He could recall the first verse.

A creaking dilapidated sign of carved wood

Swung where a rusted steel swivel stood

A sway of Gothic letters whispering

‘John Green, Coffin Maker, Est. 1919.’

The technician shouted:

‘Yo, Officer, they want you.’

Ask not for whom the bloody bell tolls. He finished the cig and prayed it hadn’t finished him. The porter wheeled him back upstairs and they got him a bed. He was reattached to all the tubes and the nurse asked:

‘Like a cup of tea, love?’

She was black with huge luminous eyes and he thought of Falls, wondering if she knew of his plight. No sign of Roberts or Brant or indeed any cop.

He answered:

‘I’d really appreciate that.’

She stared at him and he said:

‘What?’

‘You have lovely manners.’

What she thought was:

Fag.

When the painkillers kicked in, Porter couldn’t believe the ease. He remembered Arnie’s line in Predator:

You lose it here, you are in a world of hurt.

He began to feel sleepy, and when the tea arrived he was already dozing. A nurse came and said cheerfully:

‘Mr Nash, we need some more blood.’

‘You’re kidding. I like, gave pints already, what’s the deal?

‘We need to keep an eye on your blood sugar.’

He didn’t know what this meant but didn’t ask for fear she’d tell him, so he said:

‘My name is Porter Nash.’

She began to do shit to his arm and said:

‘Impressive name.’

As she drew the blood, she was humming. There are few things as annoying as that, except for Muzak, and the worst bit is you start to try and identify the goddamn tune. He couldn’t, said:

‘I give up.’

She was finished and asked:

‘You give up what, love?’

‘The song, the one you’re humming, what is it?’