A Spot of Bother - Mark Haddon [97]
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Dr. Forman, and before George could specify the kind of reading material he might like, the psychiatrist had shaken George’s hand and vanished through the curtain.
Half an hour later a porter came to take him to a ward. George felt a little insulted by the wheelchair until he attempted to stand. It wasn’t pain per se, but the sensation of something being very wrong in his abdominal region and the suspicion that if he stood up his insides might exit through the hole he had made earlier in the day. When he sat down again, sweat was pouring from his face and arms.
“You going to behave now?” said the porter.
Two nurses appeared and he was hoisted into the chair.
He was wheeled to an empty bed on an open ward. A tiny leathery Oriental man was sleeping in the bed to his left in a cat’s cradle of tubes and wires. To his right a teenage boy was listening to music through headphones. His leg was in traction and he had brought most of his possessions into hospital: a stack of CDs, a camera, a bottle of HP Sauce, a small robot, some books, a large inflatable hammer…
George lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. He would have given anything for a cup of tea and a biscuit.
He was on the verge of catching the attention of the teenage boy to find out whether there was any conceivable overlap in their literary tastes when Dr. Forman materialized at the foot of the bed. He handed George two paperbacks and said, “Leave them with the nurses when you’ve finished, OK? Or I will hunt you down like a dog.” He gave a brief smile then turned and walked away, exchanging a few words with one of the nurses in a language which was neither English nor any other language that George recognized.
George turned the books over. Treason’s Harbour and The Nutmeg of Consolation, by Patrick O’Brian.
The aptness of the choice was almost creepy. George had read Master and Commander last year and had been meaning to try some of the others. He wondered whether he might have said something while unconscious.
He read eighty or so pages of Treason’s Harbour, ate a limp institutional supper of beef stew, boiled vegetables, peaches and custard, then slipped into a dreamless sleep, interrupted only by a long and complex visit to the toilet at 3:00 a.m.
In the morning he was given a bowl of cornflakes, a mug of tea and a brief lecture about wound care. The charge nurse asked whether he possessed a ground-floor toilet and a wife who could move him around the house. He was presented with a wheelchair, told to return it when he could walk unaided, and given his demob papers.
He rang Jean and said he could come home. She seemed under-whelmed by the news, and he felt a little tetchy about this until he remembered what he had done to the carpet.
He asked if she could bring some clothes.
She said they would try to pick him up as soon as possible.
He sat back and read another seventy pages of Treason’s Harbour.
Captain Aubrey was writing a letter home about Byrne’s lucky snuffbox when George looked up and saw Ray walking down the ward. His first thought was that something dreadful had happened to the rest of his family. And, indeed, Ray’s usual hail-fellow-well-met demeanor had given way to something rather dour.
“George.”
“Ray.”
“Is everything all right?” asked George.
Ray dumped a holdall on the bed. “Your clothes.”
“I’m just surprised to see you, that’s all. I mean, as opposed to Jean. Or Jamie. I don’t mean to be rude. I just feel a little embarrassed that they’ve made you do this.” He tried to sit up. It hurt. A lot.
Ray offered his hand and gently pulled George upright so that he was sitting on the side of the bed.
“Everything is all right, isn’t it?” said George.
Ray let out a world-weary sigh. “All right?” he said. “I wouldn’t go that far. A bloody mess. That’s probably nearer the mark.”
Could Ray be drunk? At ten in the morning? George could not smell any alcohol, but Ray did not seem completely in control of himself. And this was the man who was driving him home.
“You