Anderson opened his eyes. A familiar feeling. Everything ached, especially his ribs. He’d been here before. Where was he? He sat up. In hospital, on a ward full of patients.
A young female nurse saw him and came over. Hair tied back in a ponytail, a picture of efficiency. ‘Feeling better, Mr Anderson?’
‘What happened?’
‘You were unconscious when they found you. Looks like you’d been attacked. In Rusholme. Can you remember?’
Anderson gathered his thoughts. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just after six-thirty in the morning.’
‘I need to go.’ He drew back the covers. ‘I need to go home and change. I’m in court this morning.’
‘Yes, admissions said you’re a barrister, but you’re in no fit state to work today.’
‘No, I’m not working, I’m…’ He paused, then rubbed his forehead, hoping the headache would stop. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, sliding off the mattress onto his feet. Feeling giddy he reached for the bed frame and steadied himself.
‘Mr Anderson, please, get back into bed, you need to rest.’
Anderson reached for the pile of damp clothes, folded neatly over the back of a magnolia metal chair.
‘At least wait for Doctor Nesbitt. He wants to see you.’
Anderson remembered him – from his stay after the crash. ‘OK, if he’s quick, I’ll wait.’
The nurse pulled the curtain along the rail to give Anderson some privacy then hurried off.
Anderson took off the hospital gown and began to dress himself. After the effort of bending down to get his trousers on he sat back on the bed, catching sight of himself in the circular mirror on top of an MDF cabinet. His face was a mess. Red and swollen. The cheek laceration from the crash had been re-stitched.
‘Mr Anderson? You decent?’ He was already pulling back the curtain. ‘Do you remember me?’
‘Yes, of course, Dr Nesbitt?’ he replied, getting to his feet.
‘That’s right. I hear you are adamant that you’re leaving? Well I won’t try to stop you. They’ve cleaned you up as best they could but I thought I ought to come across and see how your memory was?’
‘What do you mean?’
Nesbitt put a hand under Anderson’s chin and scrutinised his face in a way only a doctor can. ‘Do you know how you got these injuries?’
Anderson hesitated. A thought flickered across his mind, only for a moment; to lie, pretend he’d had another blackout. He dismissed it. ‘I remember.’
An awkward silence.
‘But you’d prefer not to say?’ asked the doctor.
Anderson nodded.
‘You really aren’t having the best of luck lately, are you, Mr Anderson?’
‘You could say that,’ he replied.
‘What about the car accident? Anything? Sometimes a head injury can jog the memory.’
It hadn’t even occurred to Anderson. He strained to think. Closed his eyes. A fleeting image. Heena Butt’s face. In conversation. A feeling of fear. Was it real? Or had his mind constructed something from the post-mortem photo? Anderson sighed. He thought about Ahmed. How he’d admitted nothing. If he’d had something to do with the crash wouldn’t he have enjoyed telling Anderson? Wallowed in it?
‘No, nothing, doctor. Maybe it’s because I was asleep at the time?’
Dr Nesbitt didn’t reply. Only a sympathetic nod. Then: ‘Good luck, Mr Anderson.’