Hilary was in hospital.  She was aware of that.  Her whole body hurt, something was bleeping, and she was lying in an iron-framed hospital bed, off-white covers drawn tightly across her body.  A little way away was a dim light and the sound of nurses’ voices and of their soft-soled footsteps.  And, there was a doctor sitting on her bed, his back and shoulders hunched under his white coat, his dark head in his hands.

As she moved in her bed, the doctor called out, “Hil!” in Andy's voice.

She stared at him.  He looked like Andy too, except that his hair was short. 

“What’s… the… matter… with… me?” she demanded, touching a wet patch on her pillow with a bandaged hand.  “Is that my blood?”  She tried to sit up but couldn't because of wires and things attached to her. 

“Hil!  Hil… it’s all right!” he said.  “You’re in hospital.”

“I know that!” she retorted.  “But there’s blood - on my pillow!”

“You’ve got a head injury.  Head injuries bleed heavily.”

“Oh… oh, have I? Oh…  What’s the matter with me?  How did I get to this hospital?  What time is it?”

“You came by ambulance and it’s half past two in the morning.  You’ve been concussed, Hil…”

“Half past two?  Caroline… I’ve got to ring her.  I've got her number, her work number.  She’ll be so worried.  The Vote of Confidence - did they win it… lose it?”

“Mr Callaghan lost it.  Mrs Thatcher won it.  But never mind that.”

“No, no.  Andy… What’s the matter with me?  Am I going to be all right?”  She pulled herself up again, swung her legs over the side of the bed, wires pulling and dragging.

“Don’t Hil!” he cried, grabbing the drip-stand.

“I need the loo!” she retorted, tugging to loosen something stuck in her elbow. 

“You really shouldn’t be getting out of bed!” he said, pulling out her drip. 

She set her feet on the floor, but she was too weak and dizzy to stand unaided.  She put her hand on his shoulder to steady herself.  Her legs worked, she noted, and her arms, although, now she came to think of it, the really bad pain was in her right wrist.  “I need the loo!”

“Ssh!  Other patients are asleep,” he said, but he put his arm around her back to support her and led her along the ward. 

“Sorry.”  Hilary had this feeling of not being quite in control, of not really being there, as if everything was happening in a film or a book.  “Why are you here?”

“I saw you being brought on to the ward.”

“Is this the West London Hospital, then?”

“Yes.  I’m on call tonight.  Not on this ward, though.  I'm on medical.”

He was standing outside when she reappeared from the toilet. “I've got cuts and bruises all over my body!” she cried.  “There’s blood in my hair and my left eye doesn’t open properly.”

“I know, darling, I know.”  He put his arm around her again and led her back to her bed.  “But you’re going to be all right.  I've looked at your notes.”  He lifted the covers, but she recoiled on seeing her blood-stained pillow.  “I'll get you another pad.”  He glared at her.  “Stay there!”

When he returned, he was carrying something in a sterile packet which rustled and crackled as he opened it.  “I'm very tired,” she said, as she got back into bed.  “I think I'll go back to sleep”

“OK.”

“I love you, Andy.”

“I love you, Hil.”

She was awoken at six o'clock, by the tea trolley crashing and rattling through the ward.  I really want a cup of tea, thought Hilary, but she would just shut her eyes until it arrived… but the next time she opened them it was fully light, the ward was bustling with activity and a plump, middle-aged, black nurse was calling, “Hilary, Hilary, are you awake?  There’s a phone call for you.  From Australia.”

The nurse was pushing the ward payphone, a chipped battered thing on wheels, towards Hilary's bed.  She was aware that her hands and arms hurt as she grabbed the receiver.  “Hello.”

“Hil?” called a woman’s voice.

“Mum?”

“No, darling.  It’s Granny.  From Australia.”

“Oh, hello, Granny.”

“I wish to God Margaret could be with you now, love.”

“Sorry, Granny.  Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.  How are you, Hil?

“Er… OK.“  She felt pain in almost every limb.  “I'm all right, Granny.  Andy says it’s just cuts and bruises…  Oh, what am I saying?  I'm a bit confused.  I’ve been dreaming, I think, the most weird things.”

“Not to be wondered at, love.  You’ve been attacked, mugged - whatever the word is.  That’s what Alice said, when she rang me this afternoon.  Now, listen, Hil, you just look after yourself.   I'm coming right back home, as soon as I can get a plane.”

“You’re coming home?”

“Yes, of course I am.  Who’s going to look you when you come out of hospital?  Now, this call is rather expensive.  I'll see you in a few days.”

As the nurse took away the phone, she asked, “Do you want a cup of tea or a round of toast?  You’ve missed breakfast, I'm afraid.”

“Yes, please,” Hilary replied, wondering whether or not she had had a cup of tea from that noisy trolley at six o'clock. 

When the nurse returned with tea and toast, she was accompanied by two men wearing anoraks, who introduced themselves as Detective Inspector Warren and Detective Constable Harper.  “Now, Hilary, tell us what happened last night,” they said, sitting down by her bedside.

Hilary pulled herself up in her bed and, for several moments, drank her tea, hot, strong and wet.  “My grandmother in Australia says I've been mugged.”

“Your grandmother in Australia wasn’t there, love,” retorted DI Warren.  “What do you remember about last night?”

Hilary thought.  She ate her toast and marmalade.  She was very hungry.  She could have eaten more toast.  “Look, I really don’t know.”

“Pardon?”

“Yesterday evening,” prompted DC Harper.  “What happened yesterday evening?”

Hilary frowned.  “I really can’t remember.”

DC Harper took out his notebook and flicked it open.  “We’ve been speaking to your flatmate…”

“Alice?”

“Alice Newton.”

“And to your friend, Caroline Bryant.”

Hilary frowned again.  The motion of frowning hurt her swollen eye.

“Hilary Wainwright…”

“Art Hilary?”

“Your mate Caroline says you were going to meet Hilary Wainwright outside Tottenham Court Road Tube Station at seven o'clock last night.”

Hilary shook her head in confusion.  That hurt too.  Yesterday seemed a long time ago… doing her make-up in Caroline's flat, working at the library, Audrey talking in Dewey Decimal numbers, dreading Thursday evening and her date with Art Hilary, wanting it to be all over.  It was Friday morning now.  It must be all over now – thank God.  “What happened last night?”

DI Warren snorted.  “You tell me, love.”

“I don’t know!” she cried, feeling tears well up in her eyes.  “I really don’t know!” 

DC Harper handed her a tissue from the NHS-issue bedside unit and, when she blew her nose, there was blood on the tissue.

“Hilary,” DC Harper said, “we’ve got to catch the shit who did this to you?”

“Are you saying that Art Hilary mugged me?” she asked.

 “We’re not saying anything, love,” retorted DI Warren. 

“What is the last thing you can remember?” asked DC Harper.

Hilary thought hard.  “The bank.  I went to the bank in Oxford Street.  I drew out £20 from the cash machine…  Where’s my handbag?  Where’s my purse… my flat keys… my car keys… my cheque card… ”

“We’ve got your handbag, Hilary,” said DC Harper.  “And everything’s still there - your money, your cards, your keys.”

“Thank God for that!”

“You weren’t mugged, Hilary,” said DC Harper.  “Muggers mug to steal.  Your attacker or attackers didn’t take anything.”

“Anyone holding a grudge against you, Hilary?” asked DI Warren.

“Me?  No!”

“Any boyfriends or ex-boyfriends?”

The black nurse reappeared.  “I'll have to ask you to leave,” she said to the two policemen.  “There’s a ward round.”

“We’ll be back later,” said DC Harper, getting up, “when you can remember things better.”

As they left, four white coats clustered around her bed, an older man with grey hair, who wore a lapel badge saying he was “Mr H Tinsley, Consultant Surgeon”, two younger men and a young woman.  “Well, Dr Denny,” said Mr Tinsley, looking at the woman doctor.  “You saw the patient in Casualty last night.”

“Yah,” Dr Denny replied, in a Sloane Ranger’s voice.  “The patient was brought by ambulance into Casualty at 9.35 last night, semi-conscious…”  She was young and attractive, gleaming dark hair gathered at the nape of the neck.  “Dr A Denny.  House Officer,” read her lapel badge, and, as she waffled to the other doctors in incomprehensible medical jargon, prodded the cut on Hilary's head and tried to manipulate Hilary's painful arm, Hilary wondered what her name was… Anne, Angela, Alison?

“I think we’ll send you off to orthopaedics,” said Mr Tinsley, speaking to Hilary herself at last.  “They’ll probably want to set that arm.”  He patted her shoulder.  “Don’t you worry, my dear.  They’ll do it under general anaesthetic.”

As the white coats swept away, Hilary rolled her eyes at the black nurse, who had remained with her.  “I've never had an operation or an anaesthetic,” said Hilary.  It seemed unfair that they should put her through this ordeal now, when she was in pain.

“They just put a catheter in your hand and you go straight off to sleep,” said the nurse, gathering up Hilary's plate and cup.  “It’s not too bad, honestly.”

Dr Denny was walking towards her bed again, clutching a form.  “Hilary, you’re not pregnant, are you?” she called at the top of her voice.  “I need to know for this x-ray form.”

“No-o,” Hilary replied.

“When was your last period?” Dr Denny asked, still talking in a loud voice and two beds away.

“Three weeks ago,” Hilary answered, in a quieter tone.

“And when did you last have intercourse?” Dr Denny continued to shout.

“Look,” Hilary said, in a tone, which she recognised as her mother’s.  “I'm not pregnant.  OK?”

“Well, I have to be sure,” Dr Denny replied.  “X-rays could affect your unborn child, Hilary.”

What was annoying Hilary most was the constant repetition of her Christian name.  The police had done it, and now so was this Dr Denny.   “Get that straight… Dr Denny! I'm calling you “Dr Denny”.  Where I work we don’t address members of the public by their Christian names!”  The Westminster Abbey choirboys called her “Miss Bowles” and this Dr Denny could do the same!

Dr Denny shrugged, tossing her gleaming, Sloane-y, black hair.  “You can call me by my first name, if you want.  It’s Arabella.”