Somewhere under us is a factory. The whine and whirr of machinery, the unmistakable drone of electric motors, and the silence of slave workers can all just be heard above the coughing and groaning which make up the aural landscape of the hospital.
I approached one of the day nurses about this. She said I shouldn’t talk about such things, that she would arrange for me to have stronger sleeping pills at night, that I was putting both myself and her in danger.
Later that day our ward was visited by two blank-eyed men in dark suits; they stood in the doorway and stared at me, unblinking, unspeaking, for about two minutes before turning on their heels and walking away.
Since then I’ve been cheeking my sleeping tablets; I’m not taking any risks.