"It's really just an X-ray enhanced by a computer, which is in another room. Think of your body as a giant loaf of bread."
"A loaf?"
"Yes. The CAT scan looks at a particular area of your body in slices, you see, then it puts together the slices into a three-dimensional view."
"Oh, you meant a sliced loaf ?"
"It's just a comparison."
"I thought scans were for cancer."
"They are. It's just a way of looking inside the body. It's a standard procedure for anyone who has had an injury, severe headaches, trauma."
"What do I have to do?"
"We'll just pop you on the table and slide you into that thing that looks like a white doughnut. You'll hear humming, and you'll probably see the track spinning around. It won't last long at all. All you have to do is lie completely still."
I had to put on a hospital robe again. I lay down on the table and stared at the ceiling.
"This will feel a little cold."
She rubbed gel into my temples, smearing it over my newly washed hair. She slid a hard metal helmet under my skull.
"I'm tightening these screws. It might feel a bit uncomfortable." She fastened some straps over my shoulders, arms and stomach, pulling them taut. "The table is about to start moving."
"Table?" I said feebly, as I slid slowly away from her and through the tunnel. I was lying inside a metal chamber and, yes, there was that humming. I swallowed hard. It wasn't quite dark in here. I could see lines moving round above me. Out there, a few feet away, was a bright room with a competent woman in it, making sure everything was as it should be. Beyond that was another room with a computer showing pictures of my brain. Upstairs there were wards, patients, nurses, doctors, cleaners, porters, visitors, people carrying clipboards and pushing trolleys. Outside, there was a wind coming in from the east and it might well snow. And here I was, lying in a humming metal tube.
I thought that some people, having gone through what I had gone through, might find it difficult to be confined like this. I closed my eyes. I could make up my own pictures. I could remember the blue sky that I'd seen this morning; the electric-blue that stretched from horizon to horizon and sparkled so. I could imagine the snow falling gently out of the dull, low sky and settling on houses, cars, bare trees. But in the darkness the sound of humming seemed to change. It sounded more like a kind of wheezing. And I could hear footsteps. There were footsteps coming towards me. Footsteps in the darkness. I opened my mouth to call out, but I couldn't speak or make a sound, except for a strangled whimper.
What was happening? I tried again but it was as if something was blocking my mouth. I couldn't breathe properly. I couldn't draw air through my mouth; I was gasping but nothing was happening. I was going to suffocate in here. My chest was hurting. I couldn't draw breath, not properly. It came in ragged bursts that gave me no relief. The footsteps came closer. I was trapped and I was drowning. Drowning in the air. A roaring built up in my head and I opened my eyes and it was still dark and I closed them and there was red behind my eyes. My eyes were burning in my sockets. Then the roaring split apart, as if my head had burst open to let out all the horror.
I was screaming at last. The tube was filled with the sound of my howling. My ears throbbed and my throat tore with it and I couldn't stop. I tried to make the screams into words. I tried to say, "Help!" or "Please," anything, but all the sounds crashed and bubbled and streamed together. Everything was shaking and then there were bright lights in my eyes and hands on me. Hands that held me down, that wouldn't let me go. I screamed again. Wailed. Screams were pouring out of me. I couldn't see in the light. Everything stung. Everything around me bore down on me. There were new sounds, voices somewhere, someone calling my name. Eyes looking at me out of the dazzling light; watching me and there was nowhere to hide because I couldn't move. Fingers touching me. Cold metal on my skin. On my arm. Something wet. Something sharp. Something piercing my skin.
Then suddenly everything was quiet and it was as if the light that hurt and the terrible sounds were gradually fading away from me. Everything was fading and going grey and far off, like night falling, and you just want it to be day. Just want it to be snow.
When I woke up, I didn't know if it was the next morning or many mornings later. The world was in black and white but I knew that it wasn't the world. It was me. I felt like there was a grey filter over my eyes, bleaching the colour out. My tongue felt dry and fluffy. I
felt fidgety and irritable. I wanted to scratch myself or scratch somebody else. I wanted to get up and do something, but I didn't know what. Breakfast tasted of cardboard and cotton wool. Every noise made me wince.
I lay in the bed and thought dark thoughts and then made plans, which involved getting up and finding someone, anyone, in authority and telling them that it was time for me to go home, and then finding Detective Inspector Cross and telling him to bloody get on with his inquiry, and somewhere in the middle of this a woman came in. No nurse's uniform, no white coat. She must have been in her fifties. Red-haired, pale freckly skin, rimless glasses. She wore a honey-coloured sweater, shiny grey trousers. She smiled at me.
"I'm Dr. Beddoes," she said. There was a pause. "Irene Beddoes." That was Irene rhyming with 'sheen' and 'clean' rather than with 'eenymeeny'. "I saw you yesterday afternoon. Do you remember our conversation?"
"No."
"You were drifting in and out of sleep. I wasn't sure how much you were taking in."
I had slept and still I felt tired. Tired and grey.
"I've been seen by a neurologist," I said. "He tested my memory. I've been put into a machine. I've been examined for physical injuries and been patched up a bit. What are you here for?"
Her concerned smile only wavered a little. "We thought you might like someone to talk to."
"I've talked to the police."
"I know."
"Are you a psychiatrist?"
"Among other things." She gestured at the chair. "Do you mind if I sit down?"
"No, of course not."
She dragged it over and sat by the bed. She smelt nice; subtly fragrant. I thought of spring flowers.
"I talked to Jack Cross," she said. "He told me your story. You've been through a terrifying ordeal."
"I'm just happy to have escaped," I said. "I don't want you to see me as some sort of victim. I think I'm doing OK, you know. For several days I was dead. It may sound stupid but it was true. I was above ground, I was breathing and eating, but I knew I was dead. I didn't exist in the same world that everyone else occupied. What do you call it? The land of the living. The place where people worry about money and sex and paying bills. Mainly through luck I escaped and I'm alive again and I just think every day is something I never thought I'd be allowed."
"Yes," Dr. Beddoes said, but still looking concerned for me.
"The other thing is that I'm not ill. I know I was knocked around a bit. I know that I've got a problem with my memory because I got a bang on the head. But I feel fine on the whole. A bit unreal, maybe. And this isn't how I imagined it would be."
"What would be?"
"Being free. I'm lying in this bed in an old itchy nightie that doesn't belong to me and people bringing me awful food on a trolley and people coming and sitting next to my bed and looking at me with anxious expressions on their faces and talking to me in a soft voice as if they were trying to talk me off a window-sill. What I really want is to get back to my flat and get on with my life. See my friends. Go to a pub again, to a cafe, walk down ordinary streets in my own clothes, go dancing, lie in bed on a Sunday morning with the sun streaming in through the windows, eat what I want when I want, go for a walk at night down by the river .. . But he's still out there, in the world I want to be in. If you want to know, that's what I really can't get out of my mind, the idea that he's still walking the streets."