Free The Woodcutter by Reginald Hill Page B

suffered severe head trauma and fractured your skull. And you’d left half of your right hand somewhere in the coffee shop, but unfortunately no one handed it in to Lost Property.
    As for your internal organs, you get the impression the medics crossed their fingers and hoped.
    Not that it can seem to have mattered all that much. Until you opened your eye, the smart prognosis was that sooner or later you’d have to be switched off.
    At first you have almost as little concept of the passage of time as in your coma. You exist in a no-man’s land between waking and sleeping, and the pain of treatment and the pain of dreams merge indistinguishably. Brief intervals of lucidity are occupied with trying to come to terms with your physical state. You are totally self-centred with your mental faculties so fragmented that information comes in fluorescent flashes, making it impossible to distinguish between memory and nightmare. So you do what non-nerds do when a computer goes on the blink: you switch off and hope it will have put itself right by the time you switch on again.
    But though you have no sense of progress, progress there must be for eventually in one of the lucid intervals you find that you’re certain you have a wife and family.
    But no one comes visiting. Your room is not bedecked with get-well cards, you receive no bouquets of flowers or bottles of bubbly to mark your return to life. Perhaps the nursing staff are hoarding them , is your last lucid thought before drifting off into no-man’s land once more.
    Next time you awake, you have a visitor. Or a vision.
    He stands at the end of your bed, a fleshy little man wearing a beach shirt with the kind of pattern you make on the wall after a bad chicken tikka. You think you recognize his sun-reddened face but no name goes with it.
    He doesn’t speak, just stands there looking at you.
    You close your eye for a second. Or a minute. Or longer. When you open it again, he’s gone. But the space he occupied, in reality or in your mind, retains an after-image.
    Or rather an after-impression.
    Though still unable to separate memory from nightmare, you’ve always had a vague sense of some unpleasantness in the circumstances leading up to your accident. But even if real, you don’t feel that this is anything to worry about. It’s as if a deadline had passed. OK, you regret not being able to meet it, but once it has actually passed, your initial reaction is simply huge relief that you no longer have to worry about it!
    But the appearance of Medler destroyed this foolish illusion.
    Medler!
    There, you remember the name without trying, or perhaps because you didn’t try.
    And with the name come other definite memories.
    Medler, with his sly insinuating manner.
    Medler whose mealy-mouth you punched. Twice.
    Medler who raided your house, drove your wife and child into hiding, accused you of being a paedophile.
    That at least must be sorted out by now, you reckon. Even the slow creaky mills of the Met must have ground the truth out of that ludicrous allegation after all these months.
    Nurse Duggan comes in. You ask her how long since you came out of your coma.
    She says, ‘Nearly a fortnight.’
    ‘A fortnight!’ you echo, looking round at the flowerless, cardless room.
    She takes your point instantly and smiles sympathetically. She is, you come to realize, a truly kind woman. And she’s not alone. OK, a couple of the nurses treat you like dog-shit, but most are thoroughly professional, even compassionate. Good old NHS!
    Nurse Duggan now tries to soothe your disappointment with an explanation.
    ‘It’s not policy to make a general announcement until they think it’s time.’
    Meaning until they’re sure your resurgence hasn’t just been a fleeting visit before you slip back under for ever. But surely your nearest and dearest, Imogen and Ginny, would have been kept informed of every change in your condition? Why weren’t they here by your bedside?
    You take a drink of