Dialogues of the Dead

The darkness lasted a long time. y Or perhaps a short time. He couldn't know. It was punctuated! by flashes of cognition in which his senses worked but in a^ mixed-up way. He smelt movement, felt colours, saw sound<| None of these impressions made any sense or seemed related ta^ any other. Whether they belonged to real time or to that dream- time which can pack infinity into a grain of sand, he didn't know. So when he finally awoke, he was ready to find himself stilt8 helpless on the floor of Stangcreek Cottage. ; His eyes weren't functioning properly but at least they were registering images albeit dimly on his retina and he could make, out someone standing over him. Oh shit. He was right. It was still the cottage ... He tried to move. Couldn't. This got worse. He was bound down. He tried to speak. His mouth was dry as ... : There were half a dozen laddish similes in common canteen use but he couldn't recall any of them. The looming figure stepped closer. ; The features came into focus. They were frightful, contorted,! menacing. i| The dreadful lips moved. | 'She's all right, lad.' ] And the ogreish features dissolved and resolved themselves intd, the comfortable because familiar dissonances of Edgar Wield'S; face while at the same time the bonds which held him down8 turned into the starched and tightly tucked sheets of a hospital' bed. 'She's all right,' repeated Wield. If Wieldy said it, then it must be true. And he knew he'd be eternally grateful to the sergeant for knowing the one question his disfunctional tongue had wanted to ask. He closed his eyes again. Next time he opened them, Pascoe was there. The DCI called a nurse who helped him raise his head, which he only now realized was heavily bandaged, and gave him water. 'Thanks,' he gasped. 'My throat was dry as a screech owl's crotch.' Vulture's, he meant. But it was coming back. The nurse said to Pascoe, 'Don't overtire him. Don't let him move too much. I'll let the doctor know he's awake.' Hey, I'm not only awake, I'm here! thought Hat. But he was too weak in body and will to protest. 'Where . .. ? How long... ?' he croaked. Pascoe said, 'You're in the Central Hospital. You've been here for eleven days.' 'Eleven .. . ? I've been out of it for eleven days?' Eleven days was worrying. Eleven days was a huge step on the way to brain death. Pascoe smiled. 'It's all right. Mr Dalziel allows a fortnight before he tells them to switch everything off. In any case, you were never comatose. But you do have a depressed skull fracture and there was pressure on the brain. It's OK. They've got you sorted. You'll be able to do The Times crossword again.' 'Never could before,' said Hat. Then thought, Christ! don't relapse into plucky little trooper mode, you're fucking terrified! He said, 'You're not bullshitting me, sir? I mean, eleven days.. .' Pascoe said, 'Relax. The reason you've been out of it so long is mainly because of the sedation. Trouble was, whenever you did wake up, you were so confused that they were worried you'd do even more damage to yourself.' 'Confused?' 'Delirious, if you like. Thrashing around like you were in a mud-bath with Sharon Stone.' Sharon Stone? thought Hat. No thanks, I'll pick my own fantasies.

This reaction cheered him up more than the DCI's reassur43z