The Woodcutter

Or rather an after-impression.

Though still unable to separate memory from nightmare, you’ve always had a vague sense of some unpleasantness in the circumstances leading up to your accident. But even if real, you don’t feel that this is anything to worry about. It’s as if a deadline had passed. OK, you regret not being able to meet it, but once it has actually passed, your initial reaction is simply huge relief that you no longer have to worry about it!

But the appearance of Medler destroyed this foolish illusion.

Medler!

There, you remember the name without trying, or perhaps because you didn’t try.

And with the name come other definite memories.

Medler, with his sly insinuating manner.

Medler whose mealy-mouth you punched. Twice.

Medler who raided your house, drove your wife and child into hiding, accused you of being a paedophile.

That at least must be sorted out by now, you reckon. Even the slow creaky mills of the Met must have ground the truth out of that ludicrous allegation after all these months.

Nurse Duggan comes in. You ask her how long since you came out of your coma.

She says, ‘Nearly a fortnight.’

‘A fortnight!’ you echo, looking round at the flowerless, card-less room.

She takes your point instantly and smiles sympathetically. She is, you come to realize, a truly kind woman. And she’s not alone. OK, a couple of the nurses treat you like dog-shit, but most are thoroughly professional, even compassionate. Good old NHS!

Nurse Duggan now tries to soothe your disappointment with an explanation.

‘It’s not policy to make a general announcement until they think it’s time.’

Meaning until they’re sure your resurgence hasn’t just been a fleeting visit before you slip back under for ever. But surely your nearest and dearest, Imogen and Ginny, would have been kept informed of every change in your condition? Why weren’t they here by your bedside?

You take a drink of water, using your left hand. The two fingers remaining on the right come in useful when words fail you in conversation with Dr Jekyll, but you’re a long way from trusting a glass to their tender care.

Your vocal cords seem to be getting back to full flexibility, though your voice now has a sort of permanent hoarseness.

You say, ‘Any phone calls for me? Any messages?’

Nurse Duggan says, ‘I think you need to talk to Mr McLucky. I’ll have a word.’

She leaves the room. Mr McLucky, you assume, is part of the hospital bureaucracy and you settle back for a long wait while he is summoned from his palatial office. But after only a few seconds, the door opens and a tall, lean man in tight jeans and a grey sweat-shirt comes in. About thirty, with a mouthful of nicotine-stained teeth in a long lugubrious face, he doesn’t look like your idea of a hospital administrator.

You say, ‘Mr McLucky?’

He says, ‘Detective Constable McLucky.’

You stare at him. You feel you’ve seen him before, not like Medler, much more briefly…across a crowded room? Later you’ll work out this was the out-of-place drinker in the Black Widow who alerted you to the fact that the police were waiting for you.

You say, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

He says, ‘My job.’

You say, ‘And what is your job, Detective Constable McLucky?’

He says, ‘Making sure you don’t bugger off again, Sir Wilfred.’

You would have laughed if you knew which muscles to use.

You say, ‘You mean you’re sitting outside the door, guarding me? How long have you been there?’

‘Since you decided to wake,’ he says. ‘The nurse said you wanted to talk to me.’

He has a rough Glasgow accent and a manner to go with it.

You say, ‘I wanted to know if there’s been any messages for me. Or any visitors. But I’m not clear why this information should come through you.’

He says, ‘Maybe it’s something to do with you being in police custody, facing serious charges.’

It comes as a shock to hear confirmed what Medler’s visit has made you suspect, that nothing has changed in the time you’ve spent out of things.

You are wrong there, of course. A hell of a lot of things have changed.

You feel mad but you’re not in a position to lose your rag, so you say, ‘Messages?’

He shrugs and says, ‘Sorry, none.’

That’s enough excitement for one day. Or one week. Or whatever period of time it is that elapses before you feel strong enough to make a decision.

You get Nurse Duggan to summon DC McLucky again.

You say, ‘I’d like to make a phone call. Several phone calls.’

He purses his lips doubtfully, an expression his friends must find very irritating. You want to respond with some kind of legalistic threat, but a man not yet able to wipe his own arse is not in a position to be threatening. The best you can manage is, ‘Go ask DI Medler if you must. That will give him time to make sure all his bugs are working.’

He says laconically, ‘Medler? No use asking him. Early retirement back in January. Bad health.’

That confirms what you suspected. You were hallucinating. Funny thing, the subconscious. Can’t have been much of an effort for it to have conjured up Imo in all her naked glory, but instead it opted for that little shit.

You squint up at McLucky, difficult as that is with one eye. He still looks real.

You say, ‘Please,’ resenting sounding so childish. But it does the trick.

McLucky leaves the room. You hear his voice distantly. You presume he is ringing for instructions.

Then a silence so long that you slip back into no-man’s land. As you come out of it again, you wouldn’t be surprised to find you’d imagined DC McLucky too.

But there he is, sitting at the bedside. Has he been there for a minute or for an hour? Seeing your eye open, he picks up a phone from the floor and places it on the bed.