder than a whisper.
Creeping quietly into Richard's hospital room accompanied by the doctor, Camille was encouraged to sit by the patient's bed and speak to him in gentle, dulcet tones. Then, leaving her alone with Richard, the doctor proceeded to say that should she have any concerns, the nurses' station was just at the end of the corridor, and someone would be within easy reach. In an emergency, there was also a button she could press, too.
Moving the armchair close to his bed, she observed that he was hooked up to a number of pieces of equipment, with plastic tubes seemingly just about everywhere. The monitor by the bed displayed various wavy lines that she didn't really understand, but she was encouraged by the doctors' cautious optimism and the appearance of Richard himself.
She wasn't sure quite what she had been expecting to see, but she was pleasantly surprised to discover that, to all intents and purposes, tubes and medical machinery notwithstanding, Richard looked surprisingly normal. As far as she could tell, he didn't look ill or bruised and battered - certainly nothing like some of the poor victims of violent crime that she'd been unfortunate enough to see in her career. Apart from a slight pallor (well, the man was a pasty Englishman in a tropical climate, who wore Sun Protection Factor 50, after all), Richard really just looked like he was asleep. Which, of course, he was, and that was the problem, because he wouldn't wake up.
Camille wondered idly if her mother's chicken soup waved under his nostrils might cause him to waken with a shudder and send him hurtling into the streets, begging for mercy. No, that wasn't very funny, not at a time like this, and not respectful to her poor dear maman either, who only meant well.
She listened to the rhythmic breathing, and watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he lay there still fast asleep and looking so vulnerable. She began to let her mind drift, pondering their growing relationship as colleagues and friends, and she felt her eyes sting with tears. She'd never really thought about it before, but what if Richard didn't get completely better? The medical staff seemed to agree that he was unlikely to actually die, but what if the fall or bump had done something to him, and he was never quite the same again?
What if I can't ever work with him again? What if he has to be sent back to England because he's no longer fit to carry on here?
The thought filled her with dread, and she prayed that he would recover. Remembering that she had been given permission to talk to him, she started to gently and quietly say a few words.
"Hello, Richard. How are you feeling? That was quite a little stunt you pulled last night, by all accounts. Trust you to arrange to have a lie-in in dramatic style. The lads are fine, and the Commissioner sends his best wishes, as well. We all hope you'll be back at work very soon, because we miss you and... "
Did she dare to whisper a secret little confession that had been taking shape in her heart in recent weeks and was crystallising now, in the face of potential heartbreak?
"And I miss you, Richard... please get better soon... I miss you so much... I... I love you..." There, the words were out, albeit in a tiny whisper. Ever so gently stroking his hand with her fingertip, she said his name again:
"Richard Poole. I love you, you crazy, impossible Englishman. Come back to me... and to your lizard. Who do you think is going to - "
Just then she heard his breathing change and a little sigh escaped the back of his throat. Watching rapt as his eyelids fluttered, she witnessed him eventually open his eyes and stare up at her. She pressed the button to summon the nurse and/or doctor, and her heart did a little flip as he smiled up at her.
"Hello Richard! How are you?!" She was beaming at him.
He looked puzzled, his smile slowly disappearing into a frown of bewilderment.
"Oh... what are you doing here?" he asked her. And where the hell is 'here'??
She was about to respond when the nurse and a junior doctor came hurrying into the room at that instant, and Camille called out to them excitedly, "He's awake! He just woke up a moment ago!"
"Hellooo there, Inspector Poole!" enthused Senior Nursing Sister, Carol Derby. "And how are we feeling today? I hear you were trying to skate around your living room yesterday, hehe," she chuckled, in an attempt to humour her patient and put him at ease.
"Oh! Uh... I'm okay... I guess," said Richard slowly. Then, looking first at Camille and then at Sister Derby, he asked the latter, "But... what is my cleaner doing here?"