Fractured(34)

So Jimmy had saved me once again. I guess I could see why, in a dream, I had once more cast Jimmy in the role of hero. It was, after all, how he’d lost his life.

‘Not that his behaviour afterwards was very professional though.’

My ears pricked up at that comment.

‘Why, what happened then?’

‘Well he really lost it while we were at the hospital waiting for you to be assessed: when we didn’t know how seriously you’d been hurt. He started yelling at me about how could I be so irresponsible; how I never should have left you to travel alone at night. I particularly liked the bit about how I didn’t deserve to have you, if I couldn’t look after you properly.’ He rubbed his hand ruefully over his handsome chin. ‘And then he took a swing at me!’

I sat up sharply. ‘He did?’

Mistaking my total astonishment for loving concern, he patted my arm in reassurance.

‘Don’t worry, he didn’t do any damage; Phil had a hold of his arm before he even made contact. Damn unprofessional of him though, even if he was off duty. I could make an official complaint…’ He saw the look in my eyes and continued quickly, ‘I won’t, of course. I realise it was all just heat-of-the-moment stuff. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get old PC Plod in trouble. And I guess it is understandable, feeling as he did about you all those years ago.’

There it was again. Even in my dream I couldn’t seem to get away from someone trying to convince me that Jimmy had been deeply in love with me.

‘I think he must have forgotten how strong-willed you can be. And independent. After all, you haven’t been in touch with him for quite a while now, have you?’

I wanted to say: Well no, not without the aid of a Ouija board. But settled instead for a less controversial, ‘No, not really… we must have kind of lost touch.’

I was really quite glad when the nurse came in at that point, wheeling a laden trolley of pharmaceuticals. She tactfully reminded Matt that visiting hours were long over and he took the hint, kissing me lightly on the forehead and leaving with the promise to return the next day.

As I lay on the starchy hospital sheets, waiting for the pills I’d swallowed to take effect, I pondered on the curiously complex scenario my subconscious had summoned up. All the facts and characters were present but the details and events were twisted into such a bizarre parallel reality. It was my life but not as I knew it, for here it was all so much better: Jimmy was still alive, my Dad wasn’t sick – and neither was I, apparently – and Matt and I were engaged to be married. It was almost a shame to wake up.

And I didn’t. Well, that’s to say I slept and when I opened my eyes it was a new day, but still the dream continued. That’s when the voice first started up, telling me something was really wrong here. They had scheduled me for God knows how many more tests that morning, and my pleasurable euphoria of living in a dream began to gradually dissipate when my real life failed to return. I even resorted to the old trick of pinching myself hard, a real old Chinese-burn style pinch, whilst waiting outside the room for a second MRI scan. Nothing happened, except that I gave myself a very nasty-looking red and white mark on my forearm. Even then, I only stopped contorting the soft flesh when I caught the pitying glance from the nurse who had wheeled me down for this latest test. Clearly news of the delusional new patient was widespread and all comments directed at me were in the softly spoken sing-song tones usually reserved for dealing with those under five or the imbecilic.

Somewhere between the blood tests, the scans, and the X-rays I started to get really scared. I felt like a prisoner in Neverland; it might be nice place to come for a visit, but I really, really wanted to go ‘home’ now, however bad things might be there. One of the worst moments came when I caught sight of my reflection for the first time in the small square mirror positioned above the basin in my room. A nurse had come running at my cry, and I could tell she was at a loss to know what to do, when she saw me running my fingers frantically over the smooth unblemished skin of my cheek. And who could blame her; what was the poor woman supposed to say when I rounded on her, crying, 'My scar. Where's it gone? What have you people done with my scar?'





I just about held myself together until the afternoon, when I was due to meet again with the consultant. The nurse who came to collect me with a wheelchair looked disappointed to see my untouched lunch. Fear and confusion had robbed me of my appetite, well, that and the appalling culinary offerings of the hospital kitchens.

When they wheeled me into the doctor’s consultation room, I was pleased to see my (newly-restored-to-good-health) father waiting for me.