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Back What I Did Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-One
  25. Twenty-Two
  26. Twenty-Three
  27. Twenty-Four
  28. Twenty-Five
  29. Twenty-Six
  30. Twenty-Seven
  31. Twenty-Eight
  32. Twenty-Nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-One
  35. Thirty-Two
  36. Thirty-Three
  37. Thirty-Four
  38. Thirty-Five
  39. Thirty-Six
  40. Thirty-Seven
  41. Thirty-Eight
  42. Thirty-Nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty-One
  45. Forty-Two
  46. Forty-Three
  47. Forty-Four
  48. Forty-Five
  49. Forty-Six
  50. Forty-Seven
  51. Forty-Eight
  52. Forty-Nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty-One
  55. Fifty-Two
  56. Fifty-Three
  57. Fifty-Four
  58. Fifty-Five
  59. Fifty-Six
  60. Fifty-Seven
  61. Fifty-Eight
  62. Fifty-Nine
  63. Sixty
  64. Sixty-One
  65. Sixty-Two
  66. Sixty-Three
  67. Sixty-Four
  68. Sixty-Five
  69. Sixty-Six
  70. Sixty-Seven
  71. Sixty-Eight
  72. Sixty-Nine
  73. Seventy
  74. Seventy-One
  75. Seventy-Two
  76. Seventy-Three
  77. Seventy-Four
  78. Seventy-Five
  79. Seventy-Six
  80. Seventy-Seven
  81. Seventy-Eight
  82. Seventy-Nine
  83. Eighty
  84. Epilogue
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Extract from To Keep You Safe
  87. About the Author

Twenty-Five

twenty-five:

– now –

I retreat to the kitchen and think of what I’ve never truly forgotten. I have pain relief – good pain relief.

The.

Really.

Good.

Shit.

And I really need it now. Both addiction and genuine pain mean that the constant underhum of wanting pain relief is distracting and I want it dealt with to clear my thinking, so I can concentrate on what’s important.

Inside the larder, on the top row, I have a store of medication in a locked tin box. The key is hidden on the top shelf, in an old paint tin. Tentatively, I reach for the tin and the box with careful, throbbing hands; when I open the lid, for the first time since I have woken I feel an eddy of calm. I probably shouldn’t have too much with a head injury, but my burns are screaming and I need to be able to forget about them.

Inside I see the neat contents, laid out in rows. I know exactly what I’ve got in here. Some people might think it’s silly that I’ve got a sign-out sheet but as a nurse I know with these drugs – DF118s, morphine patches, OxyContin from America – you’ve got to be sure what you’ve taken and when.

I really want an Oxy, but I know it’s too strong, and I cannot risk too much. So I select the right dose of Ativan, knowing it’ll help enough but not too much. A little Valium too – just a bit.

I dry swallow them with a love and a gratitude that once I might have been embarrassed about.

Already feeling soothed, I turn towards the door. I gasp: my bladder threatens.

I see a face in front of me, pale in the gloom.

I shut my eyes, lifting my hands even higher to protect my face.

It’s over, it’s over.

Twenty-Six

twenty-six:

– now –

The figure is in front of me. In the gloom it takes me a second to adjust.

It’s the worst and longest second of my life.

I see the hair first – the wild hair, pushed up into new angles. I see the eyes: crazed holes of despair.

I’ve seen this figure before. I’m haunted by this person.

I see the hands raised . . . ready for . . . these hands are going to hit me!

It’s only when I flinch away that I realise it’s me. Just me. The dusty mirror on the back of the door is showing me my own reflection in the gloom.