‘You’re not in Afghanistan any more, do you hear me?’ That was the first time he saw the room, though Scullion knew it wasn’t seeing in the normal sense because everything was blurred with a milky radiance. And then, one at a time, he counted the colours back into his life. She was moving tubes about his face. For minutes or days he saw her green tunic. She was chatty, the nurse, and her head came in and out of focus, lifting, prodding, reminding him of school. One day a pair of blue surgical gloves fluttered over him like a hawk. A yellow drink came with a straw but he couldn’t.Three weeks in Critical Care. ‘You’re doing great,’ she said. ‘You’re in Birmingham.’ Scullion wanted to say this was a contradiction in terms but he couldn’t speak and didn’t know if his mouth was moving. Try to be nice. Sunlight broke through the blinds one day, then he heard Madeleine, her voice by the bed and her hand smoothing his hair. He couldn’t afford to be miles away now that Madeleine was here, the spouse of doom, passing small pink sponges into his mouth.
