Harry looks up at the first bang coming from outside his door. Must be more cells. He slides from the bed to stand up and feels a wave of nausea sweep through him. He teeters for a second and grips the bed but stays upright. Breathing heavily and simply waiting for the effects to pass. An English voice calls Hello. Harry staggers to his door. His hand automatically going for the handle that he turns to pull the door open. Another solid riveted door opposite with someone banging on the other side asking for water.

Safa hears the bang and the voice too. Now standing in her room feeling weak and ready to pass out again. Hearing other voices is worrying. Especially a male voice. She should not be in a mixed-gender prison or holding centre. She holds still, staring at the door and listening as the voice asks for water.

Ben jumps back at the bang on the other side of the door. The handle goes down and it swings inwards to reveal a huge bearded man with a smear of blood on his nose glaring at him through bloodshot eyes.

‘Not locked,’ Harry says with a voice as hoarse as Ben’s.

‘Are you a guard?’ Ben asks, looking but not seeing the soft grey cotton tracksuit Harry is wearing.

‘No,’ Harry rasps. ‘Regiment?’

‘Eh?’

‘Regiment?’ Harry asks. ‘Rank?’

‘Do what, mate?’ Ben shakes his head and feels a fresh wave of dizziness. His vision goes dark again as two strong hands grip his shoulders to keep him upright.

‘I’m fine . . . honestly.’ Ben steps through the door, squints round and spots three weird-looking institutional blue armchairs, like moulded from one object without seams or armrests. Low, too, but they are better than falling on the hard concrete floor. He staggers over to sink down, much to the relief of his swimming head. Harry watches him for a second before deciding that sitting is indeed much better than standing right now. He sinks down into the third chair, leaving the empty one between them.

‘Harry,’ Harry says quietly in a rough-sounding voice.

‘Ben.’

‘Rank?’

‘Rank?’ Ben asks, glancing over at him. ‘Oh . . . you in the army or something?’

‘Army,’ Harry says, rubbing a hand through his bushy black beard with a confused look.

Ben shakes his head. ‘Investigator with . . .’ He stops with the sudden thought that everything is not right. This is not right. ‘Where are we?’

‘POW camp,’ Harry says with a heavy shrug.

‘POW? What, like prisoner of war?’

Harry nods and that confused look starts to morph into a suspicious glare at Ben, who pats his trouser legs searching for pockets.

‘They take your phone?’ Ben asks him, but Harry just narrows his eyes. ‘Mobile,’ Ben says. Harry remains silent and watchful.

This room is the same as the ones they woke up in with concrete walls, floor and ceiling and a too-bright light. Three chairs and five doors.