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forgotten something like that?
    “What were you doing on that boat?”
    “It must have been a police operation—”
    “No,” he declares angrily, al pretense of friendship gone. “You weren't working a case. This wasn't a police operation. You were on your own.” We have an old-fashioned staring contest. I own this one. I might never blink again. Morphine is the answer. God, it feels good.
    Final y Campbel slumps into a chair and plucks a handful of grapes from a brown paper bag beside the bed.
    “What is the last thing you remember?”
    We sit in silence as I try to recover shreds of a dream. Pictures float in and out of my head, dim and then sharp: a yel ow life buoy, Marilyn Monroe . . .

    “I remember ordering a pizza.”
    “Is that it?”
    “Sorry.”
    Staring at the gauze dressing on my hand, I marvel at how the missing finger feels itchy. “What was I working on?” Campbel shrugs. “You were on leave.”
    “Why?”
    “You needed a rest.”
    He's lying to me. Sometimes I think he forgets how far back we go. We did our training together at the Police Staff Col ege, Bramshil . And I introduced him to his wife, Maureen, at a barbecue thirty-five years ago. She has never completely forgiven me. I don't know what upsets her most—my three marriages or the fact that I pawned her off on someone else.
    It's been a long while since Campbel cal ed me buddy and we haven't shared a beer since he made Chief Superintendent. He's a different man. No better or no worse, just different.
    He spits a grape seed into his hand. “You always thought you were better than me, Vincent, but I got promoted ahead of you.” You were a brownnoser.
    “I know you think I'm a brownnoser.” ( He's reading my mind. ) “But I was just smarter. I made the right contacts and let the system work for me instead of fighting against it. You should have retired three years ago, when you had the chance. Nobody would have thought any less of you. We would have given you a big send-off. You could have settled down, played a bit of golf, maybe even saved your marriage.”
    I wait for him to say something else but he just stares at me with his head cocked to one side.
    “Vincent, would you mind if I made an observation?” He doesn't wait for my answer. “You put a pretty good face on things considering al that's happened, but the feeling I get from you is . . . wel . . . you're a sad man. But it's something more than that . . . you're angry.”
    Embarrassment prickles like heat rash under my hospital gown.
    “Some people find solace in religion and others have people they can talk to. I know that's not your style. Look at you! You hardly see your kids. You live alone . . . Now you've gone and fucked up your career. I can't help you anymore. I told you to leave this alone.”
    “What was I supposed to leave alone?”
    He doesn't answer. Instead he picks up his hat and polishes the brim with his sleeve. Any moment now he's going to turn and tel me what he means. Only he doesn't; he keeps on walking out the door and along the corridor.
    My grapes have also gone. The stalks look like dead trees on a crumpled brown-paper plain. Beside them a basket of flowers has started to wilt. The begonias and tulips are losing their petals like fat fan dancers and dusting the top of the table with pol en. A smal white card embossed with a silver scrol is wedged between the stems. I can't read the message.
    Some bastard shot me! It should be etched in my memory. I should be able to relive it over and over again like those whining victims on daytime talk shows who have personal-injury lawyers on speed dial. Instead, I remember nothing. And no matter how many times I squeeze my eye shut and bang my fists on my forehead it doesn't change.
    The real y strange thing is what I imagine I remember. For instance I recal seeing silhouettes against bright lights; masked men wearing plastic shower caps and paper slippers, who were discussing cars, pension plans and