‘Here.’ She took the glass, held it while he sipped.

‘Thank you.’ He leaned back on the pillows. ‘Surrey. And you?’

‘Northumberland,’ she said. ‘Can’t you tell?’ She laughed, a tinker bell of a sound.

‘It’s supposed to be beautiful,’ he said. ‘The North.’

‘Have you never been?’

He shook his head.

‘Aw, pet,’ she said. ‘You have a canny treat ahead then.’

He tried to laugh, but the pain in his side was vicious as a shark’s bite.

The doctor suspected a ruptured spleen. He was in his late fifties, John guessed, might even have served in the Great War, an old-fashioned doctor with a moustache and wire-rimmed glasses.

‘There’s no way of knowing for sure except to confine you to bed and monitor you,’ he said. ‘Wait and watch. And while we’re at it,’ he added, ‘we’ll find out why you fainted in the first place.’

John leaned back on the pillows and shut his eyes. He hadn’t slept properly for weeks. He’d drunk too much. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, tanked up on black coffee. It was obvious why he had fainted.

‘Though of equal concern,’ the doctor added, ‘is this palsy. Hold out your arms straight.’

John stuck his arms out, watched as they quivered.

‘How long has this been going on?’

John wanted to say, Since Private Nash’s death, since Lieselotte’s murder, since Anatoly. Since Nuremberg. Since now.

‘Doctor,’ John said, ‘I have to get back. I’m one of the translators, at the trial.’

‘They’ll have to get a replacement,’ the doctor said. ‘For the time being.’ He took John’s pulse. ‘I’m not a neurologist or a psychiatrist,’ he went on. ‘And don’t have much truck with them either. Dizziness. Tremors. How are you sleeping?’

‘I’m not,’ John said.

‘Chest pains?’

John nodded.

‘Could be some kind of war neurosis,’ the doctor said, sniffing and wiping his nostrils with the back of his hand. ‘Insufficient training, I’d wager. Though you’re too young to have seen much active service, if any.’ He pulled out a handkerchief, blew his nose, inspecting it for ash and soot. He shook his head, added, ‘The PIE system works well.’

‘War neurosis?’ John said. ‘PIE?’

‘Proximity. Immediacy. Expectation of recovery. Sends you back fighting fit. Can’t have square pegs in round holes, not in the army. But you’ll have a good rest anyway with this suspected rupture. That’ll probably do it.’ He nodded to the nurse, turned at the door and pointed at John. ‘Don’t think nervous exhaustion is an honourable escape route,’ he said. ‘I’ve always thought it a sign of social and emotional immaturity.’

John pushed his head back into the pillows, as if it was too weighty for his neck, misery pressing its savage palm across his face. He didn’t hear the nurse come back into the room.