
He was still struggling to recall something when a grinning face appeared above him and a voice spoke cheerfully.
"Now then, you awake again, are you?"
He stared upwards, focusing on the moon face. It was broad and blunt with a chapped skin and a smile that stretched wide over broken teeth.
He tried to clear his head.
"Again?" he said confusedly. The past lay behind him in dreamless sleep like a white corridor without a beginning.
"You're a right one, you are." The voice sighed good-humoredly. "You dunno nuffin' from one day ter the next, do yer? It wouldn't surprise me none if yer didn't remember yer own name! 'Ow are yer then? 'Ow's yer arm?"
"My name?" There was nothing there, nothing at all.
"Yeah." The voice was cheerful and patient. "Wot's yer name, then?"
He must know his name. Of course he must! It was… Blank seconds ticked by.
"Well then?" the voice pressed.
He struggled. Nothing came except a white panic, like a snowstorm in the brain, whirling and dangerous, and without focus.
"Yer’ve fergot!" The voice was stoic and resigned. "I thought so. Well the Peelers was 'ere, day afore yesterday; an' they said as you was 'Monk'-'William Monk.' Now wot 'a you gorn an' done that the Peelers is after yer?" He pushed helpfully at the pillow with enormous hands and then straightened the blanket. "You like a nice 'ot drink then, or suffink? Proper parky it is, even in 'ere. July-an it feels like ruddy November! I'll get yer a nice 'ot drink o' gruel, 'ow's that then? Raining a flood outside, it is. Ye're best off in 'ere."
