The Irresistible Inheritance Of Wilberforce by Paul Torday

rush. The room darkened and moved about. I heard a shout and then knew nothing more about it.
    When I awoke, I was lying on something hard and a voice was saying, ‘Can you remember who you are?’
    It was a good question: I could not. Then a name came into my head and I whispered, ‘Is it Wilberforce?’
    A sponge was applied to my face, dabbing at a crust of what felt like dried blood, which appeared to have grown on it.
    ‘Yes, Mr Wilberforce, that’s right.’
    ‘Where am I?’
    ‘You’re in the A & E department at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. You had a fall.’
    I didn’t want to be in a hospital. I wanted to be at home, being looked after by my own doctor. The trouble was, I couldn’t remember who he was: his name was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t get the word out, I couldn’t remember exactly what it was - as if I wanted to say ‘Pimlico’ but could only think of Pershore.
    ‘Is there anyone we ought to contact to tell them you’re here?’ asked the voice, coming into view for the first time. It was a young Indian doctor.
    ‘Francis Black,’ I told him.
    There was someone else in the room, sitting behind me, gently sponging my face. Now she spoke. ‘Can you remember his phone number, dear?’
    ‘I’m afraid not.’ Then I remembered Francis had died of cancer three years ago. ‘I’m sorry, he’s dead, anyway.’
    ‘We found you at an address in Mayfair. Can you remember how you got there? Can you remember where you live?’
    ‘I live in Bogotá.’
    Why in God’s name had I said that?
    The Indian doctor said, ‘In Bogotá? In Colombia? You’re a long way from home then.’
    The two voices conferred above my head, and one of them said something about ‘concussion’ and ‘retrograde amnesia’.
    ‘Don’t worry just now, dear,’ said the woman’s voice. ‘You’re still a bit muzzy from your fall, aren’t you? We’ll take you to a nice quiet room on your own and you can get some sleep, and then we might do some tests and try to find out what went wrong with you.’
    I was wheeled out of the theatre on the gurney and along a corridor. Gentle hands lifted me into a bed, and then I fell asleep.
    When I awoke, I saw that a drip had been attached to my hand, once again, and another plaster near my elbow suggested someone had been helping themselves to my blood. I stared around the room, which was painted a restful green colour, and wondered how I had got here. I had been shopping, hadn’t I? A nurse came into the room holding a clipboard, and looked at me with a rather severe expression.
    ‘And how are we feeling?’ she asked.
    ‘About the same as ever,’ I told her. She glanced at a clipboard and said, ‘Do you feel well enough to answer a few questions, Mr Wilberforce?’
    ‘I’ll do my best.’
    ‘We checked your blood pressure and did a blood sample when you were admitted. Your cholesterol was raised and the sample indicated a high level of alcohol in your blood. Had you been drinking recently?’
    ‘Only in moderation.’
    The nurse looked at her clipboard again. ‘That isn’t consistent with your blood-sample level. How many units of alcohol do you drink in a week?’
    I could not remember what a unit was, and said so.
    ‘A glass of wine is about one and a half units.’
    ‘Oh.’ I have always been quick with numbers. When I was growing up, counting in my head or calculating prime numbers had been one of my greatest pleasures. That was how I had once become a very good software developer and programmer. I worked it out in my head and said, ‘I suppose I drink around 260 units a week. Unless I go out. Then I might drink a bit more than that. But I don’t go out very often.’
    The nurse put down her clipboard on my bed and stared at me. ‘You mean twenty-six, surely?’
    ‘Well, if you assume the average glass holds 125 millilitres and a bottle of wine is 750 millilitres, then you can get five glasses from every bottle. If each glass is 1.5,