He came round to find himself alone in a small cubicle, not on the main ward as he’d been last night. Couldn’t move his hands. He pulled against the restraints and, when that didn’t work, let out a great bellow of rage. A face appeared above him. ‘Now, now, we mustn’t get ourselves upset, must we?’ ‘Good God, woman, I’ve lost half my fucking face, why wouldn’t I be upset?’ ‘Lang-widge!’ He wanted to ask for water, but she went away and he was left crying big, fat baby tears of anguish and despair. He squinted down, trying to see if he had one of those tube things attached to the stump of his nose, and sure enough, there it was. Couldn’t remember what it was for, what it was supposed to do. He wanted to demand that they come back, explain, answer questions, give him a drink of water. There was water, in a jug on the bedside table, but he had no way of reaching it. He groaned with frustration. ‘They’ll give you some more morphine soon.’ Knew that voice. Looking up, he saw an unfeasibly tall man preparing to jackknife himself into a chair.
