The Last Letter from Your Lover

seemed, oddly, as if it were some way below her. She lay absorbing it, letting it crystallise, letting her mind play catch-up, as she recognised each for what it was.
    It was at this point that she became aware of the pain. It forced its way upwards in exquisite stages: first her arm, a sharp, burning sensation from elbow to shoulder, then her head: dull, relentless. The rest of her body ached, as it had done when she . . .
    When she . . . ?
    ‘He’ll be along in two ticks. He says to close the blinds.’
    Her mouth was so dry. She closed her lips and swallowed painfully. She wanted to ask for some water, but the words wouldn’t come. She opened her eyes a little. Two indistinct shapes moved around her. Every time she thought she had worked out what they were they moved again. Blue. They were blue .
    ‘You know who’s just come in downstairs, don’t you?’
    One of the voices dropped. ‘Eddie Cochrane’s girlfriend. The one who survived the car crash. She’s been writing songs for him. In his memory, rather.’
    ‘She won’t be as good as he was, I’ll wager.’
    ‘She’s had newspaper men in all morning. Matron’s at her wit’s end.’
    She couldn’t understand what they were saying. The pain in her head had become a thumping, rushing sound, building in volume and intensity until all she could do was close her eyes again and wait for it, or her, to go away. Then the white came in, like a tide, to envelop her. With some gratitude she let out a silent breath and allowed herself to sink back into its embrace.
    ‘Are you awake, dear? You have a visitor.’
    There was a flickering reflection above her, a phantasm that moved briskly, first one way and then another. She had a sudden recollection of her first wristwatch, the way she had reflected sunlight through its glass casing on to the ceiling of the playroom, sending it backwards and forwards, making her little dog bark.
    The blue was there again. She saw it move, accompanied by the swishing. And then there was a hand on her wrist, a brief spark of pain so that she yelped.
    ‘A little more carefully with that side, Nurse,’ the voice chided. ‘She felt that.’
    ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Hargreaves.’
    ‘The arm will require further surgery. We’ve pinned it in several places, but it’s not there yet.’
    A dark shape hovered near her feet. She willed it to solidify, but, like the blue shapes, it refused to do so, and she let her eyes close.
    ‘You can sit with her, if you like. Talk to her. She’ll be able to hear you.’
    ‘How are her . . . other injuries?’
    ‘There’ll be some scarring, I’m afraid. Especially on that arm. And she took quite a blow to the head, so it may be a while before she’s herself again. But, given the severity of the accident, I think we can say she’s had a rather lucky escape.’
    There was a brief silence.
    ‘Yes.’
    Someone had placed a bowl of fruit beside her. She had opened her eyes again, her gaze settling on it, letting the shape, the colour solidify until she grasped, with a stab of satisfaction, that she could identify what was there. Grapes, she said. And again, rolling the silent word around the inside of her head: grapes. If felt important, as if it were anchoring her in this new reality.
    And then, as quickly as they had come, they were gone, obliterated by the dark blue mass that had settled beside her. As it moved closer, she could just make out the faint scent of tobacco. The voice, when it came, was tentative, perhaps a little embarrassed, even. ‘Jennifer? Jennifer? Can you hear me?’
    The words were so loud; strangely intrusive.
    ‘Jenny, dear, it’s me.’
    She wondered if they would let her see the grapes again. It seemed necessary that she did; blooming, purple, solid. Familiar.
    ‘Are you sure she can hear me?’
    ‘Quite sure, but she may find communicating rather exhausting to begin with.’
    There was some murmuring that she couldn’t make out. Or perhaps she just stopped trying. Nothing seemed clear. ‘Can . . . you . . .’ she whispered.
    ‘But her mind wasn’t damaged? In the crash? You know that there will be no . . . lasting . . . ?’
    ‘As I said, she took a good bump to the head, but there were no medical signs for alarm.’ The sound of shuffled papers. ‘No fracture. No swelling to the brain. But these things are always a little unpredictable, and patients are affected quite differently. So, you’ll just need to be a