‘I can’t tell you, love.’ She looks genuinely sorry. ‘I wish I could, but I can’t. But I’ve brought Dr Miller here to take a look at you.’
‘Good morning, Leonora,’ he says, coming across to the bed. His voice is soft, pitying. I want to punch him and his fucking compassion. ‘I’m sorry we’re a bit tearful today.’
‘Someone is dead,’ I say very clearly, trying to keep my breath even, keep myself from gulping and sobbing. ‘Someone is dead, and no one will tell me who. And the police are sitting outside. Why?’
‘Let’s not worry about that at the moment—’
‘I am worried!’ I shout. Heads in the corridor turn. The doctor puts out a soothing hand, patting my leg beneath the blanket in a way that makes me want to shrug and shudder. I am bruised. I am hurt. I am wearing a hospital gown that’s open at the back and I’ve lost my dignity along with everything else. Do not fucking touch me, you patronising arsehole. I want to go home.
‘Look,’ he says, ‘I understand that you’re upset, and the police will hopefully have some answers for you, but I’d like to examine you, ensure that you’re up to speaking to them, and I can only do that if you’re calm. Do you understand, Leonora?’
I nod my head, mutely, and then turn my face to the wall while he examines the dressing on my head, checks my pulse and blood pressure against the readings on the machine. I close my eyes, let the indignities fade away. I answer his questions.
My name is Leonora Shaw.
I’m twenty-six.
Today is … Here I have to be helped, but the nurse prompts me. It’s Sunday. I have not even been here twelve hours. In which case, it’s 16th November. I think this counts as disorientation rather than memory loss.
Cameron is prime minister.
No, I have no nausea. My vision is fine, thanks.
Yes, I am having trouble recovering some memories. There are some things that you shouldn’t have to remember.
‘Well, you seem to be doing remarkably well,’ Dr Miller says at last. He hangs his stethoscope round his neck and puts his little torch back in his top pocket. ‘All the observations overnight are fine, and your scan is very reassuring. The memory trouble is concerning me a little bit – it’s quite typical to lose the few minutes before a collision but it sounds like you’re having trouble a little bit further back than that, is that right?’
I nod reluctantly, thinking of the patchy, staccato blasts of images that invaded my head throughout the night: the trees, the blood, the swinging headlights.
‘Well, you may find it starts coming back. Not all causes of memory trouble—’ He avoids the word ‘amnesia’, I have noticed ‘—are down to physical trauma. Some are more … stress-related.’
For the first time in a little while I look up, meet his eyes directly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, this is not my speciality you understand – I work with the physical head trauma. But sometimes … sometimes the brain suppresses events that we’re not quite ready to deal with. I suppose it’s a … coping mechanism, if you will.’
‘What kind of events?’ My voice is hard. He smiles. His hand is back on my leg again. I resist the urge to flinch.
‘You’ve had a difficult time, Leonora. Now, is there anyone we can call? Anyone you would like to be with you? Your mother has been informed, I understand, but she’s in Australia, is that right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Any other relations? Boyfriend? Partner?’
‘No. Please …’ I swallow, but there is no sense in putting this off any longer. The agony of not knowing is becoming more painful. ‘Please, I’d like to see the police now.’
‘Hmm.’ He stands, looks at his chart. ‘I’m not convinced you’re up to it, Leonora. We’ve already told them you’re not fit to answer questions.’
‘I’d like to see the police.’
They are the only people who will give me answers. I have to see them. I stare at him, while he pretends to study the chart in front of him, making up his mind.
At last he lets out a breath, a long, frustrated half-sigh and shoves the chart into the holder at the foot of the bed.
‘Very well. Nurse MacIntyre will stay. They’re only to have half an hour at the most, Nurse, and I don’t want anything too stressful. If Miss Shaw starts to find the interview difficult …’
‘Understood,’ the nurse says briskly.
Dr Miller puts out his hand, and I shake it, trying not to look at the scratches and blood on my arm.
He turns to go.
‘Oh – wait, sorry,’ I blurt out, as he reaches the door. ‘Can I have a shower first?’ I want to see the police, but I don’t want to face them like this.
‘A bath,’ Dr Miller says, and gives a short nod. ‘You’ve got a dressing on your forehead which I’d prefer you not to disturb. If you keep your head above water, yes you can have a bath.’