She’s totally out of it, her breathing is shallow and erratic, and she hasn’t moved once since I arrived. I’m selfishly relieved that her face is once again swathed in tightly wrapped bandages, a small jagged hole ripped in the dressing so that she can breathe through her mouth. There’s no way I could have dealt with another glimpse of that seeping skull face with its bulging, lidless eyes. Still, the rest of her is beautiful: her wrists fine-boned and delicate, her body under the covers long and slender. Lucky Farrell. Soon he’ll have the complete package back together again. Now, now, the Dr Meka voice says. ‘Katya?’ I whisper. For some reason I feel like I should be apologising to her. It’s crazy, none of this is my fault, but I have to fight the urge all the same. That’s your inferiority complex speaking. ‘Katya?’ I try again. Still no response.
