Decoy

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There was a pain in his stomach. A whirling sickness, the sort he used to get on the Waltzer at the fairground. Jack blinked, blinded by an unbearable brightness. Where was he? His ears adjusted more quickly than his eyes. A dull electronic blip, monotonous, steady as a dripping tap. He raised his arm, watching as the blurred shape took on the form of his hand, like a diver emerging from deep under water. A plastic clip attached to his index finger, wires connected to a stack of clinical-looking machinery. He twisted his neck. A ghoulish green line darted across the screen with each blip. A heart monitor.

The whirling sickness took flight, a thousand panicked butterflies beating against the lining of his stomach. What the hell was he doing in hospital? He rubbed his chin, feeling the growth of beard. Two weeks, maybe three for it to get that long. He heaved himself onto his elbows, and felt resistance from the wires and tubes that stuck uncomfortably into him. Five beds opposite held comatose figures. Three more to his right. One to his left. Think Jack, think.

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