I levered myself into a sitting position. The bright lights burnt into my sockets. My head was woozy and aching. Swung my feet to the floor. Gathered the blanket. Covered my near-naked body and stood.
Astonishing pain shot up my injured leg. My knee throbbed. Sharp pulses went through my whole body.
My head spun.
Held onto the edge of the trolley for support. The ground tipped, and the walls fell towards me.
I thought I might be sick. For a few moments, I stood there. Gasping.
Looking at my bare, filthy feet. My leg is caked in mud.
My hand clutching the trolley, streaked with grey.
Ripped a nail. Nothing there but blood.
The knuckles raw and bleeding.
"Where is it?" I said, when I could speak.
"Just along the corridor on the left. Shall I help you?"
"No, I can manage."
I clutched the blanket round me. Shuffled towards the gents'. Smee was standing by the desk. Talking to a doctor. Nodding with energy. Beyond her. Near the door. Two uniformed policemen.
I hobbled into the toilet. Locking the door behind me, I leaned against the wall. Shut my eyes. Breathed in the disinfected air. The world felt strange. Unreal. My day lay behind me as a trail of ruin.
I let the blanket slither to the floor. Lowered myself on to the lavatory. Once finished, I used my hands to pull myself upright. Moved across to the basin. I lifted my face and met my reflection in the square mirror.
Felt terror at the stranger staring back at me. It wasn't me. Bloodshot eyes. A bruise flowering across my muddy cheek. Swelling my nose. A smear of blood. From the corner of my mouth. My lips are puffy. I looked old.
I turned on the tap. When the water ran warm, I pulled a paper towel from the dispenser. Soaked it. With great care, wiped away mud and blood. Cupped my hands and splashed water over my face.
I bent over the sink. Twisted sideways. Water ran over my hair. Encrusted with sand and grit. I stood upright again. I looked better. Nothing more I could do. Squeezed water from my hair.
I wrapped myself again in my blanket. Eased open the door. No sign of my stern nurse. I stepped out and looked. Flurry of movement at the far end of the corridor. A young man in overalls came out. A nurse pushing a trolley in the other direction. I guessed that was where Clarissa lay.
It took me awhile to get there. I made my way along the echoing space. Sergeant Fitzgerald came out when I reached the door.
Saw the startled expression on his face. Reeled past him as a drunken boxer. My blanket trailing behind me. My breath came in cracked, high-pitched gasps.
He reached out to stop me. Halted and let me pass. I saw his face. I saw the figures in white coats standing beside Clarissa's bed. As in a dream. For my eyes were on Clarissa. Lying in the metal bed surrounded by machines. A white sheet and several thick blankets. Pulled up over her body. The needle taped to her thin arm. Her face was pale and small.
I staggered across the gap that divided us. Sank to my knees beside her. I took her icy hand in mine. Held it to my cheek.
"Clarissa?" I said. "It's me. I'm here."
A voice asked what I was doing. "Who let you in here?"
"I'm her friend," I said.
"I know who you are."
"How is she?"
The doctor gave me a faint, exasperated smile. "She was hypothermic. But her core temperature is rising. She's a fighter. She's not responsive…"
Clarissa's eyes half-opened, and she said my name.
"I'm here," I said. "You're safe now."
Her eyelids closed again. Her fingers relaxed in mine. Just as I thought she was asleep, she mumbled. "They thought I killed them."
"Who did?"
A muffled sound came from her, then just regular breathing. She was asleep.
"I thought I expected to find you here." I turned and grinned at the stern nurse.
She led me back along the corridor.
The same way I came.
A firm grip on my upper arm.
She told me as I shuffled along that I might be in shock. People died of shock. If I died, I should hold her responsible. I apologised with humility. As a toddler.
The hospital comprised long corridors going off in different directions. It was along that I saw a small, huddled group. Sergeant Fitzgerald, constable Smee and someone else. Mr Jones.
They were far away when they noticed me. Two far for us to speak. The sergeant and the constable looked embarrassed. Mr Jones was aghast at the sight of me. He took a few steps forward.
"That's him!"
His face contorted in anger, despite how I looked.
"That's the man who assaulted me!"
"Mr Jones!" Sergeant Fitzgerald said, louder than usual. "Leave the questioning to us, please. Constable Smee? Please take Mr Jones to the station and take his statement."
Fitzgerald watched the constable led the irate man away.
"Did you find the third man?" I quizzed.
Fitzgerald's expression darkened.
"It took a while," he said. "It was dark and muddy. They weren't able to revive him."
"I tried to save him," I said.
"Why?"
"Does it sound stupid to you?" I said. "Maybe. I don't know why. I wanted him to live so that he could answer questions."
"I think he's better off dead," said Fitzgerald.
"Do you?"
"That's enough questions for now," said Nurse Chapman, with a bossy solicitude. I smiled with gratitude. There is time for questions later. The patient needs to rest. He is in no fit state. Look at him."
"I don't mind," I said. "I prefer to get it done."
"You're in no fit state," she repeated, and her grip tightened. She waved at a porter walking past and barked for a wheelchair.
"I don't need a wheelchair," I said without conviction. I wanted to lie in a bed. Pull the sheet over my face, close my eyes, and wait for the images to recede. I needed to figure out what was happening first. The tide swept me out.
The porter wheeled me along the corridor. Shellie Chapman stalked ahead, and the sergeant followed. I shivered and a flooding weariness flooded over me. My eyelids felt leaden. My limbs were heavy and boneless.
Entered a small room where the open ward started. They lifted me into a narrow bed.
Thinner pale-blue blankets piled on top of me.
Fitzgerald hovered at the foot of the bed. Waiting to be given permission to ask more questions.
"I'm going to leave you for a few minutes," said Shellie Chapman. "I'll be back with the doctor. Be quick."
She left. Fitzgerald furrowed his brow.
"How did he know?" I said.
"How did who know?" Fitzgerald repeated.
"How did Jones know I was here?"
"Jones?" Fitzgerald said with impatient venom.
"Yes, Jones? How did he know?"
"It's been on the local radio news bulletin."
"And it mentioned my name?"
"No, we're not allowed. You know that."
"Then what was he doing here?"
"To press charges."
"While I lay in hospital knocking on heaven's door? I don't think so, do you?"
There was a long silence. Fitzgerald spoke but stopped before he said any intelligible words.
"No," He said at last. "Wait."
He sounded dazed. Concussed.
"Constable Smee! She might be in danger!"