Roger Noons
a glass of Amontillado.
My head ached!
Not the usual pressure behind the eyes, every nerve ending vibrated pain. My
cheeks burned; there was hissing in my ears; my lips itched; mucus dribbled from
my sinuses down my nostrils; my teeth hummed and my eyeballs were being pressed,
seemingly in a vice. To complete the agony, my neck felt like I was wearing a
collar four sizes too small.
Forty eight
hours later, I felt slightly improved. My neck had been released and I had
stopped leaking from the nose. The man wearing the unbuttoned white coat had
rested his right buttock on the side of the bed.
‘You’re a
lucky man, Mr. Lucas.’
Lacking a left
hand and having been told that I would never walk again, made me feel grateful
that I was not in this consultant’s ‘unlucky’ classification.
‘I’ve been
blown up doctor!’
‘Yes, but your
colleague was killed.’
‘Perhaps he
was the lucky one,’ I murmured.
‘Come now Mr.
Lucas, you mustn’t think like that. You have a lot to live
for.’
‘Yeah? How
many one-handed classical guitarists do you know?’
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