Oh my God! It was her – Akira. Another surge of surreality soared over me, while at the same time my heart filled with affection, and my head ached for answers. She bounded towards me with wide-open arms, wailing my name between dry heaving sobs. I was stunned – speechless – slightly scared. 

We embraced. A small group gathered to witness our reunion. The sobs began to subside and I gently prised her face upwards towards mine. Her eyes: swollen, angry, burning red. I tried not to register my shock. 

A Doctor broke away from the group and approached us; placing a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. Empathetic and practical he said, “Akira, if you need any more meds, sleepers, diazepam, call me and I’ll have them dispensed. Pharmaceuticals are a good thing at times like this,” she nodded her no. I noted a personal familiarity between them. “Thanks, but no, I just need sleep.” She introduced me, “This is Brendan, my friend from Ireland.” A tear splat onto the tiles as she softly said  – “He was with me when it happened.”

“What’s happened Akira?” I asked. But there wasn’t time for answers as all hell broke lose. The woman who’d accompanied the boy flew from a side room; like a thing possessed, she launched herself towards us with frightening speed, screaming obscenities. Two burly medics tackled her to the floor while a third stabbed her with a syringe. Within seconds she was sedated and the medics attention turned to a man who captured the whole scene on camera. Their attempts at his capture were futile – he was gone as quick as his flash. 

Security guards surrounded Akira, ushering her away from the growing crowd. I moved with them but a burly guard pushed me forcefully, the look in his eye said ‘back-off.’ So I did.

“What’s going on here?” I asked the nurse. She answered conspiratorially, “look, there’s been an incident involving a senior member of Hospital staff. Unfortunately I can’t say anything until the press office release an official statement.”  Irritated, I asked, “What’s Akira got to do with it?” She just reiterated the official statement line. I handed over Akira’s bag,  “Can you give her this, she left it on the train.” She looked surprised and asked, “You were on the subway with her?” I ignored her, walked out, pissed off.

Walking back to the hotel my curiosity got the better of me and I looked at her card, her mobile number. I sent her a polite message, wishing her well and gave her my number and hotel details. The ball was in her court, I felt better for it.  

By that evening she hadn’t made contact, so I decided to explore the city free of any more mind fucks – until the following day when the New York Post not only went part way to explaining the story – but gave me a starring role in it. 

Me – on the front page of The New York Post with a stupid startled expression, my arm around Akira. The photographer had got his shot. I grabbed a copy and thrust payment at the vendor who recognised me, “Hey buddy, it’s you, the guy they’re looking for.” I didn’t wait for my change. 

The headline screamed: ‘HALLOWEEN HORROR AT MOUNT SINAI.’ Underneath in smaller type it read: ‘Headless doc, fashion queen and mystery man cause chaos at Mount Sinai.’ Feck this – I wanted to go home. But how could I when the whole of New York City was looking for me?