No Mark Upon Her

water onto the burning shed. But from there he refused to budge. He sank to the ground, his arm round Finn, blood and tears streaming down his face as he watched the flames turn to black smoke.
    Tavie looked a question at Ian.
    “We’re far enough, I think,” he said. Lights were appearing on the river as other residents arrived in boats and some ferried part of the brigade crew across. “They’ll have it damped down soon.”
    John and his wife, a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman, had come back to their own lawn. “Can we help? Is it safe enough, now?” the woman asked Tavie. “I’m Janet, by the way.” Then she turned to Kieran. “Kieran, I’m so sorry. Anything we can do . . .”
    Kieran made a sound that might have been a whimper.
    “How about a towel and some water?” Tavie said briskly. “And John, can you direct the boats?” They both went quickly to their tasks.
    “Now.” Tavie turned to Kieran. “I’m going to have a look at your head.”
    “Leave it,” Kieran mumbled, but the protest was weak. His gaze was fixed on the fire.
    Tavie opened her bag and started pulling out supplies, taking the opportunity to say quietly to Ian, “Radio the captain. Tell him what Kieran said about the petrol bomb. They’ll need to keep onlookers away from the scene and notify the police as soon as possible.”
    When Janet returned with towels and a bowl filled with water, Tavie thanked her and waved her away. Kieran jerked when she began to dab at his face.
    “Hold still, damn it.” She shone her torch on the damage, but as she wiped the blood away, she breathed a sigh of relief. The gash ran from his forehead into his scalp, messy, but shallow. The bleeding had already slowed to a seep.
    “You need stitches. We’ll get you to A & E in no time.”
    Kieran started to shake his head and winced. “Just close it up, Tavie. It’s nothing. And I’m not concussed.”
    “Oh, yeah? We’ll see about that.” Using her small torch, she looked at his pupils and found them normal and reactive, a good sign. But when she saw his eyes move with little repetitive jerks, she sat back, concerned. “Kieran, you’ve got nystagmus. Have you been drinking?” She hadn’t smelled alcohol on his breath, but checking for involuntary movement of the pupils was a common sobriety test for both medics and law enforcement.
    “No. It’s vertigo,” he said reluctantly. “Chronic. There was a bomb, in Iraq . . .”
    “Oh, bloody hell, Kieran.” She hadn’t known that his injury had given him vertigo. That explained the eye movement and his sporadic “bad days.” “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
    He glanced at her, then back at the diminishing blaze. “Would you have let me on the team if I had?”
    She didn’t want to admit he was right. “And what were you going to do if you fell flat on your face in the field?”
    “Tell you I tripped.” He gave a ghost of a smile. “And it’s not always this bad.” A note of pleading entered his voice. “Really. It’s just the storm, and the last few days, and—and the bang on the head . . .”
    “You’re definitely going to hospital.”
    “No. Tavie, please.” He put his hand on her arm, and it occurred to her that he seldom touched her voluntarily. “I’ll stay here. John can lend me a sleeping bag. I don’t want to leave the shed.”
    “Don’t be daft.”
    “I’ll sleep in the Land Rover, then, by the museum. I’ve done it often enough.”
    “Kieran—”
    “I’m conscious. You can’t force me.”
    Nor could she. And when she thought of what associations hospitals must have for him, after Iraq, she put her mind to coming up with another solution.
    “Come to me, then,” she said. “You and Finn. I can put you up until you’re sorted. And keep an eye on you.”
    A uniformed police officer—a sergeant by his stripes—appeared out of the darkness. “This the owner of the shed?” he asked, peering at Kieran. When Kieran nodded, the sergeant went on. “What’s all this about a petrol bomb? Neighbor said you repair boats in there. Sure you didn’t get careless and set some solvent alight, mate?”
    All Tavie’s fear and adrenaline suddenly condensed into a wave of fury, cold and bright. She stood up, her face inches from the sergeant’s, and jabbed her finger at his chest. “Don’t you dare take that tone with my patient. Detective Inspector Singla’s already been informed about this attack. For your information, this man was on