Billy stared. ‘You mean I’ve got a fucking hole in my head.’
Charlie nodded.
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘It’s not as bad as it sounds. I mean, it’s far from ideal…’
‘You think?’
‘Obviously there’s a risk of infection — meningitis, brain abscess
…’
‘Whoah.’
Charlie put a hand on Billy’s leg. ‘Those are worst-case scenarios. Most likely they’ll be able to perform a cranioplasty once they’re happy that the swelling has gone down enough. They’ll put a plastic plate across the opening, it’s standard.’
‘I have a hole in my head.’
‘I know.’ Charlie tried to sound reassuring. ‘But chill your boots. The last thing you need is to get worked up about it.’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’
He felt an overwhelming nausea sweep through him, his tongue sweating, his gut roiling. Charlie spotted the look on his face, lifted a container out from beneath the bed and put it under his chin.
‘That’ll be the anaesthetic, takes a while to wear off.’
Billy felt vomit and bile thrust up his throat and out, splattering into the container, thick mucus dribbling down his chin. He retched two more times then took the glass of water from his brother and sipped, swilling then spitting.
‘Done?’ Charlie said.
Billy nodded weakly. He felt light-headed and dizzy, eased himself back into his pillows.
Charlie got up, holding the container. ‘I’ll get rid of this. You need some rest anyway. Try to get some sleep, I’ll be back in a bit.’
Billy watched him turn and walk down the corridor of the ward. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the throbbing sensation in his brain.
25
He was woken by the sound of coughing in the next bed. He gently turned his head and opened his eyes. A paper-skinned old man was spitting into a cup, his hand shaking, saliva dribbling down his fingers.
Billy looked round the ward. Sunshine was beaming in through the dirty windows. It felt like morning, which meant he’d been out for hours. Judging by the look of the others in the room, he was the youngest in here by twenty years. All men, mostly fat, all old. And him, with his missing piece of skull and swollen brain. Jesus.
The doctor he’d seen yesterday with Charlie came striding down the corridor like he owned the place. Tidy beard, narrow eyes, distinguished grey hair. He stopped at the end of the bed and threw a desultory smile in Billy’s direction. He did that thing doctors always do, picking up the chart at the end of the bed and sucking his teeth a little.
‘And how are we today, Mr Blackmore?’
Billy did a quick inventory of his body. It felt as if he’d spent a week at sea, battered by storms, eventually washed up on the shores of consciousness. Pain swarmed his body, especially his head and neck. But he was alive, breathing.
‘Fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t say “fine” if you don’t mean it. I have no time for pleasantries. I need to know how you feel.’
‘I feel fine.’
The doctor approached him and got a torch out of his pocket. Without asking he pulled at the skin below Billy’s eyes and shone the torch at him.
‘Look up.’
Billy obeyed.
‘You’ve certainly been in the wars.’
‘So it seems.’
‘I believe your brother informed you about the operation I had to perform?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re a very lucky young man, Mr Blackmore. There are very few surgeons around here who could have performed that operation. None as good as me.’
‘Even if you do say so yourself.’
‘Indeed.’
The doctor checked Billy’s other eye, then nodded at the bandages wrapped around his head.
‘Is it worth asking you about the cause of the head trauma?’
Billy tried to smile but the muscle movement made his face ache. He just shrugged.
‘You clearly got a bump on the head here.’ The doctor lightly tapped Billy’s temple. ‘That was probably the cause. Any idea how that might have happened?’
Billy stared at the doc. Had Charlie given him a story already? Was this guy trying to catch him out? Did he know about car crash head traumas? Maybe this was his chance to come clean.
He kept his voice level. ‘Just a stupid drunken thing. Walked into a door.’
The doctor narrowed his eyes. ‘And when was this?’
‘A few days ago. Sunday night, I think.’
The doctor made a sceptical noise through his nose. ‘Hmmm, that could explain it, I suppose.’
He put his torch away then placed both hands softly on Billy’s head, like a faith healer. He began probing expertly, concentrating on the back of the skull. Billy felt his brain pulse and throb.
‘One other thing, Mr Blackmore.’
‘What?’
‘There was quite a substantial amount of cocaine in your system.’
‘Was there?’
‘Don’t treat me like an idiot, Mr Blackmore. I’ve seen things in thirty years working in this hospital that would make you puke your bowels up. For the sake of your brother, who is a very promising young doctor, I’ve agreed not to contact the authorities about this.’
‘That’s very good of you.’
The doctor gave Billy a hard stare. ‘For your own sake, I very strongly recommend you stick to officially prescribed medication during your recovery period. Any other forms of stimulant or narcotic could very well kill you, in your current condition.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘You do that, Mr Blackmore.’
The doctor began to walk away then spoke over his shoulder. ‘Presuming you don’t have a relapse or infection, you could be out in a week or two.’
He was already halfway down the corridor, white coat flapping. It was only then that Billy thought to ask about when they were going to patch up the hole in his skull, but the doctor was gone.
Billy let his head fall back on to his pillows. Pain poured in now the distraction of talking had gone, and he pushed the button attached to his drip. The blanketing embrace of morphine smothered him. He wished he could stay under the surface like this for ever, disengaged from the real world and all its brutal horror.
He tried to sleep but his mind was a churning, swirling mess. This was payback. Frank Whitehouse had got his revenge from beyond the grave, placing a ticking timebomb in Billy’s brain with the accident, a bomb set to go off at any minute. Ha, who was he kidding, any minute? It was set to go off at just the perfect time, the moment of sweetest justice, when he was fucking Frank’s widow. Fucking the pain and guilt away, except he wasn’t doing
