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‘You were a fairly unusual case for us,’ Kate told me. ‘You were covered in mud from your fall. But what I remember was the way you lay awake all night, just looking at the ceiling. I could see your mind turning over and over. And I remember desperately wishing I could do something to put it right, to turn back the clock for you …’ her voice trailed off ‘… but all I could do was sit beside you sponging your mouth. We washed the mud off you in the morning. And I’ve often thought about you since, wondered what happened to you.’
As I have wondered myself.
CHAPTER TWO
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The Warden owns the shade.
LOUIS SACHAR, HOLES
An apricot-coloured world, shading to russet, was actually rather an intriguing place to inhabit. You don’t sleep, when you’re on morphine, you just travel to strange places behind your eyelids, restless journeys through an orange landscape, journeys which leave you exhausted and confused. At night, I frequently found myself at the bottom of a cave, looking up like a potholer at rock faces which were clad with thick, hand-knitted russet wool – chunky cable-stitch, knitted on a giant’s great big fat knitting needles, as if to give you hand-holds when you climbed, but I didn’t need them because I was on some kind of cherry-picker, floating effortlessly up, up, up, exploring the openings and ledges on the woolly surface. Close to, I leant in and examined the texture, the thick twists of cable stitch. Up, up, I go, high into the stifling dark of orange woolliness.