John Staples’ recollections for that weekend were vague,
confusing assortments of medical comings and goings, needles and drips, white
clinical sheets and firm but musty smelling pillows. He had been aware of
travelling further than expected, but the heat of the car and the rhythmic
pound of the three litre engine had conspired with the sedative to weigh his
thoughts into a dark, comfortable marshmallow-like sensation. The fracas at the
main gate had passed him by, although he would later remember being manhandled
and dragged out into a cold, still evening. For some time he assumed that it
had been a dream, or even one of his experiences. Saturday passed as though on
fast forward and slow motion combined, Sunday never existed. John spoke clearly
for the first time on Monday, suddenly aware of lying on a trolley, a cool
draught raking his legs as they forged onwards, the mists of the weekend
parting as the drugs were permitted to eke away, his consciousness being
allowed to re-assert itself. The voices of the medical orderlies and the
purpose of their errand slowly filtering into his thoughts, dominating and
shaping his priorities.
‘MRI? Why do I need an MRI?’
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Copyright Ray Sullivan 2011
The characters, places and events described in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, places or events, past or present, is coincidence. All rights reserved
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