I don’t want to think.
I reach for my morphine pump, but it’s empty.
“You’ve used it all.”
I open my eyes. Ludo’s voice sounds so close I half expect to see him where Michael stood, but he’s sitting on his own bed, cross-legged, cradling his injured arm against his chest. His hair is mussed and his eyes hooded. He doesn’t look like he’s been awake long. “Used all what?”
“The morphine. It clicks when it’s empty and you have to wait until the next dose is due.”
I know that. That damn-fucking click haunts me at night when I really do have nothing to think about except the agony searing every nerve. But somehow hearing Ludo say it makes it more frightening.
He breaks our stare off and goes back to flicking the cast around his wrist. I ponder what’s wrong with him, then why I give a shit.I don’t give a shit. But curiosity is a wicked thing. Add in boredom and pain and I’m apparently a brand new person. “What happened to your arm?”
Ludo raises his gaze, eyes still bleary and swollen. “Nothing recently. I smashed it up last year and it needed new pins.”
“They’re putting pins in my leg.”
“I know. Your visitor has a loud voice.”
“Michael? Seriously? I don’t think that dude has ever shouted in his life.”
“Maybe I was listening too hard then.”
Ludo speaks without inflection, as though we have conversations like this all the time. As though it’s normal for him to be listening and absorbing informationIhaven’t paid enough attention to. Arsehole me wants to bite his head off. Tell him to mind his fucking business. But...
I’m so tired.And talking to Ludo seems to require every sense even without growling at him. Not that I’ve ever possessed much sense. “Are you bored?”
“Hmm?” Ludo is still flicking his cast. “Bored? With what? Being stuck in here? Or talking to you?”
“Either. Both.”
Ludo laughs, and for a fleeting moment, I’m so captivated I’m scared our entire exchange has been a dream. But it’s not a dream. He’s real. And somehow I’m laughing too.
“I’m not bored with talking to you,” Ludo says. “But I’m definitely bored on this ward. Until you, there’s been no one to talk to at all.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Yes. If I don’t talk to other people, I talk to myself, and that never ends well.”
His smile fades so I can’t tell if he’s joking. And I can’t imagine that hearing his voice on a permanent basis could be much of an affliction. He has a rough London accent that’s nothing like the stuck-up tones most knobheads in Buckbourne speak with. It reminds me of the cockneys onPeaky Blinders. “You can talk to me, mate. Can’t promise I’ll talk back though.”
“Not a fan of your own voice?”
“Who is?”
“Point taken.”
I’m still really fucking tired. I close my eyes, just for a second, praying Ludo will still be looking at me when I open them again, but the sound of metal on rubber brings me back to life. I open my eyes and he’s shuffling towards my bed, his IV stand trailing behind him. My weary heart leaps, and confusion hits me in waves. I’ve never wanted someone to come and talk to me so much in my entire life, and I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me.
My broken leg makes sense. This doesn’t.
Ludo makes it to the chair by my bed and sits. He puts his hand on my arm. “I’m not cold anymore.”
He isn’t. In fact, he’s blazing hot. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I have an infection where they cut me. That’s why I’m still here.”
The thought of him not being here makes me feel sick. “Oh. Is that what the IV is for?”
