Doug Johnstone - Hit and run

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.

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 anything of the sort, because the pain and guilt had just come back a hundredfold, a millionfold, meting out its glorious revenge on him, literally blowing his mind, bursting his brain open, making it swell and expand so that they had to cut away his skull to let it breathe in peace.

Fucking karma. Why didn’t he just confess right at the start? Charlie and Zoe had talked him out of it, but it was all his fault, and his alone. He was driving, drunk and wasted. He was weak and allowed himself to be persuaded not to call an ambulance, the police, whoever the fuck could’ve helped.

But he couldn’t confess now. He was still weak, too weak for the truth. What about Adele? What about Ryan, who had lost a daddy and a dog in less than a week? What about Dean and the Mackies? He was in the middle of a terrible shitstorm and couldn’t see a way out. It would’ve been better if he hadn’t been saved, if they’d just let his brain explode and kill him. That’s what he deserved.

He suddenly thought of Jeanie. Who would look after her if he died? And where was she anyway?

He sat up and looked round. Where was his phone? A small bedside cabinet. He opened it and there were all his clothes, neatly folded.

‘Hey.’

He looked up. Zoe, with a worried look. Christ, he didn’t deserve her. So much better than him, stronger, more together, more focused. In control. Everything he wasn’t.

‘I brought someone to see you,’ she said.

He noticed she was holding a lead. A snuffling sound came from underneath the bed.

‘Jeanie.’

The sound of a tail thumping on the floor, then her head popped out from under the bed, ears pinned back in sheer, uncomplicated joy.

Zoe smiled. ‘Dogs aren’t normally allowed in here, but Charlie sweet-talked the nurses.’

‘Come here, girl,’ he said. She nuzzled into him. He stroked her head and tickled her chin. He rubbed her flanks, feeling the ribs still poking through the fur. He leaned down to smell her, soak her up. ‘I’m sorry I left you. I won’t ever leave you again.’

‘You really love that dog, don’t you?’ There was a hint of something in Zoe’s voice, a tinge of sadness.

Billy wanted to say something in reply to that, but he couldn’t think what.

‘Thanks for bringing her. Where was she?’

‘Still in the pub. I think they wanted to adopt her. They’d made her quite at home, fed her and taken her for walks. When Charlie got back last night we headed over there and picked her up. She was upset not to see you, so I thought I’d bring her in this morning.’

‘What about her medication?’

‘It’s OK, I’ve kept up with the dosage.’