you’re on the fourth floor!’ cried Sveta.
‘Exactly!’
‘Creepy!’ chimed Albina.
‘Yes,’ agreed Gor. ‘I find it quite … quite creepy, as you say.’ He frowned.
‘Who was it?’
‘No one,’ said Gor at last, the words pushed out through gritted teeth. ‘There was no one there. I looked … there was just thin air.’
‘We should look at the sandwich, Mama,’ directed Albina, ‘I think we should … be sure.’ The girl trotted into the kitchen and returned moments later with the dishevelled plate held out in front of her at arm’s length. The three looked down on the remains of the meal.
‘But it was there. I saw it!’ Gor’s long, thin index finger prodded into the bread, cheese and parsley, spreading out the food, probing for the winged intruder. There was nothing there.
‘It was there!’ His voice wavered as he looked into Sveta’s reassuring blue eyes. ‘What is happening to me? Do you think … I’m sick?’
She pursed her lips. ‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Two weeks, approximately. Since around the time we met, in fact.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Ooh Mama, what can that mean?’
‘Shush, Albina. I think I can help you, Gor. I have a friend, well – an acquaintance. She may be able to assist in … resolving all this.’
‘You have?’ Gor asked, surprised and relieved. ‘Is she a doctor, perhaps?’
‘No,’ said Sveta, ‘much more useful. She is a psychic.’
‘Ah,’ said Gor quietly, and his eyes dropped to the floor.
‘Fu kyu!’ screeched Kopek from his perch in the kitchen.
The yellow ball of the sun hung like an egg yolk in the milky sky, spreading no warmth, exuding no glow – simply suspended. Anatoly Borisovich, or Tolya for short, swallowed a rich blob of saliva. Egg in milk, like his baba made on special mornings long ago, when he had been small and blond, able to charm the crows from the trees, the snails from the buckets. When he had been young. He whisked his thoughts, scrambling the sun-egg, hankering after – something edible, something nurturing, something good. He realised, with a grunt, that he was very hungry.
How many pairs of eyes along his corridor were resting on that sun, he wondered, how many of his fellow patients – is that what they were? – were still breathing, waiting for pancakes and milk, porridge and death. He knew there were other patients. He heard them sometimes. He hadn’t been out of his room, couldn’t remember how he’d got there or what lay beyond the door, but he knew there were others. He turned his head, bushy grey hair rustling on the pillow. The door was opening, the green of the newly painted corridor seeping into his room. A young, athletic-looking man entered and stood at the end of the bed, fidgeting, paper and pen held to his chest. The man appeared to be speaking to him. Was he real?
It was very odd, being spoken to. It hadn’t happened for, well, quite a while. Anatoly Borisovich screwed up his eyes. Yes, the young man’s mouth was definitely moving, the chiselled jaw jumping up and down, teeth winking. There were lots of words coming out, a jumble of sounds. He decided to listen, and did his best to tune in. He recognised the familiar crests and dips of the letter clusters, the sounds of syllables, but the words themselves seemed to be running into each other, racing, charging, leap-frogging even. He screwed up his nose.
The young man stopped. All was quiet. Anatoly Borisovich licked his lips, and his left eye twitched.
‘So what do you think?’ asked the young man. Anatoly Borisovich snuffled with satisfaction. He’d found the end of the ball of wool, the start and end of the phrase. Things were improving. ‘Is that something you might be able to take part in?’
Anatoly Borisovich hesitated. He hadn’t understood anything else the boy had said. And although he wanted to speak, he couldn’t marshal his tongue: it flopped shyly about in his mouth and hid behind his gums. Eventually he managed a smile, crinkling up his eyes, and let out a small groan.
The young man spoke again, more slowly. ‘It is very simple. You tell me about your dementia … well, I mean your forgetfulness, erm, your loss of memory and how it happened that you ended up in here, er, when was it …’ Grey eyes danced across the notes. ‘Thursday eighth of September? Almost a month ago. Anyway, I will analyse the information you give me, make a diagnosis, and then find a way of reducing your confusion, and your fears. So that you are happier. And maybe, you know … you can go home, at some point. You had some kind of physical breakdown, didn’t you? And a mental cataclysm of some sort? You were raving when you first came in?’
Anatoly Borisovich nodded and flexed his mouth, preparing to speak, but the boy, sensing a positive reception, was quick to go on.
‘Your file is quite sparse, but potentially, I find you an interesting subject … and anything you can tell me will be useful. I’m a medical student, you see, and I’m in the middle of my gerontology module. You will be my case study.’ The paper pad crinkled in his hands. ‘I have to get it in by the end of October, so …’ He looked into the old man’s eyes. ‘It’s not just decrepitude, is it? There was something – dramatic?’
Anatoly Borisovich tried to speak, but the boy went on. ‘You are willing to take part? Wait, turn your head to the light please?’ The young man paused, and squinted. ‘Actually, I want to ask you about those scars. Scars can be a very good place to start. I have learnt, you see, they cause trauma not just to the skin.’ Anatoly Borisovich nodded, the corners of his mouth pressed downwards with the weight of his visitor’s insight. The boy went on. ‘Maybe I can ask questions, and you can answer either yes or no, if that is all you can manage?’
The boy finally stopped talking. Anatoly Borisovich gulped in air and pushed out some words.
‘Your name? What is your name?’ The sounds crawled across dry vocal cords.
‘Vlad,’ said the young man, passing him a beaker of stale water from the bedside cabinet.
‘Vlad?’ He sipped and coughed. ‘What kind of a name is that?’
The young man smiled and fidgeted with his pen, but made no attempt to answer.
‘I mean,’ the old man took another sip of water, ‘Is it short for Vladimir, or Vladislav, or what? I can’t talk to you … if I don’t know you.’ He spoke slowly, waving his fingers in the air to underline the words. If Vlad had been blessed with an imagination, he might have likened Anatoly Borisovich to a wizard.
‘Vladimir,’ the young man replied with a smirk.
‘Good.’ Anatoly Borisovich heaved a great sigh. ‘You want to hear my story? I have never told it. Can you picture that?’ The young man was about to respond, so he went on swiftly, gathering pace. ‘Truth be told, I’d forgotten it. It was lost somewhere, somewhere in the trees, for so many years. But it has been coming back, while I have been lying here, seeing no one, being no one.’ His voice was almost inaudible, soft and dry like the whisper of grasses at the end of summer. ‘I forgot my present, but remembered my past. Well, well … And since you ask, so nicely … I will tell you. But it’s strange to hear words in my own voice! Imagine that!’ His eyes lit up with dazed wonder: eyes that shone too brightly. ‘Did you know what my voice sounded like? I’ll bet you didn’t. You’re the first person to show any … interest. They feed me and wash me and prod me with sticks but … but no one talks, no one listens.’ He pushed himself upright in the bed and bade Vlad shove another pillow behind his shoulders. ‘What day is it?’
‘Tuesday.’