He turned his head away – they were the last people he wanted to see just now.  He wanted to see Cleo, only Cleo.  Where was she?  He felt emotion rising within him and he covered his eyes with his hand.

“If you don’t feel up to it, I’ll ask them to come back later.” offered the nurse, concerned at his reaction.

Collecting himself, he turned back to the nurse.  “No, no, it’s okay, bring them in!”

The nurse propped him up in bed, fussed over him, making him smile at her.  She was surprised at her reaction to his smile.  His hand touched her arm.  “Thanks!”

“Just five minutes now, please!” said the nurse, then stepped back.

Three men and a woman filed into the private ward room.  “Hi, Mom, Dad, Jimmy, John!”  Jeremiah Plowright Senior was an imposing figure.  In his early 70s, he had pure white hair, was six feet two inches tall, the same height as his youngest son, and had handsome, chiselled features.  His wife was small, round-faced, well made up, an elegant woman with obvious class and good dress sense.  The two elder brothers resembled their father, whereas Jerry Junior resembled his mother – Jerry Junior, aged 48, had a rounder face, black hair greying at the sides and black, impressive eyebrows.  His parents and his two elder brothers regarded him with concern.  They saw the heavy bandages around his head and the padding over the stitched wound on his left temple.

“Oh, Jerry!” his mother was tearful.  She looked into his brown eyes and saw they were bloodshot.

“Ma, Ma, I’m OK, really I am!” he assured her.

“What happened here, son?  Who attacked you?  Was it robbery?”

“Pa, I can’t remember – my head – hurts real bad.”

“Hit on the head and dumped in the water, left for dead – tell us who did it and we’ll get them, good and proper!” said Jimmy, blazing anger in his eyes.

For a split second Jerry had a flashback memory and he drew back, audibly breathing in.

“What is it, son?”