A week later, James found himself sitting in another waiting room buried somewhere within the indiscriminate grey walls of the hospital. The windowless room, with its photographs of rolling fields and pine forests, did little to alleviate the crushing claustrophobia permeating the small space; it might as well have been a room buried beneath the ground than one perched upon the seventh floor.

A heady hospital aroma circulated on a warm current of air, filling the waiting room with its overpowering fragrance; the bittersweet smell of overcooked food mingled with the sour aroma of defecation.

Grimacing, James read the sign dangling above his head like the next cruel chapter in the autobiography of his miserable life…

“Neurosurgery”

Moments before, he had been ushered inside a small cubicle where he had dressed in the light navy blue of a hospital gown; a garment more akin to a dress than its namesake. For a long time, he had stood before a narrow mirror, silently regarding the man staring back at him. It had been frightening to see what he had become. His curly chestnut hair had been shaved away, exposing the outline of his skull pressed so tightly to his skin. His head had looked far too small, his once gleaming blue eyes reduced to dull pebbles sitting in sunken pits. That other person staring back at him had been a stranger; a gaunt, miserable fellow without a shred of hope left inside him.

With difficulty, James drew his gaze from the sign and back into the room. Two other patients sat forlornly nearby, their blue gowns drawn self-consciously about them. One was a man in his late sixties. His face was sallow and lined, with a dusty moustache perched precariously beneath his nose. His feet, encased in a pair of tartan slippers, tapped out a beat to music that wasn’t there. The other patient was an attractive young woman. Her long, dark hair had been brutally shaved across one side of her head, the rest tied into a careless ponytail which draped across her shoulder like a discarded rag. Her dark eyes stared bleakly across the room as she clenched and unclenched her jaw.

A small television set hung in a corner of the room, and the three of them silently consumed its images, lacking the energy or enthusiasm to touch the scattering of magazines sitting on a nearby table. The BBC News at One was rattling through a series of unpleasant stories as a stream of misspelt subtitles tried valiantly to keep up with the spoken word. The last item of news was one of the more pleasant stories reserved as a tonic for all the misery that had preceded it. A metal detectorist at an undisclosed location in Staffordshire had unearthed what was thought to be the largest hoard of Saxon gold and silver ever discovered in England. The fragmented subtitles rattled across the bottom of the screen as a man in his late fifties smiled into the camera. There was a close-up shot of his dirty hand, and there, sitting snugly in his palm, was a delicate silver brooch.

Something stirred inside James at the sight of the tiny object glinting in the soft morning light. The delicate scrollwork, wrought by hands that had turned to dust a thousand years before, was bathed once more beneath the ageless sun that had presided over its making. Its fragile shape seemed to jar within the rectangular prison of the television screen, like a beautiful silver butterfly impaled on a lepidopterists tray.

A sudden and inexplicable sense of loss washed over him as he stared at the lingering image. He felt tears rolling down his cheeks, and looked down to find dark blotches forming upon his gown. He caught sight of the young woman and saw that she too was quietly weeping.

Were they crying for the same reason? He thought to himself in bewilderment.

A voice intruded upon the quiet and he quickly dragged his trembling fist across his wet eyes.

‘Mr Gelding, the theatre is ready for you now.’

A nurse appeared at his side, and taking his elbow, helped him get unsteadily to his feet. The old man and the young woman turned to watch him, their faces wearing expressions caught halfway between jealousy and relief that their time had yet to come.

‘Good luck,’ the old man said, his voice bubbling unpleasantly in his throat.

The young woman remained silent, but she offered him a tentative smile, her face momentarily illuminated by the shadow of the radiance it must once have carried.

‘You too,’ James replied.

***

As though stepping onto a stage set, they passed from the corridor and into the operating theatre. A huge chrome assemblage of lights hung from the ceiling and beneath its blinding glare, men and women wearing turquoise scrubs quietly busied themselves on either side of the operating table.

‘Hello, Mr Gelding. I will be your anaesthetist this afternoon,’ a young Asian man said, greeting him with a handshake. ‘I’m Doctor Hamada, but please just call me Sam.’

The smiling doctor led James to the table as the other surgeons and nurses ignored him completely.

‘Now, if you could just hop up here and lie down… that’s the ticket!’

The nurse who had accompanied James to the theatre took his slippers as he swung himself clumsily onto the table.

‘Please uncross your ankles for me, James. That’s it, thank you,’ Dr Hamada said, slipping a pulse monitor onto his finger, before taping two electrodes to the top of his chest.

James’ eyes moved involuntarily to a stainless steel table, laden with a frightening array of implements. His heart was pounding in his ears, his hands restlessly twitching at his sides.

‘Please try to relax, James,’ the Doctor said, as he pulled a plastic covering off something just out of sight.

‘I’m very nervous,’ James said, inwardly wincing at the pathetic sound of his own voice.

‘Don’t worry, James,’ Dr Hamada’s voice soothed. ‘I’m just going to fit your cannula and then we’ll give you something to make you feel more relaxed.’

The doctor smiled and bent to his side.

‘Could you flex your hand for me? I need you to raise a vein… that’s it.’

There was a sharp sting, and then the feeling of something being pushed inside the top of his hand. The nurse placed an oxygen mask over his face and James anxiously pressed it to his face.

‘Breathe deeply for me, James,’ the doctor said, his head now bending over from behind.

The man’s upside-down smile resembled a sneering scowl, and James quickly closed his eyes, taking a hurried breath from the mask.

‘Imagine you’re breathing the air on a nice tropical island,’ the Doctor’s voice soothed.

James muttered something into the mask and took another deep breath.

‘What was that?’ the doctor asked distractedly, attaching something to the needle now taped to his hand.

‘I would like to breathe the air in Japan,’ James muttered. ‘I always wanted to go there.’

The doctor paused for a moment and chuckled.

‘I’m honoured that you would choose such a place!’ he said, winking at the nurse beside him. ‘But, I’ll let you into a little secret,’ the doctor said, bending over him. ‘I’ve never been there either!’

James managed a lopsided grin but the upside-down smile of the doctor made him take another hurried breath from the mask.

‘Now, I’m going to add something to your bloodstream,’ the doctor said, compressing a syringe attached to the cannula. ‘There may be a cold sensation in your arm but there is absolutely nothing to worry about.’

A tight pain crept down his arm, like cold hands squeezing his flesh.

‘It’s a bit painful,’ James said, his speech beginning to slur. ‘Is that normal?’

‘That can happen,’ the doctor replied from somewhere behind him, ‘but it’s nothing to worry about. Now, please count down from ten for me and let’s see how far you can get.’

James got to seven before the lights suddenly brightened, filling the room with blinding light. Still, he continued to count, working his way down to one.

‘I don’t think it’s working…’ he mumbled.

When there was no reply, he glanced to the side and found that the operating theatre had vanished. In its place, a formless white void filled his vision.

The surface against his back seemed to vibrate, and then tilt, sending him rolling to one side. He braced himself for a fall, but instead something cold and hard pressed painfully against his ribs. Panicking, James scrambled in the cramped space until his hands found what felt like two soft shelves on either side of him. With difficulty, he pulled himself upright and peered uncomprehendingly into the whiteness that surrounded him.

‘Doctor Hamada!’ he shouted. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

His voice sounded strange to his own ears, disappearing as soon as it left his mouth. There was no reply to his question, but as though his shouts were a signal, the veil of white slowly began to recede from his vision.

The room was narrow and filled with two rows of red leather seats separated by a narrow aisle. Windows filled the four walls, but their misted surfaces obscured the view beyond. For one fleeting moment, he thought he was still in the hospital, but whilst his blue hospital gown was still wrapped securely around him, he realised with dismay that this was somewhere altogether different. A wave of dizziness swept over him as realisation dawned. As impossible as it seemed, he was standing on the top floor of a double-decker bus!

The bus’ engine cut out. In the silence that remained, the familiar ringing of church bells issued from behind the closed windows. Lurching to the side, James swept his hand across the misted glass and peered down through the streamers of fog rolling past the stationary bus. There, submerged in the white, was the familiar outline of an old wooden bus shelter.

‘Impossible!’ James cried, cupping his face in his hands.

His body swayed beneath him. He felt as though he was standing on the edge of a chasm, and if he took one more step, he would fall and never stop falling…

An idea blazed through the confusion of his mind and he blundered over to the other side of the bus, sweeping his arm across the misty panes of glass. Peering down, he saw the man he knew would be there waiting for him; the man with the unkempt beard and the bearing of a prince. He was sitting on a wooden stile, his lean frame folded into a lotus position despite his precarious perch. His eyes were closed, but his smile blazed across the space between them like white fire.

Wisps of fog threatened to erase the man from view, but James could see his lips moving, whispering words that could not be heard through the thick pane of glass.

‘Hey wait!’ James yelled, hammering on the window with his fists. ‘I can’t hear what you’re saying!’

Rising to his feet like a fall in reverse, the man suddenly turned and pointed. Miraculously, the simple gesture parted the fog before him like two great curtains, revealing a vast corridor of rolling fields receding into the distance. The invitation to follow him was clear, but no sooner had the fog parted, did it sweep back in, erasing him from existence.

‘Wait!’ James screamed.

The bus’ engine spluttered back into life, sending a violent jolt through the ungainly structure of the vehicle. Bolting from his seat, James lumbered over to the precarious stairwell. His unsteady feet reached for the first stair as the labouring engine roared back into life. The bus lurched forward and with the deafening sound of ringing bells, he was thrown down the stairs and into white oblivion.