Lost Read Free

his hands in the pockets of his white coat.
    “Wil that be al ?”
    “Why can't I remember?”
    “It's not real y my field, I'm afraid. We can run some tests. You'l need a CT scan or an MRI to rule out a skul fracture or hemorrhage. I'l cal neurology.”
    “My leg hurts.”
    “Good. It's getting better. You'l need a walker or crutches. A physiotherapist wil come and talk to you about a program to help you strengthen your leg.” He flips his bangs and turns to leave. “I'm sorry about your memory, Detective. Be thankful you're alive.”
    He's gone, leaving a scent of aftershave and superiority. Why do surgeons cultivate this air of owning the world? I know I should be grateful. Maybe if I could remember what happened I could trust the explanations more.
    So I should be dead. I always suspected that I would die suddenly. It's not that I'm particularly foolhardy but I have a knack for taking shortcuts. Most people only die once. Now I've had two lives. Throw in three wives and I've had more than my fair share of living. (I'l definitely forgo the three wives, should someone want them back.) My Irish nurse is back again. Her name is Maggie and she has one of those reassuring smiles they teach in nursing school. She has a bowl of warm water and a sponge.
    “Are you feeling better?”
    “I'm sorry I frightened you.”
    “That's OK. Time for a bath.”
    She pul s back the covers and I drag them up again.
    “There's nothing under there I haven't seen,” she says.
    “I beg to differ. I have a pretty fair recol ection of how many women have danced with old Johnnie One-Eye and unless you were that girl in the back row of the Shepherd's Bush Empire during a Yardbirds concert in 1961, I don't think you're one of them.”
    “Johnnie One-Eye?”
    “My oldest friend.”
    She shakes her head and looks sorry for me.
    A familiar figure appears from behind her—a short, square man, with no neck and a five-o'clock shadow. Campbel Smith is a Chief Superintendent, with a crushing handshake and a no-brand smile. He's wearing his uniform, with polished silver buttons and a shirt col ar so highly starched it threatens to decapitate him.
    Everyone claims to like Campbel —even his enemies—but few people are ever happy to see him. Not me. Not today. I remember him! That's a good sign.
    “Christ, Vincent, you gave us a scare!” he booms. “It was touch and go for a while. We were al praying for you—everyone at the station. See al the cards and flowers?” I turn my head and look at a table piled high with flowers and bowls of fruit.
    “Someone shot me,” I say, incredulously.
    “Yes,” he replies, pul ing up a chair. “We need to know what happened.”
    “I don't remember.”
    “You didn't see them?”
    “Who?”
    “The people on the boat.”
    “What boat?” I look at him blankly.
    His voice suddenly grows louder. “You were found floating in the Thames shot to shit and less than a mile away there was a boat that looked like a floating abattoir. What happened?”
    “I don't remember.”
    “You don't remember the massacre?”
    “I don't remember the fucking boat.”
    Campbel has dropped any pretense of affability. He paces the room, bunching his fists and trying to control himself.
    “This isn't good, Vincent. This isn't pretty. Did you kil anyone?”
    “Today?”
    “Don't joke with me. Did you discharge your firearm? Your service pistol was signed out of the station armory. Are we going to find bodies?” Bodies? Is that what happened?
    Campbel rubs his hands through his hair in frustration.
    “I can't tel you the crap that's flying already. There's going to be a ful inquiry. The Commissioner is demanding answers. The press wil have a fucking field day. The blood of three people was found on that boat, including yours. Forensics says at least one of them must have died. They found brains and skul fragments.” The wal s seem to dip and sway. Maybe it's the morphine or the closeness of the air. How could I have