I tried like damn to communicate with Andy, to force my thoughts into his head, to persuade him to take me home with him, but it didn’t work. And presently he, and the three Chinese girls who now composed the other members of The Sumerian Royalty as they were now apparently renamed (a gender-neutral thing. Apparently), cleared off and left me all alone.

They came back once or twice, but as the media showed no particular interest after the second time, there were few other visits and I was left truly alone.

Apart from Fangio visiting me. He came every week. He brought me fresh flowers to put in my vase. And a box of chocolates, which he proceeded to eat, assuring me that ‘the nurses would only eat them otherwise’. And he never mentioned that piece of paper that he wanted signing. Which did make me wonder whether, perhaps, he had simply forged my signature onto it. But he did come. And it’s odd when you are really ill, isn’t it? Who does come and visit you and who does not. Who your real friends turn out to be. And all that kind of caper.

And what was really really strange was that I found, as time passed, as time all ticked and tocked away, that I was able to do all sorts of things that years and years ago I had read about in comic books.

In Doctor Strange comics.

I could see with my eyes closed.

Leave my body in my astral form and travel around and about.

Smell people coming from quite a considerable distance.

And, though it was faltering and not altogether reliable, read people’s minds. Hear their thoughts.

I was becoming a regular Master of the Mystic Arts. Which was all very well and quite wonderful really. But lying on my back in a coma was really doing my brain in.

The big change came one Tuesday morning, early in May in the year 2007. Because yes, I had lain in that bed being poked and bed-bathed and massaged and messed with for ten more years of my wasted, useless ticked-and-tocked-away life.

But a big change came one Tuesday morning, beginning with the arrival of a very old man. He looked to be a veritable ancient and he wore an old-fashioned uniform that perhaps once fitted him, but was now several sizes too big. And he took off the cap that was also too big and placed it upon my bedside table. And he took my left hand between his crinkly paws and stroked at my foolish tattoo.

‘Hello there, young Tyler,’ he said, in a wheezy, creaky old voice. ‘I’ll bet you won’t remember me. But I knew you when you were very young.’

And I looked hard at this venerable elder, hard through my closed eyelids.

And I said, ‘Captain Lynch,’ to myself. For none but me could hear it.

‘I’m Captain Lynch,’ said Captain Lynch. ‘Well, Major Lynch now, but long retired. Your mother told me you were here. It’s taken me a few years to save up the money to fly over from England, but I have and now I’m with you.’

And I looked on at Major Lynch, Captain Lynch as was.

‘I had to speak to you before it is too late for me to do so. I have to give you something. It’s an important something that we spoke of many years ago. More important than ever now, what with the way things are. I’ve talked with others and I know that you know all about them. And you know who it is – the Homunculus that I spoke to you of, all those years ago. It wasn’t Elvis, was it? Elvis is gone, but the Evil goes on and grows daily. You must stop it, Tyler. You will need this.’

And he produced from the pocket of his superannuated uniform a crumpled, dog-eared piece of paper.

‘I have carried this with me for sixty years,’ he continued. ‘It is the map. The location of Begrem, the Lost City of Gold. I never got to Africa. The Church Army said that I was not missionary material. There had been some trouble, you see. Certain Indiscretions. Certain scandals. But I kept your mother’s name out of it. But I never went. And I never married or had children. Well, only you. Well, oh never mind, forget I said that. But I was supposed to train you from when you were young, so that you would know what to do when the time came. So that you would have sufficient power to kill him.’

‘What?’ I went. But only to myself.

‘The map,’ said Major Lynch. ‘It’s there on the map. The location of the lost city. You must lead an expedition, Tyler. Find the city. There are secrets to be found in that lost city, secrets that could help you to destroy the Homunculus, before he destroys us all.’

And then the major patted my head, stroked my brow and, rising, kissed me on the forehead. Which was somewhat unlovely, as he lacked for several teeth and was a bit drippy in the mouth regions.

But I didn’t mind. Because his heart was in the right place. Although this business about him training me when I was young – what was that all about? And I tried to read his thoughts, but could not, because they were old and confused and chaotic.

And then he upped and put on his cap. And he saluted me, as the old soldier of the Lord that he was, and he said, ‘You will rise again, Tyler, as our Good Lord rose again. And you will slay the Evil One, as our Good Lord should, but can’t, because it is not in His remit. Good luck, my boy.’ And he saluted again. And about-turned and marched as best he could from my room.

And I lay there, saying nothing at all.

But thinking an awful lot.

And then, about an hour after the good major had departed, two fellows entered my room and stood at the foot of my bed, a-chatting.

‘Ten years?’ said one.

‘All but,’ said the other.

‘And who is paying for this?’

‘His brother made a donation, but that ran out some time ago and he is not on any Medicare programme.’

‘So why is he still alive?’

‘I don’t quite understand the question, sir. He lives because his body is healthy enough and one day he might awaken from his coma.’

‘But that is not altogether likely, is it? After three months in a coma, the chances fall and fall away. After two years the chances are almost zero.’

Nobody had told me that!

‘New advances are being made in the fields of neurosurgery all the time, sir. This man may be revived and go on to live a useful life.’

‘We do have a very thick CIA file on this individual. He did not have a useful life before his accident.’

‘No, sir, he didn’t.’

‘He’s too expensive. We need his room. We are going to extend the children’s ward. Children’s wards get funding. Vegetables taking up valuable bed space do not.’

‘I can’t just pull the plug on him, sir. That would be unethical.’

‘There will be a power cut at three p.m. Essential maintenance work outside. All staff have been notified of this, yes?’

‘Yes, sir, because the equipment that maintains the life-functions of patients such as this must be reset immediately after the power cut or they will not restart.’

‘And you are responsible for restarting this patient’s equipment?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I am ordering you to take the afternoon off. Go home, watch the Lakers game on TV. Here, take these.’

‘And these are, sir?’

‘Tickets to Carnegie Hall. The Fortieth Anniversary tour of The Sumerian Royalty. Have a good time. Take your wife.’

‘Well, thank you, sir. But the patient-’

‘I don’t think you need to worry yourself over this patient. I will take responsibility for him.’

And the fellow who said this smiled a cruel smile and drew a finger across his throat. And then the two of them left my room.

Giving me plenty more things to ponder upon.