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I stir behind closed eyelids, my mind ceasing dream mode to bring him back to wakefulness. At first, I was slightly confused; I heard the noises of the hospital ward waking. Then, a feeling of dread crept over my face. The sound of rain falling thickly outside, the beautiful sound was passing right through the open window.

I hadn't expected to be in the hospital with anaemia. My haemoglobin levels were deficient, causing dizzy spells and palpitations when I walked up a hill or an incline. However, the doctor had insisted on a blood test, and I received a phone call the same day. So here I am, in an assessment ward, waiting to be transferred, prodded, and probed until they discover the reasoning behind my sudden onset of anaemia.

After an iron infusion, a porter moved me onto a ward with four other men—all with different ailments.

The man was entirely hidden by the privacy curtain in the bed next to mine except for his feet. And they were the worst feet I had ever seen with varicose veins, bunions, and deformed toes.

He wore a grey T-shirt and Ipswich Town football club shorts. I wanted to talk about football to find a common bond with him, but Arsenal played just as bad as Ipswich. So, I decided not to bring the subject up.

The man adjacent to me had an unreadable name and looked like a pot-bellied tramp, with his long grey hair, a scruffy beard, and an out-of-control stomach that hung in a light blue T-shirt over baggy dark blue jogging bottoms. He burped his way through the night.

Patrick Gatehouse lay in the bed opposite me and hardly spoke a word. He was sleeping through every noise or disturbance that was customary on a hospital ward at night.

Next to Patrick was an empty bed, but next to me, on my right, was William. An ill man with mental health issues snored his way through Pink Floyd music, which he played through his laptop, loud enough so everyone else could hear.

The one saving grace of the first night was the tall, dark-haired Lithuanian nurse, whose cheerful demeanour disguised a high standard of professionalism. She wore a protective face mask like the rest of the medical staff, but what I found mesmerising were her gorgeous indigo eyes, which were like pools of dark water in the night, that glinted with humour and care.

A four-foot-eleven-inch nurse from Singapore ably assisted her, whose happy face belied her tender years.

My first two transfusions seemed to take forever, continuing well into the early hours of the morning, and what followed was one of the worst night sleeps I had ever experienced. At moments like that, I missed the wise and comforting words of my late wife.

I wasn't expecting any visitors, and I couldn't think of anyone who would be bothered to take the time to come and visit me.

Visiting hours were between ten in the morning and eight at night, and I had to book in advance because of the coronavirus regulations.

When I finally regained consciousness and worked out exactly where I was, I discovered addition to our little band of merry men.

Ray Bethesda was an American who had lived in England for over ten years and yet hadn't lost his accent. What he hadn't done with his life wasn't worth mentioning, but he was good company for all that.

A nurse took my blood pressure first thing, and I lay on top of the sheet and thin blanket and waited with anticipation for a cup of tea and some toast for breakfast. Before placing my order, an Indian nurse came bounding up to my bed and wrote that I was nil by mouth on the board above my head.

"Why is that?" I demanded, shocked by the suddenness of it all.

"You will have an endoscopy later this morning," she said in her accentless English.

Disappointed, I sat there and listened and watched everyone eat their breakfast, with my arms folded in negativity and the best glum expression I could conjure up. I was allowed to sip water with my medication and brush my teeth when I washed and changed, but that was it.

Ten o'clock came and went, and then to my surprise, when I was giving up all hope of seeing anyone or receiving any good news, Detective Chief Inspector Sandra Burton strolled into the ward as though she owned the place.

"There you are," she said, pulling up a chair.

"Here I am," I said, actually relieved to see her.

"Can't have you wasting away in here," she said, "I've got a job for you."

"What sort of job?" I felt the excitement building up inside of me.

She leant forward and lowered her voice.

"Missing person."

"Missing person?" I repeated.

"Come on," she said, without expanding, "I've spoken to the doctor; whatever is wrong with you isn't life-threatening; get your stuff together and let's get out of here. We've got work to do."