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Twenty-three
Twenty-threeIn the morning they took Jude down the corridor, two uniformed men, each holding him by an arm. He knew it was morning, the daylight seeping through the frost glass of the dull, cheerless corridor, tiled walls, chipped and uncared for. He remembered lying in gorse, the thorns digging into him, and he remembered gunfire and white faces. But this wasn't the same. Pain, replaced by light. In the distance he could hear voices echoing, but he had no idea who they belonged to. Neither did he care. Nothing made sense to him anymore. All he knew was that someone had taken him from the river side and now he was here. The cold of the night had frozen his mind. He couldn't work anything out. The men did not speak, they just put him on this bed, and others came. Men with tall hats. And the
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