Death Trance by Graham Masterton

tires. Splintering decanters.
    But that shadowy shark was rising out of the depths, bearing that shadowy, threatening truth that his mind was desperately trying to keep submerged. He had half an idea of what it was, more than half of an idea. And he knew that when it broke surface, he was going to be faced with the absolute reality of what had happened, and why, and what he was doing here lying in this bed. The shark was rising swiftly now. At any moment he was going to have to accept the truth it brought, and he knew that he would not be able to bear it. His brain would not let him articulate what it was even though his mouth was struggling to form the words that would describe it. Suddenly his hands flew up before him as if he were trying to protect himself from a blizzard.
    He shouted, 'Marmie! But at that very moment a dark-faced man in a pale blue overall walked into the room and abruptly called out, 'Mr Clare!’
    Randolph opened his eyes and saw that his hands were lifted up. Slowly, dazedly, he lowered them and turned his head to stare at the intruder who had interrupted his nightmare. A dark-faced man, but not black; an Oriental with a flat-featured face and peculiarly glittering eyes. Randolph thought that perhaps he was still hallucinating and that this man was not real. Perhaps his brain damage had gone far beyond affecting his ability to read and write; perhaps he was clinically mad.
    'Mr Clare,’ the man repeated, his voice more gentle this time.
    'Mr Clare?’ Randolph queried, his mouth dry.
    The man approached the bed. 'I am Dr Ambara.’ He stood looking down at Randolph and then, without warning, he bent forward, peeled back each of Randolph's eyelids in turn and peered into them with a lighted ophthalmoscope. Randolph saw crisscrosses of white light dancing amid patches of scarlet.
    'Well, well,’ said Dr Ambara. 'How do you feel?’
    Randolph did not know what to say. He stared back at the doctor and tried to mouth the word 'Fine,’ but somehow his brain refused to pass on the order.
    Randolph could see that Dr Ambara was a young man, only twenty-six or twenty-seven, and that he had a silky black moustache and a chocolate-coloured mole on his left cheek in the shape of a diving bird. He didn't know what had made him think of a diving bird, but he articulated thickly, 'Something's happened.’ He hesitated and then added, 'Something bad.’
    Dr Ambara said briskly, 'Yes, Mr Clare. Something's happened. Do you know where you are?’
    'Mo,’ replied Randolph. His lips were too dry and swollen to say 'No.’
    'This is the Mount Moriah Memorial Clinic,’ Dr Ambara told him. 'You were brought here this morning suffering from shock and a mild concussion. I gave you a sedative when you were admitted and since then, you have been sleeping.’
    'What's the time now?’ Randolph asked. The shark was still rising but any kind of conversation would keep his mind from having to turn around and face it when it surfaced.
    'The time now is seven-seventeen,’ said Dr Ambara, consulting his large gold digital wristwatch.
    'Almost the whole day,’ Randolph murmured.
    'Yes,’ said Dr Ambara.
    Randolph licked his lips and said, 'I keep thinking it was an automobile accident, but it wasn't, was it?’
    'No,’ Dr Ambara replied. He drew up a chair and sat down beside the bed. His face was half-hidden by the bedside light, although Randolph could still see his mouth as he spoke and the gleam of his silky moustache.
    'You know, the mind often plays us unusual tricks,’ Dr Ambara went on. 'It understands our limitations, our restricted ability to cope with some of the things that happen to us. Sometimes when we have suffered a terrible crisis, the mind simply will not accept that the crisis has taken place, at least not until our emotions are sufficiently calm to deal with it.’
    Randolph said, 'You're trying to tell me that a terrible crisis has taken place in my life, is that it? That that's why I'm here?’
    Dr Ambara