twilit beach and the rocks were illuminated by a glow of swirling blue. Radios fizzed. Someone was helping him to sit up. He felt cold. He winced as another searing stab of pain pierced his head. He still couldn’t quite see straight, but could make out figures of people around him. Shapes that he made out to be a police car and an ambulance were parked a little way off, at the edge of the beach. No, two ambulances. Why were there two?
‘Let me go,’ he mumbled to the person who was helping him, brushing them away. Looking up, he saw the person was a woman. She was wearing overalls like a paramedic, and her voice was gentle and reassuring even though he couldn’t make out the words she was saying. He tried to stand up so he could see past the crowd of people and find out what was happening, but pain and dizziness made it impossible. The paramedic helped him patiently over to a rock, where he sat and bowed his aching head between his hands. He felt the wetness of his palms and stared at them in the flashing blue light. They were slick with blood. He touched his face and realised where the blood was coming from. It was all down the front of his T-shirt and spotted over the blanket that someone had draped around his shoulders. He put his fingers to his blind eye.
‘Try not to touch it,’ said the paramedic, her words sounding clearer now. His cheek felt swollen and hurt badly to the touch. He wiped the blood from his eye, and found he could make out blurry images with it again. He remembered that he’d been hit there. Hit very hard. He remembered the baton. Recalled the man holding it.
‘Kristen,’ he mumbled, his voice coming out garbled and indistinct. He looked around. ‘Where’s Kristen?’
A policewoman appeared out of the confusion and spoke to the paramedic. Ben heard her say, ‘We need to ask him some questions.’ The paramedic replied, ‘He’s got to be seen to first.’ And something about a hospital. It didn’t feel as if they were talking about him.
‘Where’s Kristen?’ Ben repeated. ‘I have to help her.’
The paramedic said something that sounded like, ‘You can’t help her.’
‘Those men … they were attacking her,’ he protested. But nobody seemed to pay any heed to what he was saying. Couldn’t they understand?
Finally he stopped trying to speak, as his voice was slurring and his eyes wouldn’t stay open. He felt himself being lifted and laid down on a stretcher.
Time seemed to drift. Then there was the sound of doors slamming and an engine, and he could sense he was in a moving vehicle. Someone was with him, maybe the same gentle female paramedic. Maybe someone else. He was somewhere very far away. He floated off and felt numb.
Then suddenly he was in a new environment, hard white light dazzling him, walls rushing past either side of him. Faces peering down. He realised he was lying on his back on a gurney being wheeled through a white corridor.
‘I’m okay,’ he tried to protest. ‘I just need to find Kristen …’ Then he passed out again.
The next several hours were a blur. How he got from the gurney to the couch in the curtained cubicle, his bloodied clothes replaced by a hospital robe, seemed to pass him by. He was half-conscious of the activity that milled around him. People came, people went. More faces looking down at him, as if he was some kind of specimen under observation. The nip of a needle, followed by a tickling sensation, he realised was the gash in his scalp being stitched. He vaguely remembered all the occasions in the past when he’d been sewn back together. This was nothing. Twice he tried to tell them so and get up, but dizziness overcame him and he slumped down against the couch.
His eyelids felt heavy, but they wouldn’t let him sleep. ‘I feel much better already,’ he kept saying. Still, he’d been through this routine enough times to know that was the procedure in suspected concussion cases. A grey-haired consultant named Dr Prendergast, sporting a florid bow tie and an ironic sense of humour to match, shone a light in his eyes and asked him a lot of questions about his headache, his vision, whether he felt any weakness down one side of his body, which he didn’t. Nor was he showing other telltale symptoms – he wasn’t vomiting, his skin wasn’t pale, his speech was no longer slurred and he didn’t have one pupil dilated larger than the other.
But Dr Prendergast seemed concerned about the severity of the headache and the dizziness. Ben was wheeled off to have his head X-rayed to check for a skull fracture before being taken back to the cubicle, where they still wouldn’t let him sleep, plied him with pills and as gently as possible refused to answer his questions about what had happened to Kristen, where she was, whether she was all right. He clearly remembered seeing two ambulances at the scene. Had she been in the other? Either they didn’t know, or they wouldn’t say.
Every hour, a different nurse returned to do a neuro check on him. ‘It was just a bang on the head,’ he told each one in turn. ‘If I was going to drop dead, I’d have done it by now.’
After half the night seemed to have dragged tortuously by and they finally seemed satisfied that he hadn’t suffered a major concussion and wouldn’t fall into a permanent coma the moment he shut his eyes, he was moved to a ward and allowed to sleep. He didn’t have much choice in the matter, because whatever cocktail of stuff they’d pumped him full of made him woozy. He laid his head on the pillow and was instantly floating.
But it was an uneasy sleep. He kept seeing Kristen in his mind, snatches of their conversation drifting through his consciousness but meaning little. Then his dream turned darker and he replayed the images of the two men chasing her along the beach. The fight. The baton held up in the air and then flashing down towards him—
He woke with a start. Blinked. Focused. White ceiling. Sunlight streaming through blinds. It was morning. He’d slept right through the night.
He craned his head to the side and saw that his bed was at the end of a ward. Most of the other beds were occupied by much older men. One of them couldn’t stop hacking and coughing. A large, intimidating matron was doing the rounds. A clock on the far wall read just after ten past eight.
Ben was feeling a little stronger, less hazy, but his headache was still thumping painfully. It was partly thanks to the smart couple of blows his skull had received, partly a hangover from the Laphroaig. He missed his Gauloises and wanted another drink.
He drew his hand up from under the crisp sheet and touched the thick dressing on his brow. It hurt, and so did the bruises on the rest of his body from the fight. But what really pained him was that he’d failed to protect someone who was vulnerable, who needed his help.
He’d never failed like that before. He lay restlessly in the bed, haunted by self-blame, tormented with questions. Where was Kristen? Was she okay? When could he see her?
The ward clock was showing eight thirty by the time Ben finally decided he needed to get out of here and find some answers before he went insane. He was just about to throw back the bedcovers and get up when a hospital orderly, an ancient man with wizened arms protruding from his blue smock, who looked like he should be in one of the beds himself, appeared with a trolley and brought Ben his meagre, tasteless breakfast. Ben told him he didn’t want anything and turned the tray away, inquiring urgently about Kristen. The old guy just blinked at him and tried to urge him to eat. Ben told him to go away.
The exchange drew the matron to his bedside. Up close, she was a veritable bison of a woman, who berated him for skipping breakfast and thrust some painkillers at him. After he’d grudgingly washed them down, he asked her the same questions, thought he saw a look flash through her eyes and wondered what it meant.
‘Where is she?’ he repeated. ‘Is she all right? Tell me. I need to know.’
