Page 140 of The Words Beneath the Noise

I turned my head carefully, testing the limits of the concussion Dr Hart had diagnosed. Ruth was in the bed beside mine, a bandage wrapped round her head and her dark eyes tracking me as I moved.

“You look terrible,” she said, voice hoarse but steady.

“You look worse,” I managed, though it came out slurred. My mouth tasted like dust and blood.

“Liar.” Ruth's mouth quirked. “How's the arm?”

I glanced down at the splint immobilising my left arm from elbow to wrist. “Broken. Hurts like hell.”

“Good. You deserve it for being stubborn.”

I couldn't argue with that. Across the ward, curled in a chair with a blanket tucked round her shoulders, Noor slept with her head tilted at an angle that would leave her neck screaming when she woke. Her uniform was torn at the shoulder, dried blood crusted along one sleeve, but she was breathing steady and whole.

We'd survived. All three of us had survived.

The relief should have been overwhelming, should have drowned out everything else. Instead, guilt sank its claws in deep, dragging me under. I'd stayed when I should have run. I'd made Tom come looking for me, put him in danger, forced him to choose between duty and the terrified need to find me alive. I'd been selfish and reckless and so bloody convinced that my patterns mattered more than my own safety.

What if I'd been wrong? What if the codes hadn't made a difference and all I'd done was nearly get myself killed for nothing?

“Stop it,” Ruth said sharply.

I blinked at her. “Stop what?”

“Whatever spiral you're spinning in that ridiculous brain of yours.” She shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at something. “I can see it on your face. You're cataloguing every way you failed.”

“I didn't fail.” My voice came out defensive, too quick. “The codes worked. They had to have worked.”

“They did work.” Ruth's gaze was steady, unflinching. “Preliminary reports came in an hour ago. Half the raid wasdiverted to decoy targets based on the intelligence you decoded. Casualties are far lower than projected.”

The words should have been a comfort. They felt like stones in my chest.

“But people still died,” I said quietly. “I can see it in your face. Tell me how many.”

Ruth's jaw tightened. “Seven confirmed dead. Nineteen injured. It could have been ten times that, Arthur. You saved lives.”

Seven dead. Seven names I wouldn't know, seven families who'd get telegrams, seven bodies that would be buried while the war ground on without them. My patterns had mattered, but they hadn't been enough. They were never enough.

“You can't think like that.” Ruth's voice softened just a fraction. “You'll drive yourself mad.”

“Too late,” I muttered, then regretted it when she looked at me with the kind of understanding I didn't want. Ruth knew about guilt. She carried her own, heavy and silent, the weight of a family she might never see again.

The infirmary door opened. I turned my head too fast, pain lancing through my skull, but I couldn't help it. Some desperate part of me needed to see who was coming through, needed it to be Tom even though I had no right to expect him after what I'd put him through.

It wasn't Tom. Dr Hart swept in with a clipboard and a no-nonsense expression, followed by a young nurse carrying a tray of supplies. Dr Hart's eyes swept the ward, cataloguing injuries with professional detachment, before landing on me.

“Mr Pembroke. You're awake.” She approached my bedside, set the clipboard down, and immediately reached for my wrist to check my pulse. “How's the head?”

“Hurts.”

“Specifics, please. Sharp pain? Dull ache? Any nausea, vision problems, difficulty concentrating?”

I wanted to lie, to say I was fine and could go back to work immediately. But Dr Hart had the kind of gaze that saw through evasion like glass, and besides, my body was doing its own betraying. “Dull ache. Some nausea. Everything's a bit blurry round the edges.”

“Concussion, as expected.” She released my wrist, made notes on her clipboard. “You're to remain in bed for at least forty-eight hours. No reading, no codebreaking, no strenuous mental activity.”

“But—”

“No arguments, Mr Pembroke. Your brain has been rattled inside your skull like dice in a cup. If you push it too hard too fast, you risk serious complications.” She fixed me with a look that brooked no disagreement. “You're no good to anyone dead or permanently damaged.”