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‘Aaahh! Fuck!’ I move my head to follow her, my brain sloshing against my skull.
‘Keep still now. You’ve had a big knock. I just need a wee look in your eyes.’
She comes into close focus. I can see the blobs of her mascara, faint gold fuzz above her pearly-pink lips.
‘Open wide.’ She shines the light into each of my eyes. ‘OK, that’s fine.’
I close my eyes, spots of black dancing against luminous green.
‘Just doing your blood pressure.’ I feel her fastening the band, the hiss of pressured air, the band tightening.
‘Am I in Sheffield?’
Her laugh like water down stone steps.
‘Do I sound like a Yorkshire lassie?’ She releases the air. ‘No, you’re in Scotland. Inverness. You had a nasty fall and you’ve been in and out of consciousness the while. Rest now.’
I lay my head back on the pillows, focus on a soft gurgling fish tank noise.
‘Will I draw the curtains back for you?’
Interlocking shapes retreat. Line of beds opposite, one with curtains still drawn.
‘Why am I here?’ My mind dredges through porridge soup.
‘You’re concussed from your fall. You’re on High Dependency for observation, but you’ve no need to worry. Your mam will be here soon.’
‘Mum?’ A surge of comfort at the thought.
The nurse moves away. ‘Hello, Christopher? Do you know where you are?’
I shift my head slowly to the left. Nausea ripples like a Mexican wave. There’s a square of pale sky in the plate-glass window, a mass of fluffy cloud in the middle. I trace the face of a goblin in the cloud, but the strain hurts my head.
Shut my eyes and hear the sing-song of the nurse, ‘What day is it? Who’s the prime minister?’
The gurgle of fish tanks.
Fog clears to mist swirls round my head. Squelch of feet sucked into the bog, trying to get to the other side. ‘Do you know where you are?’ Voice muffled and distant. Scotland, I want to say, tongue heavy. Why am I crossing this sinking bog?
‘There he is!’ The voice distinct and crystal.
I open my eyes to Mum, peering from the door of the ward. She looks shrunken and worn in her parka. Her face creased and tired. Old.
Then her eye catches mine and lights with a smile and she’s Mummy come to the medical room after I banged my head ducking out of a rugby scrum. That glow of safety as she hurries towards me, her eyes filling as she leans for a light-touch hug.
‘Don’t cry, Mum.’ My voice falters.
She bites her lip, perches on the bedside.
‘I’ve been so worried, Gethin. Thank God, you’re…?’
‘How actually did you get here?’ The wrong question.
She does her patient Mum smile, strokes my hand, her fingers raspy. ‘I drove through the night, though I was probably over the limit when I started. I got here on Red Bull and coffee, really.’
‘Red Bull?’
‘I was fighting being mesmerised by the lights on the motorway. You know, when it feels like a computer game? Not good.’
