Pulse(33)

I’d been pushed.

Predictably, no one would believe me.

I spent the night in hospital with suspected concussion even though a CT scan had indicated no visible damage to my brain, nor to any other part of my body.

Concussion is the most common brain injury but one the medical profession perhaps knows least about. It is often referred to as a bruise to the brain, but bruising implies bleeding into the tissues and most concussed brains do not bleed, indeed, they appear identical on scans to healthy ones. Concussion is more of a temporary disruption of normal function but no one is quite sure why it affects sufferers in so many diverse ways. Some have difficulty sleeping while others struggle to stay awake, many have headaches while others do not, and it can change emotions across a wide spectrum from high elation to deep depression. It all depends on how different areas of the person’s brain react to the trauma.

In my case, the concussion seemed to have disrupted my ability to talk, while leaving many of my other cognitive faculties unchanged. That may have been due to my head colliding with the bus close to what was known as Broca’s area on the left side of the frontal lobe, that part of the brain responsible for speech production.

Gradually, overnight, my ability to communicate returned and with it came the questions from the police.

At about nine o’clock I woke from a snooze to find a uniformed officer sitting by my bed.

‘Good morning, Dr Rankin,’ he said in a friendly manner. ‘How are you feeling today?’

I focused my eyes on the policeman’s face. It was PC Filippos.

I must have looked surprised to see him.

‘I volunteered to come,’ he said, ‘when I heard it was you who’d been knocked down. I thought a familiar face might help.’

‘Yes,’ I said croakily. ‘Very thoughtful of you. Thank you.’ I suddenly became rather panicky. ‘I’m meant to be on duty at the racecourse in two hours.’

‘You are not going anywhere,’ PC Filippos said. ‘I know the racecourse management are aware you won’t be coming today. The doctors here have said that you must have complete rest for at least twenty-four hours.’ He smiled. ‘You were very lucky not to have sustained greater injury in the accident.’

‘It wasn’t an accident,’ I said, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

But I then realised why. He already thought it wasn’t an accident because he assumed that I’d walked out in front of the bus intentionally.

‘I did not try to kill myself,’ I said firmly. ‘I was pushed out into the road.’

I could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe me.

‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘Someone gave me a big shove forward just as the bus was approaching.’

‘Who?’ he asked, the doubt clearly audible in just the one word.

‘I’ve no idea,’ I said, getting quite agitated. ‘That’s surely your job to find out. But, I’m telling you, someone last night tried to kill me.’

‘Why?’

‘To stop me asking questions.’

‘Questions about what?’

‘The unnamed man,’ I said. ‘Our friend Rahul.’

I could tell from his demeanour that he now thought I’d completely lost my marbles.

‘I found someone who recognised him,’ I said quickly. ‘He says he saw the man at the racecourse in November.’

There was a tiny spark of interest. ‘Does this person know his name?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But he does know the names of two people he saw arguing with him.’

I told PC Filippos about Dick McGee and what he had said to me about the unnamed man arguing in the jockeys’ car park with Jason Conway and Mike Sheraton. The policeman wrote it down in his notebook.

‘But why on earth would anyone want to kill you for knowing that?’

‘I don’t know.’

It sounded bizarre even to me.

We were interrupted by the arrival of Grant and he had the psychiatrist Stephen Butler with him. That didn’t bode well, I thought.

‘Hello, Chris,’ Stephen said. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said automatically, and Grant shook his head in obvious frustration. He too must think I had stepped in front of the bus on purpose.

‘I’ll be on my way,’ PC Filippos said, standing up. ‘I’ll be in touch, Dr Rankin. I’ll check up on those things we discussed.’

He walked out and I wondered if he would even bother. His body language told me he believed I was as nutty as a fruitcake.

But I wasn’t.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that someone had pushed me in front of a speeding bus in order to stop me asking questions about the unnamed man.

Indeed, Rahul had now become my full-blown obsession.

However, I managed to prevent a rapid return to Wotton Lawn, but only just, and not by continuing to insist that someone had tried to kill me. I worked out pretty quickly that no one would believe me and to persist in maintaining that I’d been pushed would have only resulted in a one-way ticket to the funny farm.

After a considerable amount of persuasion on my part, Grant and the doctors accepted my claim that I’d been just careless rather than suicidal. I promised to be more vigilant in the future and to allow myself to be chaperoned whenever possible, which would not be often during the week as Grant was at work and the boys at school.