The second thing I notice is that I am lying in a bed, staring up at white ceiling tiles with my grit-free eyes, surrounded by a symphony of quietly beeping machines.
I am confused, as I emerge slowly from a sleep so deep it was like being unconscious, an out-of-body experience.
Within seconds, it comes tumbling back down, threatening to bury me in panic.
I sit up too suddenly, jarring an arm that is now set in a cast and strapped to my torso by a sling. I glance around, see that I am in a room with four other beds, all of them filled by women.
Sofia, the tour guide, has one leg in plaster. She’s fast asleep, her long, straight hair a black slash across the pillowcase. One of the Australian girls is sitting up reading a magazine, with no apparent sign of damage apart from a bandaged wrist.
There is another lady I don’t recognise who is tapping away at her phone, her face festooned with two black eyes and her nose clearly broken. There is the elderly lady who was on the coach, the one with her husband – the couple that seemed so sweet.
She is lying on her side, staring off into the distance, her eyes glazed and unfocused. Her silver hair is greasy and flat to her head, and her body is limp and still. She could almost be dead.
‘Lost her hubby,’ says the Australian girl. ‘Hasn’t spoken a word to anybody since. We’ve all tried, but she’s switched off, you know? Her daughter’s on her way from London. You okay, Sleeping Beauty?’
This makes me feel at a distinct disadvantage. I have been treated, my arm cast, and, a quick touch of my face tells me, stitched up. Yet I don’t remember any of it.
I twist sideways so my feet are dangling off the side of the bed, and see that I’m wearing a hospital gown. Delightful the world over. I can also feel that I am wearing both pants and a sanitary pad, which for some reason makes me blush in humiliation. I know it’s silly – medical professionals are not bothered by simple biological functions, and I’ve been through much worse recently. But for some reason it feels awful, like my last shred of dignity has been stripped away from me.
‘How long have I been out?’ I ask, shaking it off. I need to concentrate on more important things – like trying to walk. I have to move, be free. Even a hospital room feels small and constrictive. Plus, I have to go and find Harry.
‘Two days, on and off. The docs said it was the best thing for you. You were on a drip until this morning, antibiotics and fluids, then they said you were out of the woods and just needed rest.’
I glance at my hand, see the telltale mark where a needle once intruded, a small plaster peeling half off.
I tug it away absent-mindedly, consumed with questions. How many people survived? Where is Harry? Is Alex okay? Has someone told my mum and Olivia that I’m here? And when can I go home?
I try to stand, and feel wobbly. I’m also hungry, and weak. Like a newborn foal, testing out my legs for the first time.
‘Areyouall right?’ I ask, collapsing back onto the bed, frustrated. I’m going nowhere fast, so I might as well talk to the Aussie girl. ‘Your friends?’
‘I’m all right. I’m Janey, by the way. Sprained wrist and bruised coccyx. Fell on me arse but somehow got off light. The others … well. Shelley’s in a coma. Marissa’s in the burns unit. Greta and Beth … they didn’t make it.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, the words completely inadequate. Janey’s eyes are swimming with tears and she swipes them away viciously, swearing under her breath as though she’s angry with herself.
‘I’ll be leaving soon, hopefully,’ she adds. ‘Though I’ll stay around for a bit, in case Shelley comes round. In case Marissa needs me.’
I nod, and sip some of the orange cordial that’s been left on the cabinet by my bed. I need to find a doctor or a nurse and ask about Harry. See how Alex is doing. Maybe find a phone to talk to Mum – I’ve no idea where mine is, and it’s probably out of charge by now, bless it.
My whole body feels sore and fragile, but this time when I stand, I manage to stay upright. It feels good – to stretch, to move, to appreciate the overlooked glory of space.
I check the gown isn’t flashing my bottom, and amble along the corridor, leaning on the wall when I need to. I stare into rooms as I pass, catching glimpses of strained faces and worried relatives and still bodies attached to coiled tubes. None of them look familiar, which is both a blessing and a curse – it might mean that Harry is fine and not even in hospital. It might mean that Harry is dead, and in the morgue.
The next room along has the door propped open, and I see the mum from that family lying in a bed in a room of her own. Her head is bandaged and her skin pale, both of her arms encased in casts from her wrists upwards. Her son is asleep, crashed out on a couch with a woman who looks like she could be his grandmother, his head on her lap.
The teenaged girl – the one with the red hair – is sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, her head wrapped in one arm, the other arm in a sling. There is room on the couch, and there is another chair, but she is on the floor, alone. Like she’s chosen to be as far away from any physical or emotional comfort as she can possibly get.
The father is not there, of course. The father is dead. One of those mangled shadows I saw in a dreamscape that wasn’t a dream.
I reach a nurses’ station. The chatter is loud and buzzing, the Spanish rapid and unintelligible apart from a few snatched words. Men and women in uniforms are filling in charts, answering phones, talking and laughing.
Hospitals are strange places, I recall from when my dad was ill. For the patients the world is ending, or at least changing. For the staff, it’s another day at work, to be survived with as much good humour and enthusiasm as possible.
‘Hola?’ I say, trying to attract their attention. One of the nurses – a middle-aged lady, large and motherly with huge brown eyes – looks up and sees me. She puts her hands in the air and lets out a small stream of quick-fire Spanish before dashing out from behind her counter.
I have no idea what she’s saying, but from the combination of smiles and the slightly scolding tone, it goes along the lines of ‘What are you doing out of bed, young lady?’
She tries to guide me away, but I plant my bare feet on the linoleum and hold firm. I am small but I am mighty.
