Chameleon's Shadow

marked for it.’ He folded his hands under his chin. ‘You seem to have lost your confidence since your injury and I’m trying to find out why.’

‘I’d say I was more confident. I used to care what people thought about me and now I don’t.’

‘I’d be more convinced of that if you tested yourself occasionally. Staying in your room and avoiding contact means you never expose yourself to what other people think.’ He paused. ‘One of life’s nastier ironies is that we all know how important first impressions are because we use them ourselves . . . yet none of us wants to be judged on appearance alone.’

Acland cracked his knuckles. ‘At least I wasn’t barbecued,’ he said impassively.

Willis glanced at his notes and took another tack. ‘You’ve been complaining about headaches again.’

‘I didn’t complain . . . I merely mentioned I had one.’

‘Where do they occur? Temple area? Top of the head? Back of the head?’

Acland gestured towards the left-hand side of his forehead.

‘They start behind the dead eye and spread outwards. Mr Galbraith reckons it’s phantom pain from losing the eye – the same way amputees get phantom pain in their stumps. He says it’s effectively migraine and he’s given me some guidelines on how to cope with it.’

‘Good. Did he discuss your MRI scan with you?’

‘Which one?’

‘The most recent one,’ said Willis drily.

‘He said it was clear. Why did I need it anyway? I keep being told I haven’t got brain damage, then someone goes behind my back and orders another scan.’

‘Your surgeons need them. MRIs give a more detailed picture – for example, tiny blood clots which might explain the migraines.’ Acland watched him closely for a moment. ‘Does an MRI show what a patient’s thinking?’

‘No.’

‘Pity, because we could jack these conversations if it could. You’re wasting your time on me. I’m not depressed and I’m not alienated . . . I’m bored. I don’t want to be here. There’s nothing wrong with me that a bit of stitching won’t put right. If I talk to my mother on the phone, she goes on and on about people I’ve never heard of . . . and all my father can think about is which of his sheep has foot rot. I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care that the guy in the next room likes Jordan’s tits. I just want this whole tedious exercise over so that I can get back to my unit. And, no, I’m not expecting miracles. I’m out of here the minute they’ve cobbled enough together to make me halfway presentable.’

‘That’s some speech for a man who doesn’t say very much. You certainly don’t sound depressed.’

‘I’m not.’

‘But do you understand my worries about withdrawal, Charles?

If you’re bored then do something active. You know where the gym is. The physios will work out a fitness regime that complements what you’re already doing in your room.’

‘I’ve tried that, and I left more frustrated than I arrived. I burn off more calories doing this –’ he pumped his palms – ‘than I did following their pathetic exercises.’

‘You’ve tried it once,’ Willis said mildly, ‘and you left after fifteen minutes when another patient came in. The physios thought it was because you didn’t want to be stared at.’

Acland shook his head.

‘You called yourself a freak,’ Willis reminded him.

‘Only to emphasize that the rest of me is fine. I’m not good in this sort of environment, Doc. I used to jog six miles every morning before breakfast, and it does my head in to have some stupid woman whoop and holler if I manage to lift a miserable little dumbbell in one hand. Do you know how patronizing that is? The other patient was an amputee and she applauded like an idiot because he managed to hop a couple of steps. He’s a regimental sergeant major, for Christ’s sake. He’d have eaten her for breakfast before he had his leg blown off.’

‘Nick Hay,’ Willis agreed. ‘He’s stone deaf in one ear, so his balance is shot to pieces, and staying upright on one leg is a major achievement. Did you speak to him?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘For the same reason I haven’t spoken to the squaddie. What would I say? Look on the bright side, mate, you could have lost both legs? He knows damn well what his situation is . . . a medical discharge, followed by months of hawking himself around civvie street looking for a job.’

‘Are you worried the same thing’s going to happen to you?’

‘No. The CO says he’ll support me if I want to return to the regiment.’ He frowned suspiciously as Willis glanced at his notes. ‘Unless you’ve been told something different?’

‘Only the usual. That you’ll have to prove your fitness to the medical board.’

‘That won’t be a problem.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Willis with what sounded like sincerity.

*

 Sometimes Acland woke in the middle of the night, certain that maggots were devouring the raw flesh of his wounds. As a child, he’d seen a sheep die of blow-fly strike after larvae had eaten into the animal’s living flesh, and the image still haunted him. His subconscious told him that the eyes were the entry point to his brain and he jerked out of sleep in a frenzy, kneading his empty socket to stop the