The music fades into the news, the moment passes and we are pushed apart (I thank God for small mercies) by the dog, who shoves his giant head into the washing-up bowl to refresh himself.

‘Feh! Drink your own vater, you big, k’ry chamoole!’

Shimmy swipes at the animal and it dutifully shuffles off, then, ‘Now go! Go!’ Shimmy pronounces. ‘Go bagroben mein Rogue, eh? Cover him up! Zat’s my boy!’

Three seconds pass. The dog has waddled from the room leaving a trail of mud and filth in his wake. We both stand up, in silence, turn, and follow. We find him in his favourite place, flat on his side, panting, blocking the front door with his considerable heft.

Shimmy screws up his eyes and stares at the creature, thoughtfully. Another three seconds pass, and then, ‘A bomb?!’ he explodes. ‘A pitzootz you say?! In Bgriiighton?!’

31

Mr Franklin D. Huff

I’m lying flat on my belly, pinned to the bed (a straw mattress – yes! A straw mattress!) by a powerfully starched sheet. My pillow – if you can call this sorry artefact a pillow – is about an inch thick. I try to turn over, but my arm – my free arm (I have a free arm!) seems to be affixed …

‘Please don’t try and turn yourself!’

Eh? Who …? My eyes fly open.

A monk is sitting quietly by the head of the bed, reading a book. He quickly rises to his feet and places the book, still open, face down, on the seat of his chair.

‘You’re in the sanatorium, at Douai Abbey,’ he explains (slight Scottish accent – an Edinburgh man, I’ll wager), before walking to the other side of the bed and fiddling with some kind of medical contraption. ‘You’re lying on your stomach because your buttocks have become extraordinarily inflamed after your epic walk. You’ve been delirious for the best part of five hours. Try and keep still, if you can. We’ve dosed you up on antibiotics and there’s an intravenous drip in your arm. You were very dehydrated, and you seem to have suffered some form of a concussion …’ He pauses. ‘I’m Brother Cosmas. I’m a trained medic.’

As Brother Cosmas speaks I try to focus on the spine of the book. The Coll … The Collected Poems of … of Jo … Jo … John … Donne!

Phew.

I wiggle my toes. Argh! My toes feel raw! Skinless! Wet! I tense my buttocks.

OH GOD THAT HURTS!

Brother Cosmas watches me closely. ‘Your buttocks are extraordinarily inflamed,’ he repeats.

‘Could we just …’ I start off.

Not talk about my buttocks, please? Pretty please?

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Brother Cosmas continues, undeterred. ‘I served in the armed forces for seven years. That’s where I acquired my nursing qualifications. And trust me, I’ve seen a whole lot of inflammations in my time – some in places you might find it difficult to imagine could get inflamed – but never, ever anything quite like this.’