Half Moon Investigations - Eoin Colfer [27]
‘I know what I’m doing,’ said the anaesthetist. ‘I am in second year at college, you know. Now, count backwards from ten.’
‘Ten,’ I said.
*
A person has vivid dreams under anaesthetic. My mind replayed the events of the past twenty-four hours in glorious Technicolor and surround sound.
I could hear vague conversations and crunching noises coming from the world outside my head, but I decided to ignore these because I suspected the crunching was being caused by my own nose being hauled into line.
Time passed and a theory emerged. The sequence of events seemed simple enough: I am hired to investigate the Sharkeys. May tells Red Sharkey about this, and so he decides to do something about it. The something being attacking me in the middle of the night. But I had no proof that Red was my assailant. Or had I?
If it was Red Sharkey who attacked me, he had probably used the same weapon as he had to threaten me earlier. His hurl embossed with his own name. His own name!
I woke up in the recovery room and immediately tried to fill the nurse in on my theories, but she merely stroked my forehead with a cool hand until I had no choice but to go to sleep again.
I woke up for the second time. Sort of. My head was awake, but my body was pleading for sleep. I ignored it. This Red idea needed to be acted on now. Tomorrow would be too late. The proof would be lost in a pool of blood.
I had no idea what time it was. Night. It was dark in the room but I could see a slit of light under the door and hear the slap of nurses’ rubber-soled shoes in the hall.
I sat up in bed. Too quickly. I felt as though my head was balanced like a ball in a cup and would plop off if I jiggled too much. I was back in my own hospital room and the nurse had gone. Nobody to lean on.
Take it slow then. I swung my legs on to the cold floor, testing my strength. Weak but steady. The walls seemed to be flexing slightly, like funhouse mirrors. That was the anaesthetic. In all probability, the room was not spinning.
I stumbled into the bathroom, grabbing on to anything I could to support me. One of these things was the radiator. It could have been hot. I wasn’t sure. My fingers were still buzzing from the anaesthetic.
The bathroom was cramped, which suited my lack of balance. I could lean against a wall and still face myself in the mirror. But did I really want to face myself? Did I want to see what had become of my head? Would I recognize the battered remains of once normal features?
With a swollen head, it might be hard to see how severe my injuries actually were. Doctor Brendan had assured me that I was fine apart from the nose. But my eyes felt like two marbles in a ball of jelly. A ball that could split its skin at any moment. Maybe I should just go back to bed.
Before this idea could take hold, I grabbed the light cord and yanked. After a moment’s wincing, I focused. It was not a pretty sight. Doctor Brendan had been right: ugly was going to be my first, middle and last names for quite some time. In fact, the best-looking thing on my face was the nasal splint, a small aluminium V clamped on to my nose. The rest of my features looked as though someone had dropped a pound of rare steak on to my face and it had stuck.
‘Focus,’ I told myself. I had to act now, or the evidence could be lost.
My left arm was bound from elbow to knuckle in a soft cast. I tugged on the Velcro straps with my teeth, all the time arguing with my sensible side. The pressure eased, and my arm seemed to expand like an inflated rubber glove. I expected some pain but none came. However, beyond the anaesthetic, I sensed that my body was screaming at me just how stupid this idea was.
I slipped off the cast with my good hand. My left arm was even uglier than my face, which was saying something. The single blow had managed to connect with every inch of skin facing the weapon. I forced myself to study the bruising. There were several colours, from sickly yellow to angry red. And running from my wrist to my hand, a deep purple trio