The aquatic voice gurgles somewhere on the margins of the room. I can only hear in waves. Another voice answers but I can’t make out the words. Then the man speaks again. This time he sounds clearer, like his face is pressed right next to mine.

I recognize his voice now. It’s the man from my dream. I want to see him but my eyes won’t focus properly. Everything is blurred.

‘Maggie, can you hear me?’

I go to speak but my mouth is full of water. River water. The milky taste of the Ouse. I hear it rushing in my ears, into my nose. I try to breathe but the water is consuming me.

‘Maggie,’ he repeats, the name a rock thudding against my head. ‘Can you hear me?’

The answer is, yes, I can. And not only at this moment but for some time now. I’ve lived with his voice, all their voices, in my dream world, the world I’m reluctantly leaving. The lure of sleep is overwhelming. It entices me with its velvet embrace, tempting me to lose myself in its folds.

‘Maggie,’ says the man firmly. ‘I need to know if you can hear me.’

I turn my head then and look straight at him. The fog begins to clear and he comes into focus, a man in his early forties with cropped greying hair and thick blue-rimmed glasses.

‘Yes,’ I whisper, finally, hearing the collective sigh of relief trickle through the room. Then more loudly: ‘Yes.’

2

Wednesday 19 July

Something is shifting. I become aware, slowly, of noise, chatter. My eyes are the first to respond, flicking open like a switch taking me from darkness into light. I see a glass window in front of me. There’s a blur of colour behind it; movement, figures. I try to focus on the figures but they bleed out like street lights reflected in a puddle. I blink, once, twice, three times, then I turn my head. The movement brings about a sensation akin to travel sickness. I’m aware of a tightening in my throat. I go to touch it but my arm won’t move. I look down and see wires. They are attached to my hands and chest.

‘Hello,’ I say, my voice a croak. ‘Hello?’ Louder this time.

I hear the door open. A man appears at the end of the bed.

‘Maggie?’ he says, his voice loud and deliberate.

I recognize his voice.

‘My name’s Dr Elms.’

Dr Elms. I last heard the name in my coma dream.

‘Wheremi?’ I say, pushing the words out. ‘Wheremi?’

My mouth feels twisted. The words aren’t forming properly. My lips feel numb.

‘You’re in Lewes Victoria Hospital.’

He is speaking very slowly, like a warped record.