CHAPTER EIGHTThe scent was familiar; he knew who it was without needing to open his eyes.
“Hello, Gloria.”
He tried to move and winced at sudden pain. He was, he guessed, in a hospital bed and the smell of hospitals was in the air. They should, he thought, use different smells. Pine, say, or roses, or would floral scents remind the patients too much of the grave? Sandlewood then, and cedarwood and sweet white wine. Or perhaps the rich, rare spices of the East would scent away the butcher-association that was the heritage of hospitals. It was unfair they should be so maligned. Hospitals weren’t like that now. They were simply places of healing and repair. Like garages; they were also places of repair. Did engines shudder at the smell of detergents, the sight of spanners?
He opened his ey
