Chameleon's Shadow

Seven

DR WILLIS HAD BEEN a good reader of minds. When Acland’s request to return to active service was finally denied at the end of June, the last person he wanted to confide in was the psychiatrist. He was convinced, on little justification, that Willis’s first words would be ‘I told you so’. Certainly, most of Willis’s predictions had come true, leaving Acland to brood over his own naivety in believing there was a place for a disabled officer in a modern fighting force.

The medical board’s findings were crushingly negative. Recognition was given to Lieutenant Charles D. B. Acland’s clear desire to return to duty, but his ambition was at odds with the severity of his disabilities. His blind side would make him a liability in action, and his tinnitus and increasingly frequent migraines would reduce his competence to make decisions. As the first duty of the board was to consider the safety of all service personnel, it was the opinion of the members that Lieutenant Acland would pose a risk to others if he were allowed to resume his command in the field.

Even in his own mind, Acland drew a veil over his departure from his regiment. He handled his disappointment badly, rejecting any suggestion of a desk job and freezing out anyone who tried to help him. He persuaded himself he’d become an embarrassment – a hanger-on to a group rather than a member of it – and, when he packed his bags on the day of his departure, he knew he’d never see any of his colleagues again. He exited the barrack gates without ceremony or farewell, a lonely and embittered man with deep-set fears about himself and his future.

After the comments he’d made to Robert Willis about his stay with Susan Campbell – ‘too many people . . . and they all gape like idiots...’ – Acland’s choice to live in London might have seemed a strange one. Yet, despite his distinctive appearance, he knew he could be anonymous in the capital city. Passers-by might stare but he wouldn’t attract the same attention as he would in a smaller community. The gossiping curiosity in his parents’ village would have driven him mad. He craved obscurity. The chance to rethink his life without interference or pressure from outside.

With no dependants, an unspent salary while he’d been in hospital and a deposit account swollen by compensation from the MOD for injuries sustained on the battlefield, Acland had no incentive to find a job. Instead, he took a six-month lease on a ground-floor flat in the Waterloo area and lived like a pauper, eating frugally and only spending money on the rare times he stopped at a pub for a lager.

He spent his days running, telling anyone who tried to strike up a conversation with him that he was in training for the London marathon to raise money for wounded ex-servicemen. He even believed at times that the point of the exercise was a charitable one instead of a way to shut down his brain and keep him apart from the rest of humanity. He became increasingly reluctant to make eye contact, preferring wary retreat to well-meaning interest about who he was and what he was doing.

He developed a physical revulsion against anyone wearing Arab or Muslim dress. Willis hadn’t prepared him for the hatred he’d feel. Or the fear. His body was shocked with a surge of adrenalin every time he saw a bearded face above a white dishdash, and he crossed roads or turned down side streets to avoid contact. His dislike grew to encompass anyone who wasn’t white. Part of him recognized that this response was irrational, but he made no attempt to control it. He felt better when he could shift the blame for what had happened on to people he didn’t understand, and didn’t want to understand.

Willis had warned him that some of his reactions might surprise him. The psychiatrist had talked in general terms about the consequences of trauma, and how grief, particularly for oneself, could skew perspective. He encouraged Acland not to dwell on the aspects of the tragedy that had been outside his control. Guilt was a powerful and confusing emotion, made worse when all memory of the incident was lost. As ever, Acland had steered him away from discussing the deaths of his men.

‘It’s not guilt I feel,’ he’d said.

‘What do you feel?’

‘Anger. They shouldn’t be dead. They had wives and children.’

‘Are you saying you should have died instead?’

‘No. I’m saying the Iraqis should have died.’

‘I think we should discuss that, Charles.’

‘No need, Doc. You asked for an answer and I gave you one. I’m not planning to wage war on Muslims in the UK just because I wish we’d got to the ragheads before they got to us.’

But he wanted to wage war on someone. He had dreams of pressing a pistol barrel to the side of a head and watching the white cotton keffiah bloom with blood. And other dreams about turning his Minimi LMG on an ululating crowd of women in burkhas and mowing them down at the rate of eight hundred rounds per minute. He would burst out of sleep, drenched in sweat, believing he’d done it, and his heart would pound uncontrollably. But whether from guilt or exultation, he couldn’t tell.

He knew he was in trouble – his migraines grew worse as his dreams grew darker – but, in a perverse way, he welcomed the pain as a form of punishment. It was natural justice that someone should pay. And that someone might as well be him.

*

Acland’s precarious equilibrium flipped spectacularly five weeks after he moved to London. He was minding his own business over a quiet pint at the bar of a Bermondsey pub when a group of sharp-suited City brokers pushed in beside him. They were hyped up about the money they’d made that day, and their voices became louder and more intrusive as the drink started flowing. Two or three times Acland was buffeted by those on the fringes, but he wouldn’t have reacted if one of them hadn’t spoken to him. The man, who could only see Acland’s right profile, tapped him on the shoulder when he didn’t receive an answer.

‘Are you deaf?’ he asked, waving a glass of orange juice under Acland’s nose and jerking his chin towards the empty stool on Acland’s blind side. ‘I asked you if you’d consider moving to give the rest of us some room.’

The accent was singsong, unmistakably Pakistani, and Acland’s reply was immediate and involuntary. He hooked his right arm round the back of the man’s neck and punched him squarely in the face with his left fist. The broker went down with a howl of anguish, knocking against his friends, blood spurting from his nose.

The rest of the group turned alarmed faces towards Acland. ‘Jesus!’ said one. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘I don’t like murderers,’ Acland told them, returning to his lager.

There was a second or two of surprised silence before someone bent over to help the man to his feet. He took a serviette from a dispenser on the bar and held it to his nose, staring angrily at his assailant. Whatever his religion or nationality, he was dressed like a westerner in a dark suit, shirt and tie. Only his fringed beard and choice of drink suggested Islam. ‘You cannot behave like that in this country.’

‘I was born here. I can behave any way I want.’

‘I, too, was born here.’

‘That doesn’t make you English.’

‘Did you hear that?’ the Pakistani demanded excitedly of his friends. ‘This man attacked me on racial grounds. You’re my witnesses.’ He was stockier and heavier than Acland and he fancied his chances with his colleagues to back him up. He wagged his finger in admonishment. ‘You’re a maniac. You should not be allowed out.’

‘Wrong,’ said Acland in a deceptively mild tone. ‘I’m an angry maniac. Even an ignorant Paki should be able to work that out.’

It was like waving a red rag at a bull. Enraged by the insult, the man lowered his head and charged. Had he come at Acland from the left, he’d have stood a better chance but, from the right, it was a no-brainer. He couldn’t compete in strength, speed or fitness – a broker’s life is a sedentary one – and the only way he knew how to fight was to flail his fists in the hope of landing a blow. He wasn’t expecting Acland to move off his stool as fast as he did, nor that Acland would exploit the forward motion of his run to slam him headfirst into the side of the bar before kicking his feet from under him.

Acland could have left it at that, but he didn’t. He was aware of urgency behind the bar and shouts from the Pakistani’s friends, but the suppressed hatred of months had been looking for a target and this loud-mouthed broker had volunteered himself. ‘You should have kept your mouth shut,’ he murmured, dropping to one knee and clamping both hands under the man’s chin, preparing to snap his head back and crush his spinal cord between two vertebrae.

Only the shock of a bucket of melting ice pouring over the back of his neck from the other side of the bar made Acland hesitate.

‘Cut it OUT!’ barked a woman’s voice as a dozen hands hauled him off and tossed him aside. ‘I SAID...cut it OUT!’ she roared as one of the brokers launched a toecap at Acland’s ribs. ‘No one MOVES till the police get here!’ She gave a piercing whistle. ‘JACKSON! HERE, mate! PRONTO!’

Her words fell on deaf ears. Acland absorbed an onslaught of kicks from the other brokers while uninvolved customers scattered hastily to avoid the fight zone. The Pakistani added to the confusion by staggering to his feet and grabbing at anyone or anything that might keep him upright. As he threatened to overturn a table, a huge woman with cropped and streaked dark hair emerged from behind the bar. ‘Easy now,’ she said in a deep, melodious voice that betrayed no excitement at all. ‘You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, my friend. Let’s have you out of harm’s way.’

With a grunt of effort, she hoisted Acland’s victim in her arms and dumped him unceremoniously on the counter. ‘All yours, lover,’ she said, before weighing into the fray. ‘You heard the lady,’ she said, smacking two of the Pakistani’s friends on the back of their heads with meaty hands. ‘Cut it out. This is an orderly house. All breakages have to be paid for.’ She elbowed her way past two more to look down at Acland. ‘You all right?’ she asked him.

He squinted up at her. From the floor she looked like a mountain of white muscle, with calves, thighs, shoulders and neck bulging out of her biker boots, black cycling shorts and sleeveless T-shirt like inflated bladders. He flinched in alarm as one of her booted feet came down like a piledriver. ‘The lady said, don’t move,’ she rumbled in her deep bass, as her heel ground into a soft leather shoe. ‘That includes kicking.’

‘Jesus Christ, Jackson!’ the offender yelped. ‘You’re fucking well hurting me!’

‘I’ll hurt you some more if you don’t back off.’ She tilted her heel to release him. ‘Anyone else want to mess with a three-hundred-pound weightlifter? I eat steak for breakfast, so a few cream puffs won’t faze me.’ When no one offered themselves, she proffered a hand to Acland and pulled him to his feet. ‘Over there,’ she ordered, nodding to a bench seat against the wall. ‘And you lot to that table,’ she told the brokers. ‘We’re going to sit nice and quiet till the cops come.’ She smiled broadly. ‘And afterwards you can twiddle your thumbs in the nick for several hours until you’re invited to make statements.’

They stared at her mutinously. ‘Give us a break, Jackson,’ said one. ‘We’ve all got homes to go to.’

‘Is that my problem?’

‘We’re good customers, and it wasn’t us who started it.’

‘So? This is my home. I don’t have the luxury of calling a taxi and leaving the mess behind.’ She spread her huge legs and folded her arms across her chest, daring them to challenge her. ‘Daisy and I don’t come to your houses and behave like spoilt children. What gives you the right to do it in ours?’

‘We didn’t. It was that racist bastard over there. For no reason at all, he punched Rashid in the face and called him an ignorant Paki.’

Jackson shifted her gaze to Acland. ‘Is that right?’

Acland ran a finger under his eyepatch and massaged the damaged nerves in his empty socket. ‘Near enough.’

‘How near?’

‘I had a reason.’

She waited for him to go on and, when he didn’t, she said, ‘I hope it was a good one, my friend, because you’re lucky you can still see. If Rashid Mansoor was any kind of fighter, he’d have glassed your other eye and you’d be blind.’

The arrival of the police put an end to the exchange. Still enraged, and mopping his bloody nose, Mansoor gave his name and accused Acland of calling him racist names and trying to kill him. Acland merely gave his name. A migraine was thudding in his head and Jackson wasn’t alone in noticing how pale he was. An officer asked if either man needed medical treatment, but both said no. Mansoor was too intent on holding the floor and Acland too drained to move.

Excitable anger raised the Pakistani’s voice to a high-pitched squeak which was difficult to understand, so the officer in charge cut him short and turned to Jackson for an explanation. She described accurately what she’d seen when she came out but couldn’t say who’d started it because she’d been in the kitchen at the time. Her partner, Daisy, a shapely blonde with a deep cleavage, was no better informed. She’d been serving a customer at the other end of the bar and only realized a fight had broken out when the shouting began. The brokers, glancing surreptitiously at their watches, said the first they knew about it was their friend hitting the floor with blood on his face and Acland saying he didn’t like murderers.

The officer in charge shifted his attention back to the two men. ‘All right, gentlemen, what was this about? Which of you spoke first?’

Acland stared at the floor.

‘I did,’ Mansoor said defensively, ‘but I was perfectly courteous. I asked this person if he’d mind moving to the empty stool next to him to make room for the rest of us. He didn’t even bother to answer, just grabbed me round the neck and punched me.’

‘And that’s all you said?’

The Pakistani hesitated. ‘I had to repeat it. He failed to hear me the first time, so I tapped him on the shoulder and asked him again.’ He remembered the words he’d used. Are you deaf? ‘I could only see one side of his face,’ he finished lamely.

The officer frowned. ‘What difference does that make?’

‘I wouldn’t have spoken to him if I’d realized he was –’ Mansoor gave an awkward shrug as he sought for an appropriate expression – ‘well, that he’d been in an accident . . . had surgery . . . whatever. You know.’

‘Not really. You’re talking gobbledygook as far as I’m concerned. What were these racist names he called you?’

‘He said I was a murderer and an ignorant Paki.’

‘And what did you call him?’

‘A maniac.’

The policeman turned to Acland. ‘Is there anything you want to say?’

‘No.’

The man eyed him for a moment, then looked enquiringly at Jackson. ‘Either this one’s had too much to drink or he needs a doctor. He’s green to the gills.’

‘He took a kicking from Rashid’s friends . . . so unless Rashid sees it differently I’d say they’re about even in the assault stakes.’

The policeman looked at the Pakistani and nodded when he shook his head. ‘What about you, Jackson? It’s your property. Do you want me to arrest the whole lot for criminal damage and take them back to the station –’ there was a glint of amusement in his eye, as if they’d been down this road before – ‘or give them a warning and throw them out? I can’t make an exception of Captain Kidd here.’

‘What kind of choice is that?’ she said sourly. ‘I’ll lose my business if word gets out that I handed a sick man to you lot . . . even worse if the punters have to clamber over him to reach the front door.’

The officer grinned. ‘I’m guessing he’ll look a lot grimmer if you make me drag him down to the station . . . and it’ll make your job harder.’

‘Mm.’ She took the empty ice bucket from the bar and placed it on the brokers’ table. ‘Five quid each for the aggro you’ve given me, and I’ll let you go . . . but it’s fifty quid to you two jerks,’ she said, aiming her index fingers at Acland and Mansoor. ‘I’m damned if Daisy and me are going to wipe up after you, so you either pay for an agency cleaner or get down on your knees and scrub up the blood yourselves.’

The brokers produced fivers with indecent haste and made a beeline for the exit before anyone could rewrite the rules. ‘That’s my kind of justice,’ said Jackson, passing the ice bucket to Daisy and winking at the policeman. ‘Instant compensation for the victims and no official time wasted on paperwork.’ She rubbed her thumb and forefinger under Mansoor’s nose. ‘OK, my little Muslim friend, it’s your turn. Ante up.’

Mansoor took out his wallet with bad grace. ‘What about him?’

‘Oh, he’ll pay, don’t you worry about that.’ She took the Pakistani’s money. ‘But, first, I’m going to do you a favour and keep him alive, otherwise you’ll be down at the police station answering questions about murder.’ She stooped over Acland. ‘Where are you hurting?’

He continued to stare at the floor. ‘Head,’ he muttered through clenched teeth, holding back the bile that rose in his throat with every eye movement. ‘Migraine.’

‘Have you had a migraine before? Do you recognize the symptoms?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did your surgeon say was causing them?’

‘Phantom pain.’

‘From losing your eye?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have pain anywhere else? Ribs? Back? Did any of the kicks do any damage?’

‘No.’

‘Can you stand up?’

Acland made an effort to comply, but the movement sent bile shooting into his mouth. He clamped both palms over his mouth and retched convulsively.

‘Great!’ said Jackson sourly. ‘Chuck us a towel, Daisy.’ She caught the cloth and handed it to Acland. ‘Use that,’ she said, hauling him upright and hoisting him over her shoulder in a fireman’s lift, ‘and don’t mess up my clothes or it’ll cost you another fifty.’ She paused briefly in front of the two policemen. ‘I’ll knock him flat if he’s a nutter and goes berserk,’ she warned, ‘so don’t try pinning GBH on me if he complains to you afterwards.’

‘You’re all heart, Jackson.’

‘That’s the truth of it,’ she agreed, carrying the weight of a grown man on her back as easily as she would a child.

*

Acland remembered her lowering him on to a bed and telling him to use the bowl that she placed beside his pillow. Shortly afterwards she came back with a briefcase and asked him about the injuries to his face. Where had the surgery been done? Was he on any drugs? When was the last time he’d seen a doctor? How often

did he have migraines? How did he manage them? Were they getting worse? Was nausea always involved? What remedies did he use?

He answered as well as he could, mostly in monosyllables, but when the retching continued unabated, she offered him an injection of an anti-emetic to help him take on fluids and keep a painkiller down. Worn out, he agreed. He fell asleep soon after the sedative properties of the analgesic took effect, but not before he had revealed rather more about himself than he’d ever told Willis.

*

Sunshine filtered through a gap in the curtains when Acland woke the next morning and he could hear the clatter of crockery in the kitchen downstairs. There was no confusion about where he was or what had happened. He remembered every event of the previous evening – or thought he did – right up to the question he’d put to Jackson shortly before she gave him the anti-emetic. ‘Are you a doctor?’ But he couldn’t recall if she’d answered. He was lying on his left side, facing the window, and he noticed his shoes and socks on a chair beside it. He was naked except for his underpants but had no idea when his clothes had been removed or who had done it. He levered himself into a sitting position to look around the rest of the room. It was small and utilitarian with a pinewood wardrobe in one corner and a pedestal basin and mirror on the wall opposite the window. The vomit bowl, emptied and washed, stood with his wallet, watch and eyepatch on the bedside cabinet, and a hand towel lay folded next to his pillow. There was no sign of his jacket, shirt or trousers. He strapped on his eyepatch, then checked the time by his watch. Almost nine o’clock. Wary of squeaking floorboards, which would tell whoever was in the kitchen that he was awake, he slid out from under the duvet and tiptoed to the wardrobe. At the very least he was hoping for a dressing gown, but all he found were five empty coat hangers. Feeling foolish, he put on his socks and shoes, tucked his wallet into the waistband of his underpants, then stripped the pink floral cover from the duvet and wrapped it round his middle.

He eased open the door to the landing and poked out his head, looking for a bathroom, but all the adjoining rooms were firmly closed. To his left was a staircase, and the sounds from the kitchen carried clearly up the well. Aromas, too. Someone was grilling bacon and the smell shot pangs of hunger through his empty stomach. He couldn’t tell if he was in a private part of the building or if the nearby rooms were to let, so with an increasing sense of awkwardness he edged quietly along the landing, looking for anything that might indicate a lavatory.

It was sod’s law that when he finally plucked up the courage to try a handle he’d find Jackson inside. She was sitting astride a bench press, facing the door, with her arms stretched out at shoulder height and a dumbbell in each huge fist. She gave a throaty chuckle at Acland’s appearance as she bent her elbows to bring the dumbbells back on to her chest. ‘Nice skirt,’ she said. ‘If you’re looking for the bathroom it’s the room opposite yours. You can borrow the robe on the back of the door, but don’t go using my razor. I’ll be through in five minutes.’

A flush stained the lieutenant’s neck and cheeks as he backed out with a muttered apology, and Jackson wondered if he was younger than the thirty-something she’d estimated last night. It was difficult to age him with his buzz-cut hair and damaged face, but she’d certainly thought him older than Mansoor and his friends. As she straightened her arms to raise the dumbbells again, she revisited some of the answers he’d given her about his medical history.

What caused your injuries? A piece of metal. In a car accident? If you like. What does that mean? Nothing . . . it was an accident. Did you have migraines before? No. What do you take for the pain? I don’t. I put up with it. Why? It helps me function. Most people function better without pain. I do OK. Sure you do. You look like shit and attack the first person who annoys you. What kind of functioning is that? I’m alive, aren’t I ...?

The answers he’d given after the retching ceased but before the painkiller took effect were even more interesting. Who died? Two of my men. Are you in the army? Not any more. Why not? I’m not good enough. How did Rashid Mansoor upset you? I’ve been trying to avoid them. Pakistanis? Murderers. Will anyone be worrying about you? Only me...

*

Acland was sitting on his bed with his door wide open when Jackson emerged at the end of her exercise session. He was wearing her navy-blue bathrobe and he greeted her with more confidence than he’d shown five minutes earlier. ‘Are you a doctor?’ She folded her beefy arms across her chest and subjected him to a close scrutiny. She looked to be in her mid-forties and was as tall as he was, over six feet, but her muscular jaw, short spiked hair and sloping shoulders made her look more like a man than a woman. She was dressed in similar singlet and shorts to the ones she’d been wearing the previous evening, showing off thigh muscles that were so developed she had to stand with her feet apart. ‘You keep asking me that . . . and I keep telling you I am . . . but I can’t seem to convince you. Don’t I look like a doctor?’ He contemplated the inflated biceps and disproportionately flat chest. ‘Not one that I’ve ever seen. You called yourself a three-hundred-pound weightlifter yesterday.’ ‘I exaggerated. I’m more like two-fifty, but it doesn’t have the same scare factor as three hundred. Have you never met a doctor who does weight training before?’ Not a female one that looked like you, he thought. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve never met a doctor who runs a pub either.’ She watched him struggle to hold her gaze. ‘It’s Daisy who runs it, I just have an interest in the property. I used to be a full-time GP, now I’m employed through the local primary care trust to cover out-of-hours services and the drunks and drug addicts in the police cells. It means I’m on call at weekends and two or three nights a week. It was my evening off yesterday, so I should have been sitting with my feet up instead of playing nursemaid to you.’

He couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or being ironic. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No need to be. You went out like a light once you agreed to let me give you something.’ She saw his suspicion. ‘The injection was a metoclopramide anti-emetic to stop you dehydrating and the painkiller was codeine combined with paracetamol. Nothing more sinister than that. What did you think I was giving you? Heroin?’

Acland found her difficult to read. Her intense stare was unnerving and he decided it was easier to look at his hands. ‘I don’t take drugs.’

‘So you told me last night. You said you function better without them.’ She paused, as if expecting him to answer. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’

‘OK.’

‘Hungry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Daisy’s cooked enough bacon and eggs to feed the five thousand, and I’m damned if I’m going to eat it on my own. I’ve too much respect for my cholesterol levels. Your clothes are in the laundry room, so you can come down in the robe . . . and don’t forget your wallet. You owe me a hundred quid from last night – fifty for Rashid’s blood and fifty for vomiting down my back – plus an extra fiver to Daisy for the breakfast.’

He followed her on to the landing. ‘What about paying for the bed?’

‘You get one night free, but if you make a habit of falling sick on the premises it’ll cost you thirty quid every time you use it. No cheques.’ She set off down the stairs.

It was on the tip of Acland’s tongue to say he had no intention of ever returning to her pub. ‘It was a one-off,’ he told her instead. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘We’ll see. You haven’t tried Daisy’s breakfast yet.’

*

Daisy was the complete antithesis to Jackson – a warm, friendly, curvaceous blonde who looked ten years younger than her partner. She was also quite uninterested in money. When Acland tried to pay for his food, she laughed and told him not to be so silly. ‘If you hadn’t eaten it, Jackson would. She’s the resident dustbin.’ Jackson had no such qualms. ‘Where’s my hundred?’ she asked, washing down a mouthful of fried bread with a huge swallow of tea. ‘Daisy’s a pinko liberal. She thinks profit’s a dirty word and all criminals come from broken homes.’ She held out her palm. ‘I expect people to pay their dues.’ ‘You gave me a choice,’ Acland reminded her mildly. ‘Pay up or clean.’ ‘Too late. Daisy did the business last night. Blood and puke stains are the devil to get out once they’ve soaked in.’ Her partner frowned, as if she were about to contradict, but Jackson spoke again before she had the chance. ‘You’re lucky I’m not charging you for a new vest. It’ll need ten washes at least to get rid of the lager you spewed down my back.’ Acland counted off five twenties and handed them over with the fiver that Daisy had refused. Jackson took the lot and twisted in her chair to put it in the drawer of a unit behind her. He had a brief glimpse of a smaller stack, topped by a ten-pound note, before she closed the drawer again. ‘Mansoor’s contribution,’ she said, catching his eye as she turned back. ‘Not a bad night, all in all.’ He felt a sudden dislike for her, or perhaps he’d disliked her all along and it was distrust that now set his teeth on edge. She was an ugly woman – gross and greedy – and she clearly enjoyed bullying anyone who was at a disadvantage. He wondered briefly

about Daisy’s role in the relationship. Was she Jackson’s obedient slave? A piece of eye-candy to be discarded when someone prettier came along? Was she there out of love? Necessity? Was it an equal partnership? He watched her butter some toast for Jackson and realized he didn’t care. Revulsion against the whole set-up had him scraping his chair legs across the floor and standing up.

‘I need my clothes,’ he said brusquely. ‘If you point me in the right direction, I’ll get them myself.’

Surprised by his tone, Daisy gave a doubtful smile. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine . . . but I need to go now. I’m late.’

‘OK.’ She pointed to a door behind her. ‘Through there, first room on the right and you’ll find your stuff on the ironing board. When you’ve changed, continue down the corridor and you’ll find an exit on to Murray Street at the end. Can you find your way from there?’

Acland nodded.

‘Just make sure you leave my bathrobe behind,’ said Jackson, taking another piece of toast and sticking a buttery knife into the marmalade. ‘It cost me a fortune.’

He took a deep breath and addressed Daisy. ‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘Clearing up after me . . . breakfast . . . washing my clothes.’

Daisy smiled slightly. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything Jackson says, you know. She bends the truth to suit herself.’

The non sequitur confused him. ‘I don’t understand.’

Jackson jumped in again before the other woman could answer. ‘The robe cost two quid from an Oxfam shop,’ she told him, ‘but that doesn’t mean you can take it.’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ Acland said stiffly, untying the belt and shrugging out of it. ‘Here.’ He draped it over the back of his chair. ‘I wouldn’t want you accusing me of theft after I’ve gone.’

Her gaze travelled with amusement from his underpants to his socks and shoes. ‘You jump to too many conclusions, my friend, and none of them reflect well on you. Being one-eyed doesn’t make a man blind or stupid – or shouldn’t – although in your case I’m beginning to wonder. You can come back when you’ve learned some tolerance . . . but not before.’

‘It won’t happen,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘I can’t bloody well afford it.’

‘Of course you can,’ she said comfortably. ‘Daisy offers a ten per cent discount to anyone who stays the week.’