Guiting

'Everybody's bloody dead in here,' he says to me down the phone.
'Are you sure you're supposed to have your mobile on?,' I ask.
'Nobody's up, it doesn't matter. They can come and tell me not to if they bloody want to.'
He must be feeling better, but he still finds it hard to speak - the severe dehydration that has made his tongue bright red traps the words in his mouth and sticks his lips to his teeth.
'A little jaunt out and about, up and down the corridor - that helps.' He seemed to be looking forward to going for his CT scan - a change of scene. He's been moved overnight to the Guiting Ward - specialists in respiratory disorders. That's why everyone's so quiet - they've all got tubes shoved down their throats. In the background I can hear beeps and gravely serious sounding machines. I'm sure the mobile signal can't be good for them - like when you redirect air traffic by making a call on a plane. He's not in there for breathing problems, but as an acute general patient. We seem to be looking at Hodgkinsons now, or perhaps nothing at all. We wait again and scare ourselves stupid by looking up diseases and self-diagnosing on the internet.
It is now quarter to nine.
'Have you finished your drink yet?' I ask of the clear tube of 'contrast' he has to have to light up his insides for the scan.
'I'm only half way through,' he chuckles.
'Get a bloody move on - they'll be picking you up anytime soon. You need to have that down you well before or the scan won't work.'
He drinks.
'Are you worried?' I ask.
'Nothing to be worried about,' he says.