The Darkest Corners by Barry Hutchison Page B

d—’
    â€˜You’re not my dad!’ I cried. ‘Stop saying you’re my dad!’
    He stopped, and I could see from his face that he was taken aback. He cleared his throat. ‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘I’m your doctor.’
    Something tingled at the base of my skull. It nestled back there, an itch I couldn’t quite scratch.
    â€˜What?’ I said. ‘What are you talking about? What are you trying to do?’
    â€˜You received a severe head trauma, Kyle,’ he continued. ‘There was serious bleeding in your brain and we believed there was a very good chance you were going to die. We had no choice but to operate. Afterwards we induced coma, in order to allow the brain to recover.’
    The word came out of me all by itself. ‘Coma? What... what do you mean “coma”?’
    â€˜You have been asleep for almost a month, Kyle.’
    â€˜What...? No, I haven’t. No. I’ve... I’ve...’
    â€˜You were lucky. We almost lost you several times.’ He finally smiled. It was a smile of relief. ‘But you pulled through. You’re a real fighter.’
    â€˜Pulled… pulled through?’ I mumbled.
    â€˜Your mother is waiting outside,’ said Doc Mortis. It was the first time he’d spoken since entering the room, and I noticed immediately that his accent was gone. ‘Would you like to see her?’
    â€˜My... my mum?’ I said. The inside of my head was reeling like a roulette wheel. ‘My mum’s dead.’
    Again that pen, scribbling on the clipboard. My dad – my doctor? – patted me on the arm. I flinched and drew back, but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘You’ve been dreaming, Kyle,’ he said. ‘It’s very common. Your mum’s fine.’ He nodded to Doc Mortis, who smiled at me, then scuttled off towards the door.
    My dad turned back to me. ‘He’ll go fetch your mum.’
    â€˜What is all this?’ I demanded. ‘This isn’t a hospital.’
    â€˜What makes you say that?’
    I tugged on the wires sticking to my chest. ‘Well, these aren’t attached to anything for starters.’
    A puzzled frown furrowed his brow. ‘Yes, they are,’ he said. ‘They’re all attached to these.’ He gestured to an empty space beside the bed. ‘Monitoring equipment mostly, for keeping track of how you’re doing.’
    â€˜Are you mental?’ I scowled. ‘There’s nothing there.’
    He stared at me, and there was that expression of concern again. ‘Yes, Kyle. There is. Look. It’s all right here.’
    And suddenly he was right. I could see them there – three little screens all blinking and flashing their reams and reams of data. Two were built into a tall narrow trolley; the other was attached to a metal pole. A clear bag hung at the top of the pole. Liquid dripped along a tube that I now realised was inserted into the back of my hand.
    I made a grab for the tape that held the tube in place, but my dad put a gentle hand against my head and held it there until I stopped struggling.
    â€˜Relax,’ he said. ‘Like I say, you’ve been through a lot. All these reactions are understandable. All this must come as a shock.’
    I watched the liquid trickling down the tube. ‘Trust me,’ I croaked. ‘You have no idea.’
    The door opened and Doc Mortis poked his head round the frame. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
    â€˜One moment,’ said my dad. He turned back to me. ‘Your mum is waiting to see you,’ he said. ‘But before I bring her in, I need to be confident you’re OK. You can… You can see the equipment now, right?’
    I looked over to the screens that hadn’t been there a few moments ago, and gave a slow nod of my head. ‘Yes.’
    â€˜And what about the rest of the room? What can you see, Kyle?’
    The rest of the room was