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“Wrap it. I can move myself, pal, a’right?” I climbed onto the trolley. There was no pillow. What was the NHS coming to, these days, when the hospital couldn’t provide pillows for patients? The doctor scanned me with some sort of metal device. It bleeped.
“She has tapeworm, ringworm, fleas, lice, and appears to have a touch of chlamydia. She’s also currently got nicotine, alcohol and ketamine in her system.”
“Ket. Fucksake. Marcus is pure gallus. I must be a complete stoater.” I was so annoyed that Marcus had slipped me ketamine at some point. At least it explained why my brain was reimagining the Glasgow Royal Infirmary into some sort of spaceship. I’d never gotten on with ketamine. Last time I’d taken it, I’d thought I was a horse having an out of body experience. Apparently I’d been neighing into a corner of the squat for three hours. The comedown had been brutal. “Fuckin’ bastard. Marcus? If yer c’n hear me ye’re dead!”
The men were looking at me like I was making a scene.
“Can we get her to shut up?” Urgoth asked. “The continuous gibberish is reminiscent of a toddler.”
“Who ye fuckin’ callin’ a wain, pal?” I demanded.
“The detoxification process will be sedating. We feel it’s kinder to the patients.” Detoxification? Wait, had I been taken to theotherhospital?
“Is this the nuthouse? Aw, fucksake, if Marcus got me banged up in the nuthouse I’m gonna be ragin’!”
“This has happened before?” Urgoth looked surprised.
The doctor nodded. “Plenty of times. The streets of Epsilon are riven with victims of various chemical concoctions.”
“Why have I never seen them?”
The doctor gave him a hard look. “They built better streets for people like you to walk on. Are you sure you’re up to being her handler? This isn’t a mission to get her into Grigor. There’s no glory or adventure on this one. Just reality.”
“Are you questioning my role, Kavat?” Urgoth’s tone darkened. I got the impression he wasn’t used to anyone doubting his abilities. At my best guess, Urgoth was a social worker? Or one of those CPNs... those happy-clappy types that went to depressed people’s houses and told them life would be perfect if they just took their pills and stayed positive. I’d crossed paths with a couple of them. They were usually less use than a chocolate fireguard.
The men faced off against each other. Another thing I’d never seen doctors in a hospital do. The longer I thought about it, the more I was sure Urgoth was actually a social worker, since the other guy had said he was supposed to be my “handler”. Social workers handled people. Badly. Fucked up lives.
“You can get to fuck if you think I’m going on some reform programme. I’m happy with my life. Leave me the fuck alone. Where the fuck were you when my stepdad was givin’ me a doin’ every night, skelpin’ the shit out of me wi’ his belt? Go save someone else. I don’t need it.”
“That was almost comprehensible,” the doctor remarked. “Inserting IV line.” He stuck a needle in my arm and attached it to a clear tube that went up to a drip.
At first the liquid was cold all the way up my arm, but then I got used to it. My eyelids felt heavy. Vision blurred worse than it already was. Eyes closed.
