I have a brain scan. Then they bring me some lunch, which is peas and mushy potatoes and a bit of dry grilled chicken. I eat all of it as I’m starving by now and then I sit up in bed and hum a song that my mother used to sing to me. I can’t get it out of my head. I don’t remember the words but the melody is a lullaby. Some of the other patients look at me as they pass my bed. There is an old lady with a Zimmer frame who keeps going up and down. I think she has started to hum the song too. I fall asleep and when I wake up there is a woman in the next bed; she is pregnant and is resting her hand on her bulging belly. She is singing the song too and she knows the words.
‘How do you know the lyrics?’ I say.
She turns her face towards me; it is dark and clear and shiny under the halogen lights.
‘I knew it when I was a child,’ she says.
‘Where are you from?’ I say.
She doesn’t reply. She is lying on her back and moving her hand in circular motions over her belly, singing the song as a whisper to her unborn child.
‘I claimed asylum,’ she said, ‘and they denied me. I’m appealing. I’ve been in this country seven years.’
‘Where are you from?’ I say again, but my mind blurs and I hear only the faint sound of her voice and see the gentle flicker of the light above me fading into black.
The following morning it is quiet on the ward and the bed next to mine is empty. A nurse approaches and tells me I have a visitor, and I see the Moroccan man walking towards me.
He sits down in a chair by my bed and puts his hand on my arm. ‘Geezer,’ he says, ‘we’ve been so worried about you.’
‘Where is Afra?’
‘She is at the B&B.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘Why don’t you just get some rest? We’ll talk about it later.’
‘I want to know how she is.’
‘How do you think she is? She thought you were dead.’
Neither of us says anything for a long time. The Moroccan man doesn’t leave anytime soon; he stays there by my side with his hand on my arm. He doesn’t ask me where I went or why I slept on the beach, and I don’t tell him that I walked into the sea at night. He doesn’t ask me anything, but he doesn’t leave either, which annoys me at first because all I want to do is hum the lullaby, but after a while his presence soothes me. There is something about his solidity and silence that brings some peace to my mind.
He takes his book out of his pocket and begins to read, chuckling to himself now and then. He stays there until the very last visitor leaves and then he returns again the next morning to pick me up. He comes with a bag of clothes. I take off the hospital gown and put on the things he has brought me.
‘They are pyjamas,’ he says. ‘Diomande calls them tracksuit. He said you will be comfortable in these. I don’t understand it. You will have to walk in the streets now in nightwear.’
Just before we leave the hospital the doctor comes to see me again. I am perched on the edge of the bed and she sits opposite me on the visitor’s chair with a clipboard in her hands. The Moroccan man is by the window, looking down at the car park.
‘Mr Ibrahim,’ she says, hesitating, tucking her brown hair behind her ear, ‘the good news is that your brain scan was clear, but from what happened and from the information that I have from you, I believe you are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. I advise you strongly to seek some counselling from your GP.’ She says all this slowly and clearly, looking at me straight in the eyes, and then she glances at her clipboard and I hear a small sigh before she checks her watch. ‘Can you reassure me that you will do that?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Because I wouldn’t want you to put yourself in danger again.’ There is real concern in her eyes now.
‘Yes, Doctor, I promise that I will take your advice.’
*
We get the bus back to the B&B. It is mid-morning by the time we arrive and the landlady is dusting the living room. She clomps across the wooden planks in her platform shoes to greet us. She is wearing bright yellow rubber gloves.
‘Would you like a nice cup of tea, Mr Ibrahim?’ She almost sings these words, and I don’t reply because I am distracted by something in the courtyard. Afra and the Afghan woman are sitting on deckchairs beneath the cherry tree, by the bee. When Farida sees me she says something to Afra, then gets up to let me sit down.
Afra is silent for a very long time. She has her face tilted towards the sun. ‘I can see shadows and light,’ she says. ‘When there’s a lot of light I can see the shadow of the tree. Look!’ she says. ‘Give me your hand!’