The rooms are the same as theirs. Three bedrooms. One bathroom. One communal central room. But there the similarity ends. The three go inside to peer through the doors into the bedrooms. Big, deep rugs on the floors. Bedside tables. Armchairs, shelving units, paintings and pictures on the walls. Soft lighting and soft furnishings. The blue chairs in the communal section are replaced by armchairs, more rugs on the floor. The walls painted off-white with pictures and paintings hanging. Shelves fitted to the walls. The bare light overhead now covered by a shade. The bathroom is softened too. More fittings, more softening of the harsh concrete and stainless steel. The window shutters are up. Natural daylight streams in. The rooms look inviting, warm and homely.

‘There was precedent,’ Ben says as they look round. ‘Doctor Watson has torn Roland up for arse paper over the way he did things. Roland said there was no precedent, but he was only thinking of time travel and not the taking of someone from their environment. Prisons have been doing it for centuries. Same with accounts of people stranded on desert islands and the methods they used to survive the mental anguish. Kidnappings, solitary confinements, social deprivation experiments, even those reality television programmes like Big Brother provided some level of scientific study. This,’ Ben says, turning slowly to wave his hands at the rooms, ‘alleviates the initial shock. The doc also said the sedatives, coupled with the meds we were given to prevent harm from the environment and oxygen toxicity, can all contribute to severe mental decline. We were in high-stress situations of life and death. You two were both trained, so your mental state was already sort of prepared for those situations. Mine wasn’t, plus I’m just one of the percentage of the population susceptible to side effects from the drugs. The doc has already changed the meds to be used if we bring someone else back.’

‘Shit,’ Safa murmurs, blinking as she takes it all in.

‘Sorry,’ Ben says, lifting his hand. ‘You’ve both just come round . . .’

‘It’s fine,’ she says, shaking her head at him.

‘Roland seriously does not have a clue, and with it being his son that invented the device it means he’s off playing with—’

‘What?’ Safa says.

‘What?’ Ben asks her.

‘What did you just say?’

‘Which bit?’

‘Roland’s son? Seriously? It was his bloody kid?’

‘You are joking, right?’ Ben asks, looking at them both. ‘You didn’t know that? You didn’t know it was his son? Six months and you didn’t ask him?’ They both shake their heads. ‘Did you ask where he goes? Where the money comes from? Did you ask him anything?’

‘You’re the investigator,’ Safa says, thereby disclaiming any responsibility.