The Fear Index

into our house, it doesn’t mean he has to get into our lives. Not unless we let him. Look at me.’ He gestured to himself. ‘I’m fine. You just saw the scan – no fracture and no swelling.’
    ‘And no bloody common sense,’ said an English voice behind them.
    ‘Hugo,’ said Gabrielle, without turning to look at him, ‘will you please tell your business partner that he’s made of flesh and blood, just like the rest of us?’
    ‘Ah, but is he?’ Quarry was standing by the door with his overcoat unfastened, a cherry-red woollen scarf around his neck, his hands in his pockets.
    ‘Business partner?’ repeated Dr Celik, who had been persuaded to bring Quarry down from A&E, and was now looking at him suspiciously. ‘I thought you said you were his brother?’
    ‘Just have the damned test, Al,’ said Quarry. ‘The presentation can be postponed.’
    ‘Exactly,’ said Gabrielle.
    ‘I promise you I’ll have the test,’ said Hoffmann evenly. ‘Just not today. Is that all right with you, Doctor? I’m not going to collapse or anything?’
    ‘ Monsieur ,’ said the grey-haired radiologist, who had been on duty since the previous afternoon and was losing patience, ‘what you do, and do not do, is entirely your decision. The wound should definitely be stitched, in my opinion, and if you leave you will be required to sign a form releasing the hospital from all responsibility. The rest is up to you.’
    ‘Fine. I’ll have it stitched, and I’ll sign the form. And then I’ll come back and have the MRI another time, when it’s more convenient. Happy?’ he said to Gabrielle.
    Before she could reply, a familiar electronic reveille sounded. It took him a moment to realise it was the alarm on his mobile, which he had set for six thirty in what felt to him already like another life.

    HOFFMANN LEFT HIS wife sitting with Quarry in the reception area of the accident and emergency department while he went back into the cubicle to have his wound stitched up. He was given a local anaesthetic, administered by syringe – a moment of sharp pain that made him gasp – and then a thin strip of hair was shaved from around the wound with a disposable plastic razor. The process of stitching felt strange rather than uncomfortable, as if his scalp was being tightened. Afterwards, Dr Celik produced a small mirror and showed Hoffmann his handiwork, like a hairdresser seeking approval from a customer. The cut was only about five centimetres long. Stitched together it resembled a twisted mouth with thick white lips where the hair had been removed. It seemed to leer at Hoffmann in the glass.
    ‘It will hurt,’ said Celik cheerfully, ‘when the anaesthetic wears off. You will need to take painkillers.’ He took away the mirror and the smile vanished.
    ‘You’re not going to bandage it up?’
    ‘No, it will heal quicker if it’s exposed.’
    ‘Good. In that case, I’ll leave now.’
    Celik shrugged. ‘That is your right. But first you must sign a form.’
    After he had signed the little chit – ‘I declare that I am leaving the University Hospital contrary to medical advice, despite being informed of the risks, and that I assume full responsibility’ – Hoffmann picked up his bag of clothes and followed Celik to a small shower cubicle. Celik switched on the light. As he turned away the Turk muttered, barely audibly, ‘Asshole’ – or at any rate that was what Hoffmann thought he said, but the door closed before he could respond.
    It was the first time he had been alone since he recovered consciousness, and for a moment he revelled in his solitude. He took off his dressing gown and pyjamas. There was a mirror on the opposite wall and he paused to examine his naked reflection under the merciless neon strip: his skin sallow, his stomach slack, his breasts slightly more visible than they used to be, like a pubescent girl’s. Some of his chest hair was grey. A long black bruise extended across his left hip. He twisted sideways to examine himself, ran his fingers along the grazed and darkened skin, then briefly cupped his penis. There was no reaction, and he wondered: could a blow on the head render one impotent? Glancing down, his feet seemed to him unnaturally splayed and veined on the cold tile floor. This is old age, he thought with a shock, this is the future: I look like that portrait by Lucian Freud Gabrielle wanted me to buy. He bent to pick up the bag and for a moment the room went fuzzy and he swayed