‘Mr Turtledove? Can you hear me Mr Turtledove?’ It was a man’s voice. Speaking English but with a Thai accent. Then he spoke in Thai to someone else. ‘He’s still unconscious.’
‘No, I’m all right,’ I said, but the words came out all wrong as if I’d forgotten how to work my tongue.
‘Mr Turtledove?’
I felt a pressure on my eyelid and then it was forced open and a bright light made me wince. I groaned and blinked and then I opened my eyes to see a young doctor looking down at me. ‘Where am I?’ I asked, and this time my tongue seemed to have regained the knack of forming words.
‘Bumrungrad Hospital,’ he said. ‘The emergency room.’
That was good news.
At least I wasn’t dead.
I guess if you’re going to be shot anywhere, the best place would be outside one of Asia’s best hospitals.
‘How do you feel, Mr Turtledove?’
‘My head hurts. And my throat is dry.’
The doctor asked a nurse to get me some water and a few seconds later a straw was slipped between my lips and I sipped gratefully.
‘Do you have any other pain anywhere else?’ asked the doctor.
The nurse took the water away. ‘No,’ I said. ‘No pain. How many times was I shot?’
‘Just once,’ said the doctor. ‘The bullet glanced across your temple. You were lucky.’
‘I don’t feel lucky,’ I said.
The doctor took my right hand. ‘Squeeze, please,’ he said.
I did as I was told.
‘Good,’ said the doctor. He put down my right hand and picked up my left. ‘And again, please.’ I squeezed again.
‘That’s good, Mr Turtledove. Very good.’
There was a metallic whirring sound and the bed began to tilt up. I was in a private room with an LCD television on the wall and a sofa for visitors. I guess they’d found the insurance card in my wallet.
‘There was some bleeding, obviously, but it was superficial. I’d like you to come back in a couple of days to change the dressing, but other than that you’ll be fine.’
‘My head really hurts,’ I said.
‘We’ll prescribe painkillers, but we did a scan while you were unconscious and there’s no sign of damage to the skull or the brain,’ he said. ‘You’re good to go.’ He signed a form on a clipboard and handed it to the nurse, wished me a good afternoon and left.
I asked a nurse to bring me my cellphone and I tapped out Noy’s number.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Hospital,’ I said.
‘I thought you were done by eleven,’ she said.
‘That was the plan,’ I said.
‘How did it go?’
‘Good news, bad news,’ I said.
‘Oh my Buddha, they didn’t cut off your manhood, did they?’
‘No, honey, I’m still in one piece.’
‘So what’s the good news?’
‘My colon is fine. No cysts, tumours or anything untoward. Clean bill of health.’
‘That’s great, honey. So what’s the bad news?’
‘I’ve been shot.’