HE WOKE UP FROM a pain that felt like a serrated knife was being pushed into his chest. He reached for the button to increase his dose of morphine and pressed it — nothing happened, so he pressed it again. He had a faint memory of some men wearing white, probably doctors. They were discussing his case. As far as he could tell, they were saying that he would survive, but it would take years of physical therapy if he were ever to walk again. Or was it the other way around — that no amount of physical therapy would get him back on his feet?
He tried to count the days he had been awake, but it was difficult. Everything had a tendency to melt together into a haze of days, nurses, examinations, and meals. He understood enough to know that he was seriously injured and in a hospital, probably Rigshospitalet in Copenhagen, given his injuries.
He remembered some of the details of what had happened that night: how he’d walked toward the perpetrator as he was putting the tire back on the Peugeot; the way he’d grabbed his pistol but didn’t draw it in time; and being surprised as the lug wrench struck him in the ear. But the memories were only fragmented images.
A woman had dropped by today. He was hoping it would be Else, but as the woman came closer, he realized she was definitely not who he was hoping for — she was nowhere near as beautiful. No one was more beautiful than Else. Else was the first thing he thought about when he woke up every morning in the hospital. He wondered if she knew what had happened to him and if she missed him? Did anyone miss him?
The woman was a police officer but she was dressed in civilian clothing. She said she had initially visited him two days ago. She was on the hunt for the person who’d injured him and she claimed to know his identity. She showed him a photograph, but it wasn’t him. At least, he hadn’t thought it was him. But now that she was gone he felt unsure all of a sudden — unsure of what he’d said and what he had seen.
He tried to concentrate on what he knew for sure, hoping that various small details might spark the rest of his memories to return. But all he could come up with was that he couldn’t be absolutely certain of anything.
What if none of it had really happened? What if it was all just a dream, a dream that might come to an end at any moment when his alarm went off? His alarm made a horrible sound. If this turned out to be just a dream, he decided he would finally get a clock radio instead.
He pressed the morphine button again. The acute, sharp pain was almost completely gone, but there was still a pulsating, dull ache everywhere. A shapeless sea of questions floated around inside his head. Maybe he would stop breathing if he held his breath for long enough? Was that possible? Else, his beloved Else, did she know what had happened? Was she sorry she left him? Did she think about him? Did she even care?
He looked up and noticed one of the ceiling tiles was moving, revealing a hole above him. Maybe the tile had never been there? His thoughts moved to his colleagues. Had he made a fool of himself in front of them? He took a deep breath and felt the knife twist in his chest again. A figure in dark clothing came down a rope through the hole in the ceiling and walked up to him. For the first time in as long as he could remember, all of his doubts vanished. He didn’t even need to see the man’s face. He was totally certain that the man currently injecting a syringe into his IV bag was the same man who had struck him with the lug wrench and run him over in the Peugeot with Swedish plates. What was the licence plate number again? The man pulled out the syringe and massaged the IV bag.
JOS 652, Morten thought. A wave of peacefulness washed through him. The last thing he remembered was the sound of blaring alarms from the machines. They howled like crazy monkeys crowded into a tiny cage.