Chapters (45)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Contents
- Prologue
- 2046
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- About the Author
‘Oh. Your family liked Sherlock Holmes then,’ Ben remarks as the doctor’s fingers probe about and start pushing into Ben’s stomach and ribs while he watches Ben for a pain reaction.
‘Indeed.’
‘Is your middle name Hamish?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s Sherlock.’
‘You are shitting me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Eh?’ Ben blinks at him.
‘I am shitting you. My middle name is not Sherlock,’ Doctor Watson says while working down Ben’s legs.
‘Oh . . . what is it then?’
‘Holmes.’
‘Seriously?’
‘No.’
‘What the fuck? Who are you?’
‘Doctor Watson, I just said that.’
‘No . . . I mean who are you? Like . . .’
‘Ah,’ the doctor says knowingly. ‘I see we have a loss of cognitive function.’
‘Do what?’
‘What is your name?’
‘What?’
‘Hmmm, quite a serious loss of cognitive function it appears,’ Doctor Watson says with a serious nod at Ben.
‘Ben.’
‘What is?’
‘My name. I’m Ben.’
‘Nice to meet you, Ben. I’m Doctor Watson,’ he says, holding a hand out to shake.
‘You’re fucking weird is what you are.’
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘Do you?’ Ben asks.
‘Do I?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, do you?’
‘I do. Do you?’
‘Maybe. Do you?’
‘Hmmm,’ the doctor muses, looking at Ben intently.
‘We’re in Roland’s Batcave in the dinosaur times.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘So who are you?’
‘Nice to meet you, I’m Doctor Watson,’ Doctor Watson says, holding his hand out again.
‘Er . . . we just shook hands,’ Ben says, shaking his head again.
‘Did we?’
‘We did.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes, I am sure.’
‘You are sure we shook hands.’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Okay, weirdo, why are you here?’ Ben asks.
‘Checking on you,’ the doctor says, looking down at him as though the answer is obvious.
‘Not here in this room, but why are you here? In Roland’s Batcave in dinosaur times?’
‘I just said. I’m checking on you.’
‘Fuck me, you’re a one, you are,’ Ben says, getting up into a proper sitting position and reaching for the cup, which is on a newly installed bedside table, or rather a rough-hewn bit of wood on legs.
‘Did I say you could have more water?’
‘No,’ Ben says, taking the cup and downing it in one smooth motion. ‘So . . . why are you here?’
‘Ah,’ he says in a voice that makes Ben realise he was pissing about before, but this new voice is serious, deep and full of gravitas. ‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘Crack on.’
‘Is that a yes?’ the doctor asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks.’ He sits down on the edge of Ben’s bed and sighs deeply in that way doctors do when they’re about to tell someone they’ve got fourteen seconds left to live.
‘You look like shit,’ Ben says with a wince.
‘I feel like shit,’ Doctor Watson says. ‘I’m an alcoholic.’
‘Oh.’
‘Haven’t had a drink for four days though.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Why four days?’
‘I got here four days ago.’