Sleepyhead

TEN

Thorne got off the train at Clapham Junction. He came out of the station, checked his A-Z and began to walk up Lavender Hill. The house was only ten minutes' walk away. He was knackered after five. Carrying the briefcase didn't help.

Not that there was anything in it.

He'd spent precisely an hour at Beck House that morning, not listening as Brigstocke brought him up to speed on a caseload of assorted rapes and robberies-with-menace. He'd picked up the address of a security guard who needed questioning and headed straight for Hendon Central station. He'd have to find time to fit in the interview before he went to Queen Square. Well, he'd see a bit of London today anyway.

He didn't know this part of the city very well but you'd've had to be blind not to see that it was affluent. Wine bars on every corner, delicatessens, restaurants and, of course, more estate agents than you could shake a shitty stick at. Out of curiosity he stopped briefly to peer into a window. An oily looking article with bad skin and a widow's peak smiled at him from behind a computer terminal. Thorne looked away and took in a few of the details on a revolving display in the window. Kentish Town wasn't cheap but he could have bought a big two-bedroom place with a garden there for the price of a toilet cubicle in leafy Battersea. His breath back, he started plodding on up the hill. He was already panting again when his phone rang. The squeak was unmistakable. 'Bethell here, Mr. Thorne.'

'I know. Are they ready?'

'Oh… you recognised my voice, eh?' Bethell laughed. Thorne had to hold the phone away from his ear. Half the dogs in the area were probably rushing towards him already.

'How did it go, Kodak?'

'Could have gone better, as it goes…'

Fucking idiot. He should have brought a camera and done it himself.

'Listen, Bethell…'

'Don't worry, Mr. Thorne, I got the photos. Good ones too. tie was standing on his doorstep pissing about with a hanging basket. What's this bloke do anyway? Some sort of businessman, is he?'

'Why could it have gone better?' Bethell said nothing. 'It could have gone better, you said.'

He could hear Bethell take a long drag on a cigarette.

'Yeah, nothing that I couldn't handle, but after he'd gone back inside this other bloke pulls up outside and when he gets out of his car he looks around and, I don't know, maybe the sun was glinting off the lens or something but he saw me anyway.'

'What was he like?'

'I don't know – tall, in his early twenties, I suppose. Bit of a student type, I reckon – you know, a bit grungy.'

The son. Popping round to borrow a few quid, if what Anne had said was true.

'What did he say?'

'You're breaking up, Mr. Thorne…'

'What did he say?'

'Oh, you know, he asked me what I was doing. I told " him I was composing a portfolio of common urban birdlife and I just stared at him until he pissed off. No sweat. Got a picture or two of him as he buggered off, actually.'

Thorne smiled. He'd sent the right man for the job.

'So when can I have them?'

'Well, they're just drying at the minute. Couple of hours?'

That would work out perfectly.

'Right. Bucket of Blood about one-ish.'

'Is that a good idea?'

Bethell was right. Thorne doubted his welcome would be a warm one.

'Outside, then. Try not to talk to anybody.'

'I'll be there, Mr. Thorne.'

'Kodak, you're better than Boots.'

He'd rung the Royal London to check and found out that Bishop's night on call was still Tuesday. He wasn't due in until lunchtime. With a bit of luck Thorne would catch him at home. He certainly looked well rested when he came to the door wearing an expensive-looking lemon sweater and a winning smile.

'Oh… Detective Inspector. Should I have known you were coming?'

Thorne could see him looking over his shoulder, searching for a colleague or a car.

'No, sir, this is purely an on-spec sort of thing. Bloody cheeky, if I'm honest.'

'How's the head?' Bishop was relaxed, his hands in his pockets. They were going to have a cosy chat on the doorstep. Fine.

'Much better, thanks. Good job I'm hardheaded.'

Bishop leaned back against the front door. Thorne could see through to the kitchen, but there was still no invitation to come in.

'Yes, I rather got that impression that night round at Jimmy's. Thoroughly enjoyed myself by the way and I hope you didn't mind my being somewhat spiky.'

'Don't be silly.'

'I can't help myself sometimes. I do love a little verbal sparring.'

'As long as you keep it verbal, sir.'

Bishop laughed. He didn't have a filling in his mouth. Thorne shifted the briefcase to the other hand. 'I had a good time too, which is sort of why I thought I could be a bit pushy and ask you an enormous favour.' Bishop looked at him, waiting. 'I've been to see somebody just round the corner from you, on a totally different case coincidentally, and my constable needed to rush off because his girlfriend's had some sort of accident…'

'Nothing serious?'

'I don't think so, trapped her hand in a door or something, but anyway I'm a bit stranded. I've got another interview to do and I'm running late, and as you were only round the corner and seeing as we've-already had dinner together…'

Bishop stepped forward past Thorne, bent down and began to pull the brown leaves from a large pot on the driveway. 'Ask away.'

'Could I ponce a lift to the station?'

Bishop looked up and stared at him for a few seconds. Thorne could sense that he saw through the lie and was looking to see if it was there in his face. He'd be amazed if it wasn't. Thorne broke the stare and turned his attention to the dying flowers. 'They look as if they were probably lovely a few weeks ago.'

'I'm going to plant evergreens next year I think. Dwarf conifers and Ivies. This is such a lot of work for something that dies so quickly.' He crumpled the dead leaves into his hand and stood up. 'I'm actually going into town. Is that any good to you?'

'Yes. Fantastic. Thanks a lot.'

'I've just got to grab my keys and stuff. Come in for a minute.'

Thorne followed Bishop into the house and stood waiting in the hall. Bishop shouted to him from the kitchen,'There was a photographer hanging about round here yesterday. Bloody nuisance. I wondered if you knew anything about it.'

So the son had obviously come straight inside and told him about Bethell lurking in the undergrowth or wherever he'd been hiding himself.

'Probably the press just sniffing around. They've been getting worked up since the Helen Doyle reconstruction. Did you see that?'

'No.' Had Thorne detected the hint of a pause before he'd answered? 'I didn't know they'd made any connection to the attack on Alison Willetts.'

They hadn't.

'No, but somebody may have leaked a list of people we'd interviewed or something. These things happen, unfortunately. I'll look into it if you like.'

Bishop came striding up the hall pulling on a sports jacket. He grabbed his keys from the hall table. 'I wouldn't like to see myself splashed across the front page of the Sun.' He opened the front door and ushered Thorne out.

'Mind you,' he shut the door behind him and put a hand on "Thorne's shoulder as they walked towards the car, 'a discreet photo on page three of the Daily Telegraph is a different matter. Might impress a few young nurses.'

Bishop climbed into the car and Thorne walked round towards the passenger side. He stopped behind the car and held up the briefcase. 'Can I chuck this in the boot?' He saw Bishop glance into his rear-view mirror and smiled as he heard the clunk of the boot being opened from the inside.

As the Volvo cruised along the Albert Embankment, Bishop slid a CD into the player. The sound system was certainly a step up from the tinny rattlebox in Thorne's Mondeo. Some people probably thought country music sounded better that way. Bishop glanced across at him.

'Not a classical man?'

'Not really. This is fine, though. What is it?'

'Mahler. Kindertotenlieder:

Thorne waited for the translation – which, amazingly, didn't come. The car was immaculately clean. It still smelt new. When they stopped at lights, Bishop drummed on the wooden gear lever, his wedding ring clicking against the walnut.

'You've known Anne a long time, then?'

'God, for ever. We were pushing beds around the streets together when we were undergraduates. Me and Anne, Sarah and David.' He laughed. 'I'm sure that's why hospitals are so short of beds. They all get pushed into rivers by high-spirited students.'

'She told me about your wife. I'm sorry.'

Bishop nodded, checking his wing mirror although there was nobody behind them.

'I can't believe the time has gone so quickly, to be honest. Ten years ago next month, actually.'

'I lost my mother eighteen months ago.'

Bishop nodded. 'But it wasn't your fault, was it?'

Thorne clenched his teeth. 'I'm sorry?'

'The crash was my fault, you see. I was pissed.'

Anne hadn't mentioned that. Thorne stared at him.

'Don't worry, Inspector, I wasn't driving, there's no case to reopen. But Sarah was tired, and she was driving because I'd had one too many. I have to live with that, I'm afraid.'

You must live with a lot of things.

'It must have been hard bringing up two kids, though?

They can't have been very old.'

'Rebecca was sixteen and James was fourteen and, no, it was a bloody nightmare actually. Thank God I was already doing quite well by then.' He stepped on the brakes sharply as the car in front decided against jumping a red light. Thorne jolted back in his seat. Bishop looked across at him, a strange expression on his face. 'Her chest was completely crushed.'

They sat in silence until the lights changed. Why should I feel sorry for you?

'I saw Alison yesterday. Anne was testing out a communications device. I'm sure she'll tell you all about it…'

And then small-talk across Waterloo Bridge and into the West End.

Bishop stuck his hazards on as he pulled over on Long Acre to let Thorne jump out. 'How's that?'

'That's perfect. Thanks again.'

'No problem. I'm sure we'll run into one another soon.'

Thorne slammed the door. The electric window slid down.

'Don't forget your briefcase…'

He drove slowly through Covent Garden, up to Holborn, then doubled back towards Soho. Cutting through small streets lined with newly opened shops, their chrome cluttered interiors bathed in the glow of lava lamps.

'Scouting for locations', he believed this was called in the film world. Locations where he might find the next one. There were many to choose from and he'd have a better selection once it was dark, but he was just getting the feel of things.

He tightened his grip on the steering-wheel. He was still unsure what game Thorne was playing. He was making it all so easy for him and still things were far from satisfactory. The one thing he hadn't bargained for was ineptitude. He should have. He knew what was going on most of the time, and the control he felt at those moments was what would keep everything moving towards the correct and proper outcome. But there were seconds of doubt too. Then he felt as if the unexpected might be round the corner and come rushing at him and send everything spinning into confusion. He did not like surprises.

He hadn't liked them for years.

He'd decided to stick to roughly the same pattern but he fancied a bit of a change. Pubs had proved successful and, of course, the discotheque in south London, but he wanted to adjust the demographics. Perhaps he'd move up market a little. Somewhere beset with lacquered wood and polished steel, where decibels inhibited conversation to bellowed sound bites. Set about treating some young thing full of pills and alcopops. Half the job would be done for him already.

All he'd need to do would be to cruise along behind the night bus…

Yes, she would probably be very young. Younger than Helen, even. And so much luckier. Success would mean relief from many more years of struggle and stretch marks. He would get this one right, like Alison. If her heart had the strength, even near death, to keep pumping the blood around the body, then she would be cared for. He looked around at the other drivers drowning in their cars, the pedestrians choking, the shop workers being slowly suffocated. All of them dying a little, day by day. He couldn't help all of them, but one was going to be given a fighting chance very soon.

Then Thorne might start doing his job properly. The kiss, when Anne opened the door to her office, felt awkward. The smiles were genuine and unprofessional. They both wanted more. They'd have to wait. The blackboard stood against the wall. Thorne took a step towards it. 'This would be the communications device that Jeremy was telling me about?'

She looked stunned. 'You've seen him?'

He shrugged. 'He gave me a lift into town this morning.'

Now he had one or two bits and pieces in his briefcase.

'Oh.' She walked over and self-consciously rubbed out some of the scrawlier chalk marks. Now, under the lines of letters, there were two small arrows, one pointing forwards, the other backwards.

'It's… evolving. I'm hopeful.'

He wished he'd made a move on her that night after dinner. For all sorts of reasons. Now things were so difficult.

'I got one of the blokes at work to have a look on the Internet for me,' he said. 'There were all sorts of… gizmos.'

She smiled. 'Oh, there are. If Alison ever recovers significant movement there are power chairs that are incredibly sophisticated. Even as she is now there's the Eyegaze system, which can be operated by the tiniest eye movement. She could maneuver a mouse and type into a computer with vocaliser software. She could speak. She could control virtually any element within her immediate environment.'

'All horribly expensive, I suppose?'

'Believe me, I was lucky to get the blackboard. Do you want a coffee?'

Thorne wanted all manner of disgusting things. Right there on her desk. He wanted to be pushed backwards across it scattering notes on to the floor. He wanted to unzip himself and watch as she walked towards him smiling, hitching up her skirt…

'I'd really like to go and see Alison.'

'Well, you go on up and I'll grab us a couple of coffees from the canteen. You remember where it is, don't you?'

The room was not so cluttered with. hardware as the last time he'd seen it. It still felt as if he'd taken the lift to the basement and stumbled into the generating room, but there was a lot less of it. Alison seemed less attached. There were fresh flowers – from her boyfriend, he supposed. It suddenly struck him that he'd never met Tim Hinnegan.

He had no idea what he looked like, what he did for a living. He'd ask Holland.

Fuck that. He'd ask Alison. When he had time. He needed a piss and hurriedly availed himself of Alison's en-suite facilities. A low metal pan, a sink, a sharps bin. Handles screwed at a variety of heights and angles into the insipid yellow walls. He flushed the toilet and splashed cold water on to his face.

Thorne sat in the chair nearest the bed and looked at her. Her eyes were wide open, the right eye flickering. The smallest movement but seemingly constant. It was incredibly difficult to maintain eye-contact with her. There was a challenge in that unflinching stare – he was imagining it, he knew, but he still felt embarrassed. How long did you ever hold eye-contact with anyone? Even someone with whom you were intimate? A few seconds? Alison would look deep into his eyes for as long as he was comfortable with it. He quickly realised, with something like shame, that this wasn't very long.

He took her hand and held it tight against the blanket. To have lifted it clear of the bedclothes would have felt like.., taking advantage.

'Hi, Alison. It's Detective Inspector Thorne.' He reddened, remembering that she'd just been staring at him for nearly a minute. He was starting to sweat. He shuffled the chair a little closer to the bed and squeezed her hand.

'You must be sick of people being as stupid as me.'

Alison blinked. The sluggishness of the eyelid's downward movement was probably normal but, to Thorne, it implied a weary amusement in her answer. He thought he felt a split-second tremor in her fingers and looked into her eyes for confirmation. There was none. How many of her friends had sat where he was and felt the same things?

How many had shouted for a nurse and gone home feeling stupid?

He was actually starting to feel genuinely relaxed. The low hum of the machines was soothing and soporific. It wasn't unlike being pissed. There was an enjoyable conversation to be had. But he knew that Anne would arrive with the coffee at any time and there was one question he couldn't ask with her in the room.

Letting go of the small, warm hand was difficult but he needed to open the briefcase. From the stiff-backed manila envelope he produced the ten-by-eight black-and white photo, and held it down by his side wondering how best to phrase the question.

She'd recognise Bishop, of course she would. He'd been in the room with Anne the day before, hadn't he? He wasn't really looking for anything like an identification. He just hoped he might learn something else. Get a sense of something else. A recognition beyond the one he knew would be there anyway.

He knew that nothing that happened in this room would ever be admissible as evidence. He also knew instinctively that he couldn't ask her straight out if the face she was about to see belonged. to the man who'd put her here. Christ alone knew how fragile she was feeling. She was almost certainly confused, disoriented, even now. He'd have to take it slowly.

Much as he wanted this, he couldn't hurt her.

'Alison, I'm going to show you a picture.' He held up the photo. For a moment he said nothing. There was just the relentless hum. 'You've seen this man before, haven't you?'

His eyes didn't shift from hers for an instant. She blinked.

His phone rang.

Anne didn't want the coffee to go cold and had tried to keep the conversation with the administrator as brief as possible. He'd collared her at the till and even the few fragments of his monologue that had got through to her had bored her rigid instantly. He was a pathologically dull individual who, were he ever to become a hospital visitor, could set back the treatment of coma patients by decades. She'd smiled and nodded. God knows what she'd actually agreed to.

Now, as she walked towards Alison's room, she wondered if Thorne felt as she did – as though this was some sort of bizarre date, sharing a cup of coffee with Alison as a chaperone.

It was kind of him to have looked into Alison's condition on the Internet. She'd have to check it out for herself. She was well briefed, of course, on all the technological advancements that were making the lives of those with permanent disabilities easier – at least, those with a substantial private income. Things were moving quickly, though, and she was likely to be better informed by the Net than she would be by current medical literature.

She had no idea whether Or not Thorne was good at what he did. It as obvious that he cared, that he got involved. As far as his job was concerned, caring might not necessarily be a good thing. She knew what Jeremy would say about it.

Holding a cup in each hand she pushed open the door to Alison's room with her backside and nudged it shut with her hip. She turned to see Thorne standing by the window, staring into space. She looked at the empty chair by Alison's bed and knew instantly that something was wrong.

'Tom?'

She could see the tension in his jaw. His face was the colour of a corpse.

'Someone has contacted my office.., my former office, anonymously.'

He turned his head slowly towards Alison, but Anne could see that he was looking at a space on the back wall, above her head; His eyes dropped to the girl's face and stayed there for a second or two before he turned and walked slowly out of the room.

Anne put the coffee on the table next to Alison's bed and followed him. He was waiting outside the door. The moment the door was closed, he took a small step towards her and spoke calmly, the fury just held in check.

'I have been accused of molesting Alison.'

The screaming, hypnotic pulse of the music had focused Thorne's mind and steered his thoughts into the dark places in his head that were usually best avoided. He was sitting on the floor, his back resting against the sofa, the beer can cool against his cheek.

Keable had tried to set his mind at rest. 'Don't worry, Tom, it's obviously nothing. Just some nutter who claimed to have heard it from somebody in the hospital. Nobody's taking it seriously – it's not like he could have heard it from Alison Willetts, is it?'

Insensitive to the last, but Thorne was relieved that he couldn't argue with the reasoning. He let his head fall back on to the sofa cushion and stared at the ceiling.

He thought about touching Alison.

He thought about hearing Jeremy Bishop beg. The doorbell rang. He got slowly to his feet. He opened the door and went straight back to his spot on the floor by the sofa. Formalities seemed pointless. Anne walked in and stood by the fireplace. She dropped her bag, took off the thin raincoat and spent five seconds taking in the room. The first thing she noticed was the beer. 'Can I?'

She walked over, smoothing down her long black skirt. Thorne handed her a can of lager from the broken four pack by his side. 'Not a brand I'm familiar with.'

'I know. Expensive wine and cheap, piss-weak lager. Don't ask me why.'

'So you can enjoy the drinking without the sensation of being drunk.'

'That's definitely not the reason.'

She sat down on the sofa behind and to his right. 'Tom, that phone call. It's just a crank.'

He half crushed his empty can then stopped and put it down gently next to the others. 'I know exactly who it is.'

'Well, it's stupid to let it upset you.'

He turned and looked at her over his shoulder. 'No. Not upset.'

Anne could see in his eyes that the nice side of him, the side that bought Alison flowers, was far from being the whole story. Though it was difficult to contemplate such a thing, she would not want this man as an enemy.

She took a long swig of beer and gestured towards the stereo. 'Who's this?'

'Leftfield. The track's called "Open Up".'

She listened for a minute. Hated it.

'That's John Lydon doing the vocal,' Thorne said, as if it made a difference.

'Right…'

'Johnny Rotten… the Sex Pistols?'

'Sadly, I was a little too. old even for them. What are you, then? Forty?'

'Forty a few months ago. I was seventeen when "God Save The Queen" came out.'

'God. I was already a third-year reed student.'

'I know. Pushing beds into rivers.'

She gave him what his dad would certainly have described as an old-fashioned look. 'So what were you doing?'

Not going to university, thought Thorne. For so many reasons, he wished he had. 'I was about to join the force, I suppose, and managing my ache.' Wanting to be a policeman more than anything. Trying to make his mum and dad proud. Wanting to do good, and all the other stupid ideas of which he'd been so brutally disabused. Anne drained her can and Thorne passed her another. They sat in silence for a minute, remembering, or pretending to remember.

'Thanks for coming over by the way. Did you drive?'

'Yes. Bugger to park, though.' Thorne nodded. 'It's good to get out actually. Rachel and I are getting on each other's nerves a bit at the moment.'

'Yeah?'

She's got a couple of resits to do and she thought the whole exam thing was behind her. So she's being a bit… spiky.'

Thorne remembered his first encounter with Anne Coburn in a lecture theatre at the Royal Free. Spiky obviously ran in the family.

Anne took another long slug of beer. Enjoying it. 'Just run-of-the-mill teenage angst, I suppose. She hasn't pierced her belly-button or painted her room black yet, but it's probably just a matter of time.'

'It'll sort itself out.'

'And so will this business with Alison.'

'It's all right, there won't be an investigation or anything. Nobody's taking it seriously.'

'Except you.'

'If that's what he wants.' The he spat out like something sour.

'Why don't you talk about it, then?"

'Anne, I don't need a doctor. Or a mother.'

She shuffled forward to the very edge of the sofa and leaned forward, her head down.

'Fine. Do you want to go to bed, then?'

Thorne had always thought that spluttering your drink out when somebody surprised you only ever happened in Terry and June, but he succeeded brilliantly in snorting a decent amount of cheap lager into his lap. The sitcom moment made him laugh uncontrollably.

Anne laughed, too, but she was also blushing to her toenails.

'Well, luck… I don't know what you're supposed to say…'

'I think you just said it.'

She slid off the sofa on to the floor next to him. 'So?'

'Well, these trousers have got Tesco's own lager all over them now. They'll have to come off…'

He leaned across and kissed her. She put down her lager and placed a hand on his neck. He broke the kiss, looked at the floor. 'Now, this carpet has unhappy memories and I'm still not a hundred per cent sure I've got the smell of vomit out of it…'

'You smooth-talking bastard.'

'So, the palatial bedroom suite?'

She nodded and they stood up. There was still a hint of awkwardness between them. Nothing had yet been abandoned, but taking hands would have seemed a little silly all the same. Thorne held open the bedroom door. 'I have to warn you, I've got a Swedish virgin in here.'

Anne raised her eyebrows and looked into the room, seeing only a small fitted wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a neatly made bed. She didn't get it. 'Eh?'

'The bed…' Thorne pulled her to him. 'It doesn't matter…'

Thorne woke and looked at the clock. It was nearly two thirty in the morning and the phone was ringing. He was instantly wide awake. He slipped out of bed and hurried naked into the living room where the handset was recharging on the base unit just inside the front door. The heating couldn't have been off for very long but the flat was already freezing.

'Sir, sorry it's so late. It's Holland.'

Thorne pressed the phone tight to his ear and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. He could still hear Leftfield. The CD was on repeat and they'd forgotten to turn it off.

'Yes?'

'We might have something here. A woman rang through. She'd seen the reconstruction – waited a couple of days wondering whether to call.'

'Go on.'

'Nine months ago a man knocked on her door claiming to be looking for a party. She thought he looked all right you know, friendly enough. She invited him in. He was carrying a bottle of champagne.'

Thorne stopped shivering.

'I haven't got much more than that at the minute, sir. For some reason he left, and she didn't really think anything of it until the programme. She reckons she can give us a pretty good description, though.'

'Does Tughan know about this?'

'Yes, sir. I've already called him.'

Thorne felt a twinge of annoyance, but he knew that Holland couldn't have done anything else. 'What did he say?'

'He thought it sounded hopeful.'

'Anything about me?'

He could hear Holland thinking.

'Don't spare my feelings, Holland, I haven't got any.'

'There was some crack about you and Miss Willetts, sir. I don't really remember – just a joke, really.'

Nobody was taking it seriously.

'When are you going to interview her?'

'Myself and DI Tughan are going to see her tomorrow morning.'

Thorne took down the details, scribbling the woman's name and address on a Post-it note next to the phone. The initial buzz was wearing off a little and he could feel the cold again. He wanted to get back to bed.

'Thanks for that, Holland. One quick thing…'

'Don't worry, sir, I'll call you as soon as we've seen her.'

'Great, thanks. But I was going to say, if anybody should ask, your girlfriend trapped her hand in a door this morning…'

He realised as soon as he'd hung up on Holland that he was terribly awake. He turned off the music and scurried around the living room with a bin liner, picking up empty beer cans. For a second he was tempted to look inside Anne's bag, which still lay where she'd dropped it. Had she brought a change of clothes with her?

He thought better of it and instead grabbed the spare duvet from the cupboard in the hall and sat on the sofa in the dark.

Thinking.

Things were moving quickly. There had been cases before where he'd felt like an outsider – he would come at things from a different angle – but he was still, if only nominally, part of a team. This time it was different. He'd felt good marching out of Keable's office but within minutes he was wondering if he'd done the right thing. He still wondered. He knew why he'd walked away. Whatever Keable had told his bosses about politics and personality clashes, it still came down to judgment.

Their passing of it; his lack of it.

His judgment and theirs, and that of those long gone. But even the judgment of the dead could not always be trusted. Any conviction based on such testimony would surely be flawed. Only one man could judge him. And Tom Thorne was the harshest judge of all. He thought about the woman asleep in his bed. Anne wasn't the first woman he'd slept with since Jan. There had been some drunken fumbling with an ambitious young sergeant and a short fling with a legal secretary – but this was the first time he'd felt frightened afterwards. Once upon a time Anne had been involved with Bishop. Thorne still wasn't sure to what extent, but that hardly mattered. The killer who had all but turned his life upside down had once had sex with the woman who was now, at least for the moment, sharing his bed. He suddenly wondered if Bishop might be jealous. It made sense. The anonymous phone call, the accusation, had seemed a little.., beneath him. Could the attack here in this room have been, at least in part, a warning to stay away from Anne? On top of everything was there actually a sexual rivalry? The idea was comforting. It began to give him back a sense of control. He'd felt it slipping away as the anger had swept over him after the accusation about Alison. Now he was calmer.

Back in the hospital. Oh, he'll find out exactly what type I A man trained to save life was taking it in the name of something Thorne could never understand. Didn't care about understanding.

If Thorne was going to stop him, it was important to maintain the initiative.

He went to fetch the phone, curled up on the sofa and dialed 141

…

A few minutes later, he crept back into the bedroom, slid under the duvet and lay there blinking, unable to sleep. Around four o'clock Anne woke up and did her best to help him.

'How do you feel?"

A question I'm asked every day. Sometimes more than once. It's not that I don't understand why. It's that I'd-better-say something kind of thing. Better than sitting there looking at the clock and wondering which nurse gets to wipe my arse, I suppose. It's hospitals. It makes people feel strangely compelled to buy fruit and breathe through their mouth and ask ridiculous questions. But why questions, for fuck's sake? Don't ask me questions. Tell me things, if you like. I'm a good listener. Getting to be very, very good. Tell me anything you like. Bore me rigid. Sit there and waffle on about how your boss doesn't understand you, or your husband's not interested in sex any more or you want to travel or nursing's badly paid, or you like to drink in the afternoons but don't – ask – me – things. How do you feel?

It's not like you're actually expecting an answer, is it? You'd be bored off your tits if I decided to play along. If I wanted to respond with a pithy 'Not too bad, thank you for asking, and how are you?' that would take, at present levels of blinking proficiency and taking into account the fatigue factor, approximately forty-five minutes. Sorry you asked? Well, don't, then. How do you feel?

Grateful that you're there, don't get me wrong. All of you. Visitors, nurses popping heads round the door, cleaners. Say hello. Come in and tell me lies. Just don't be predictable. The one reason you're asking, really, is that you can't tell precisely just by looking at me. Not exactly. I mean, you could take a wild stab in the dark. You could make a pretty good guess. You wouldn't need to phone a friend, would you? I'm lying in hospital. Utterly fucked. I'm hardly going to be over the moon. But most of the time you don't have to ask people how they feel. It's obvious. You can see if someone's happy, or tired, or pissed off because it's there in their face, but my face doesn't give a lot away. It must say something, I suppose, but I can only guess, really. If there's an expression that says, "Closed; or "Gone to lunch; it's probably there or thereabouts.

How do you feel? OK, then…

Angry. Stupid. Optimistic. Bored. Tired. Awake. Frustrated. Grateful Irritated. Violent. Calm. Dreamy. Shit. Confused. Ignorant. Ugly. Sick. Hungry. Useless. Special. Horny. Pessimistic. Ashamed. Loved. Forgotten. Freaky. Mislaid. Relieved. Alone. Frightened. Stoned. Dirty. Dead… Horny? I know, sorry, very strange. But I'm lying here on a sexy mattress that hums and there's that very gorgeous nurse who actually might not be gay after all. So… Did I say confused? Yes.

A lot of the time. Like why did Thorne show me a picture of Dr Bishop? I had a feeling he was leading up to something. Maybe it's like when you go deaf or blind and your other senses get better to compensate. Because most of toe's knackered maybe I'm becoming a bit witchy or something. I know he wanted to ask me things but then his phone rang and he talked quietly and went a bit funny.

Nobody's told me anything yet about what happened. Not really. About the crime, I mean. I know what he did to me… But I still don't know why.