Boneland

‘Please. Yes.’

‘Chin up, chicken.’

A hand lifted his head, and another put the hard glass between his teeth.

‘Thanks.’

Someone wiped his beard. The colours and webs faded. He saw the world.

‘Hello, Colin.’ A doctor looked down at him.

‘Hello.’

‘Well, all seems to be fine. You can go home tomorrow.’

‘Why not now? Now. Please. That was the agreement.’

‘I don’t advise it.’ The doctor went to the desk and spoke to the sister. Colin worked a finger under the plastic strip around his wrist that showed his name and number and date of birth and tugged to snap it. It did not move. He tried to force it over his hand. The plastic bit into the skin. He managed to get another finger through and lodged the plastic in the crease of each first joint, and pulled again. The white band did not slacken. He blocked his mind against it, shut his eyes and willed the hands apart. He held the pain as ecstasy. It could not feel, and he would not give. He would not give. It could not feel. He would not give. He would not. The band broke, and he fell back, triumphant.

‘There we are, cherub.’

He opened his eyes. A nurse had snipped the band with scissors.

He reached behind the locker for his backpack, took off the gown and dragged on his clothes; no more a thing.

‘You’re discharging yourself, Colin. I’d be happier if you stayed until after breakfast tomorrow. You do understand?’

‘I understand, sister. But I’d like to have a taxi, please.’

‘It’s in your interest to stay.’

‘I know it is. But I want to go. I want to go home. I need to. I want to go now.’

‘Avoid alcohol until you’ve seen your own doctor. Remember.’

‘I’ll remember.’

A porter wheeled him to the main hall. With each passage from the ward to the air he felt himself return. The taxi was waiting.

‘Where are we for, squire?’ said the driver.

‘Church Quarry, please.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘I’ll show you.’

‘Best sit at the front, then.’

Colin got in and held the backpack on his knee.

‘Done your seat belt?’

‘Sorry.’

The driver reached over and ran the belt across Colin’s chest between his arms and the backpack and locked it. They drove round the car park to the road.

‘Which way?’ said the driver.

Colin’s cheek was on the backpack.

‘Don’t nod off, mate, else we’ll never get home.’

‘Sorry. Go by Trugs.’

‘Got you.’

They left the town into the falling sun, away from the straight walls, the corridors without shadow, the flatnesses, along roads and lanes that bent, dipped and lifted, copying the land. Colin’s head drooped.

‘What line of business are you in, then?’ said the driver.

‘Sorry?’

‘What’s your job?’

‘Ah. Survey. M45. At the moment.’

‘It wants widening.’

‘I’m measuring it.’

‘Comes in handy sometimes.’

‘Yes?’

‘M6, M42, M45, M1.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘It misses the worst of the traffic.’

‘May I have a little air?’

‘Sure. So what’s this survey you’re doing?’

‘Plotting dwarfs.’

The driver looked at him.