And then what? thought Harry. Caroline had been refusing to bring the kids to see him. She had said all in good time, but he could tell she was hesitant. She’d only been in once – before he was transferred – and even then she’d spent most of the time talking to medical staff. He sensed something was off. She’d never been the most attentive wife, but this was unusual. He’d struggled to read her expressions, had noted the lack of physical contact. He’d forgotten something important, he just knew it. Christ, he’d forgotten four years of his life, of his children’s lives, he was missing everything important. He couldn’t imagine Sophie at seventeen, Jake at fourteen. He’d asked to see photographs but Caroline had said, not yet, to wait until he was stronger. He’d tried to bring it all back, lying there for hours on end willing the memories to return. But the blank space was dense and dark.

‘You take care now,’ said Freddie as he left the room.

‘Have a good weekend.’ Harry had no idea if it was the weekend or midweek. He had no access to a television, computer or even a newspaper. Maybe they were shielding him from all the changes, the ways the world had moved on, or maybe those luxuries were yet to be installed. He’d been told he was here to be treated by a leading team of neurologists, but he suspected some other motivation too. The location was remote and the facility unfinished. Was he being hidden? And, if so, why?

He must have drifted off because when he awoke it was dusk and his room felt dull and cool. The man standing at the foot of his bed was unfamiliar. Harry thought he’d met all the porters. Maybe this one was new. His uniform was too big. It hung loose around his shoulders revealing a large tattoo that covered the lower part of his neck. It looked like some sort of bird. The man pushed a wheelchair to the side of the bed.

‘Get in …’ he said. ‘Please.’ The man had a thick accent, possibly North African.

Harry sat a little higher in the bed. It would be good to get out of this room. Other than an MRI scan on arrival, he’d spent his whole stay looking at these four walls.

‘Where are we going?’ He manoeuvred his legs from under the covers and sat in the wheelchair. As he did he noticed that behind the new porter, standing in the doorway, was Freddie. Harry was confused. Freddie had said he was leaving and that he wouldn’t be back for a couple of days. What was he still doing here?

Before he’d had time to form the question, Freddie’s colleague pulled out a gun.

28