Mum stalls. “What?”

“When he got sick.” My voice is almost a whisper. “Did he seem like he was in a lot of pain?” I don’t even know what answer I want to hear.

Mum lifts a chunk of her hair and studies it. Thin threads come away in her fingers. “Oh, love . . . it’s all a blur.”

44.

PAUL

A jacket of pain seemed to have replaced Paul’s rib cage. When he tried to peel open his eyes, his face threatened to crack. There was an expanse of white above him, a searing pain in his skull. He shifted his legs. He was in a bed beneath cool white sheets. A voice was saying his name, but the heaviness of his eyes became irresistible and he let them settle closed again.

The next time he woke, he must have cried out. Concerned faces were peering down at him, coaxing him to lie back against the pillow. He was still mouthing something. Perhaps an echo of whatever he’d shouted that had brought people running.

Freya, Freya, Freya.

“It’s okay.” This was a nurse with a soft smile. “Do you remember where you are?”

Paul glanced around and slowly nodded. He was on a ward now, rather than the chaos of the emergency room. It was daytime. How long had he slept?

“What time is it?” he asked, his swollen tongue mashing his words.

“Two thirty p.m.,” the nurse said as she took his temperature. “Just another manic Monday! You’ll still be drowsy from the painkillers. You need to get some rest.”

“No . . .” He was groggy, and in pain, but the last thing he could afford to do was rest. “Freya . . . Steph . . . Daniel . . .” He wasn’t even sure he was saying the names out loud, but the nurse was nodding dutifully.

“We’ll get in touch with your family, don’t worry.”

“No, you don’t understand. My daughter, she’s . . . and my wife . . .” The frustration of not being able to articulate it made the pain in his head intensify. “I have to call . . .” He twisted toward the bedside table, amazed to find his mobile there. His relief was short-lived as he saw that its screen was shattered.

“I can call someone for you,” the nurse said.

“My wife. Steph.”

“Do you know her number?”

Paul scrunched up his face, then croaked out the digits that were more familiar than his own. The nurse poured him some water but he gesticulated at the number she’d written down.

“Please hurry,” he said. “Tell her I’m okay, but not to come. I’ll get home. And . . . ask her about Freya. Any news.”

She stared at him curiously, then nodded and turned to leave.

“One more thing,” Paul said, trying not to cough: His ribs were agony. “I think another man arrived at the same time as me? Daniel Sanderson?”