Читать книгу Stand By Me - S.D. Robertson - Страница 9

He was in a small, box-like room without a window. The plastered walls and ceiling were cream: smooth, unmarked and with no fixtures or fittings. A powder-coated white metal door was the only way in or out.

Somehow the room was brightly lit, although this puzzled him, since he could see no obvious light source.

He was sitting at a table in the middle of the room, struggling to grasp how he’d got there or, indeed, where that was. He needed time alone to review his thoughts and memories in order to try and make sense of this. But the man sitting on the other side of the table in the smart black suit and tie, the sort you’d wear to a funeral, kept staring at him and talking.

‘Are you in any discomfort?’ the man asked in a northern English accent. He’d introduced himself earlier, hadn’t he? So why couldn’t he remember his name?

‘Sorry, what was that you just asked me? I don’t seem to be able to, um—’

‘I was asking whether you’re in any pain. Sometimes, when people have been through such a major trauma, there’s a sort of residual … well, yes, discomfort. It usually passes pretty quickly.’

That word pain had thrown him; diverted his mind to unwanted memories. ‘Sorry to be weird,’ he said after taking a moment to regroup his thoughts. ‘I’m struggling to focus. Please could you repeat that once more?’

‘Wait. Bear with me.’ The man picked up a tablet-like device from the table and tapped something into it. He scrutinised the screen, which was directed so that only he could see it, rubbing his light stubble with one hand and nodding his head occasionally. When he looked up, he spoke slowly: ‘You’re disorientated, right? Finding it hard to concentrate?’

He nodded in reply.

‘That can happen, but it should also pass quickly. We need something to ground you. Cup of tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

The man promised to return soon, grabbed his tablet and left through the metal door.

Alone in the room, he found himself tapping his fingers on the table and staring at the floor, which was coated in a shiny grey material with a hard yet rubbery feel underfoot.

His eyes wandered to the metal legs of the oak-effect table and the two brown moulded-plastic seats. They reminded him of school furniture.

But this wasn’t a classroom. It was … somewhere else, the implications of which made him fidgety. His right leg bounced up and down under the table as his mind whirred, fighting to get back up to speed.