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Take it easy. Nothing to worry about here.

He’d crossed country borders often enough since the nightmare began. No reason to worry unnecessarily.
“Welcome to Cardiff, Major Griffin,” the man said, his flat accent marking him as hailing from the West Midlands rather than South Wales. “I’m Senior Officer Greenly. Do you have any baggage, sir?”
“Just this,” Kaine answered, patting the Bergen’s webbing strap, trying his best to adopt the aloof detachment of the well-heeled international jetsetter. “I like to travel light,” he added.
Greenly eased out a thin, patient smile. “Very good, sir. If you’ll follow me to the private lounge, we can expedite your entry into the UK.”
“Thank you. Has my wife arrived?”
The border guard nodded. “Mrs Griffin and your driver are waiting in the arrivals lounge, sir.”
“Excellent,” Kaine said, nodding absently, but surprised by the nervous anticipation rippling through his gut.
How would Lara greet him after he dumped her in Paris? He’d find out soon enough.

Deep breath, Kaine.

Greenly turned and led Kaine towards the shiny glass automatic doors marked, Private –Arrivals. “You do have your passport handy, sir?”
“Of course.” Not even multimillionaires with access to private jets could cross oceans and enter new countries without the correct paperwork. Fortunately, Kaine had landed in the UK with the best forged documentation money could buy. The passport he carried gave his name as William Griffin, a retired Major in the Royal Marines, and the platinum credit cards in his wallet suggested he could buy anything he wanted, no matter the cost. Who needed luggage when they could walk into any clothing store in the country and empty its shelves? His documentation had already passed muster at borders a number of times, but this would be the last time Kaine would use the Griffin persona. It was time to drop the middle-aged former marine permanently. This particular legend had outlived its usefulness.

Greenly stepped aside, gestured with an open hand, and allowed Kaine to enter the comfortably warm and pleasantly quiet confines of the private customs area first. No bullet-resistant screens required to protect the border guards in such rarefied and deep-pile-carpeted domain. A waft of scented air tickled his nose—sandalwood and spice—relaxing, calming. Subtle.

How the top one percent live.

Kaine’s guide marched to the far side of a polished-marble-topped counter and smiled almost apologetically. He held out a hand, adopting the pose of a waiter requesting a tip. Simulating bored disinterest but keeping his senses primed, Kaine removed the passport from the inner pocket of his crushed, faded denim jacket and passed it over the counter. Greenly opened the booklet to the picture page, studied the photo carefully and narrowed his eyes to peer directly at Kaine. Without taking his eyes from Kaine, he angled his head to one side and frowned, in what? Recognition?

Hell.

He’d become too blasé. Kaine’s heart leapt, his mouth dried, and the world closed in around him. His hand reached up to the strap of his Bergen, making ready to drop it and lighten his load if he had to take off. Slowly, without making it obvious, he glanced around the open space, searching for the fastest route of egress. To his right, automatic sliding glass doors led through to a thinly populated departures lounge and, eventually, to the sunny outside. Possible, but he’d have to run the gauntlet of airport security. Armed airport security.

Directly behind Greenly, a single unmarked door would lead into the bowels of the building, probably an office complex.

No escape there.

Turning back the way they’d entered would take him out onto the apron and the runway. He might be able to find a hiding place in the storerooms and hangars, but how long would it take an experienced search team to find him? And, at an airport, how many doors would be unsecured and unalarmed? Precious few.

Bluff it out, Kaine. He doesn’t recognise you. He can’t.

“Is there a problem, Officer Greenly?” Kaine asked, allowing impatience and a little anger to rumble through the words. Well-heeled travellers weren’t prepared to wait for anyone. Let alone a jumped-up jobsworth.
“Not at all, Major Griffin,” Greenly said, taking his time to answer. “It’s just that your photo—”
“Yes, yes. It’s different, I know,” Kaine interrupted, scowling, and raking his fingers though the unruly mop. “I’ve been out of the country for a while, and I don’t let anyone touch my hair except for Nicky.”
Greenly lifted an eyebrow. “Nicky?”
“Oh dear, really?” Kaine snapped, allowing exasperation to bleed into his voice. “‘Nicky’. As in, ‘Nicky C’. The man who happens to be the best hair stylist in the UK. Bar none.”
“Is he, sir?”
“Yes. The very best. I wouldn’t let anyone else near my hair with a pair of scissors.”
“And your beard, sir?” Greenly fingered his well-maintained facial hair.
Kaine scratched the fur on his chin. “A newly acquired fashion statement I intend to ask Nicky to tidy up the moment I reach London.” He raised an arm, tugged back the cuff of his jacket, and scowled at his watch.

Steady, Kaine. Don’t overdo it.

Again, Greenly took his time to do his thing. Kaine relaxed a little. The man hadn’t recognised him. Greenly simply relished his role as defender of the gates of the principality. He was the voice of the poor and the oppressed, doing what he could to rail against the rich and the self-absorbed.

Let him.

Greenly studied the passport photo again.
“Officer Greenly,” Kaine said, teeth clenched. “Do I really need to buy a pair of scissors and head for the restroom?”
Greenly showed Kaine a mirthless smile. “No, sir. Of course not, sir. That won’t be necessary. And it’s Senior Officer Greenly, sir.” He tapped the pips on his epaulettes with an index finger, wrinkled his nose, and held the passport under a scanner far longer than strictly necessary before handing it back. “Everything’s in order, sir.”
“Yes, I know it is,” Kaine grumbled. “Which way out?”
“That way, sir.” The rail-thin jobsworth pointed to Kaine’s right.
“Thank you, Senior Officer Greenly,” Kaine said, gracing the officious border guard with a forced smile. “Thank you very much.”

Dial it back, man.

Kaine turned towards the exit and released a pent-up breath. He stepped through the sliding doors and the nerves struck again. Unease rippled through his stomach. Not the unease driven by bureaucratic border guards, but something entirely different.

Pack it in, Kaine. You are an idiot!

In his time, he’d faced hordes of angry, evil men hell-bent on doing him nothing but mischief. He’d survived most encounters relatively unscathed, yet there he stood in the comfortable and fragrant customs office, quailing at the prospect of facing an auburn-haired woman who barely tipped the scales at fifty kilos. Although, this particular woman could slice open his innards and stop his heart with the merest hint of a disappointed frown.
What sort of reception would he receive? His last conversation with Lara—the video call aboard the Gulfstream high over a raging north Atlantic—had ended badly. She’d cut him off mid-apology and had refused to answer his repeated attempts to reconnect. She’d also failed to accept any of his ensuing satellite phone calls. It had been the first serious fight in their eight-month relationship, and he hated it. It left his world unbalanced. Yes, the blame for their quarrel lay firmly at his door. He’d ditched her in Paris under the protection of his longest-serving friend, Rollo, and had flown to Arizona without her, and without warning. In his defence, his only motivation had been her safety.
During their curtailed video conference, she’d objected to his decision and called him out on it. He could see her point, though. He really could, but should a similar situation arise, he’d make the same decision again. If Lara couldn’t get past his need to protect her, where did it leave them? She needed to understand that he only had her safety in mind. He’d dragged her kicking and screaming into his world of
6hurt and danger, and he would forever be responsible for her. If anyone ever deliberately hurt her, it would kill him—and he would kill the person responsible. No qualms. No second thoughts. Instant retribution.

Kaine strolled forwards, following the arrows. The double doors slid silently open to reveal a smartly appointed lounge and bar that wouldn’t have disgraced the foyer of a five-star London hotel. After a brief scan of the few people sitting in the heavily upholstered chairs revealed nothing to raise his hackles, he spotted his two-person welcoming committee on the far side of the room. Neither smiled.

Uh-oh.

Rollo, playing the role of the paid employee, stood dutifully behind apo-faced Lara. She, in a smart, navy blue business skirt suit, stepped forwards to greet him.
“Good flight?” she asked, ice cool, emotionless.
“Very good, thank you,” he answered, matching her aloof manner. If necessary, he could play it cool, too. She offered her cheek, which Kaine duly pecked. When he reached out to pull her into a gentle hug, she stiffened and backed away. How much of the display was an act for public consumption and how much a legacy of their ongoing fight, only time would show.
“Let’s go,” he said. She nodded, turned back the way she’d come, and he strode after her. Once alongside, he crooked an arm for her to grasp, but she ignored it.

Not an act, a legacy.

Kaine sighed. So many fences to mend. Rollo led the way through to the car—a top-of-the-range BMW 7 Series with a cherished plate, E5APP—which he’d parked in one of a few spots reserved for VIPs. He pointed the key fob at the car and pressed a button. The central locking double-clicked, and the indicators flashed. He pressed another button and the boot lid powered open. Rollo stepped forwards and opened the nearside rear door. Lara slipped inside, ignoring Kaine’s outstretched arm and offer of support. Kaine shook his head sadly, slipped the Bergen from his shoulder, and headed for the far side of the car. He paused long enough to lob the Bergen into the open boot, before carrying on to the offside passenger door. He opened the door all by himself and climbed inside.
“That’s a demarcation issue, that is,” Rollo grumbled, barely able to stifle his smile.
“What is?”
“It’s my job to open and close doors for you, sir,” he explained, sounding hurt, but adding a sneaky wink.
“Cut that out, Colour Sergeant,” Kaine snapped. “I’ve had a long flight.” Rollo cracked the driver’s door and slid behind the leather-clad steering wheel. He pressed a button on the dashboard. The boot lid lowered, and the lock clicked.
“A long flight in the lap of luxury,” Rollo said, staring through the rear-view mirror, and staring hard. “We should all suffer such privations. How was the king-sized bed in the Gulfstream, by the way?”
Kaine grinned. He could always rely on Rollo to cut him no slack. “An absolute delight, thanks.” “Egyptian cotton sheets?” “Eight hundred thread count at least.” Kaine shot a sideways glance at Lara, but she kept her head turned away, apparently staring through the passenger window and studying the shadows of the clouds sliding over the distant runway.
“Nice,” Rollo said, continuing the conversation. “Beats the heck out of a military sleeping bag, eh?”
“Yep, they had a thread count of about twenty—and each one static-charged nylon.”
“Decent galley?” Rollo asked, still pushing.
“Better than the usual airline food, thanks. Although I did have to serve myself.”
“Oh dear. Poor you.”
“I’ll survive.”

Rollo pressed the ignition button on the dash and the big diesel engine whispered into life. He lowered all four windows before rolling slowly out of the parking spot and heading for the exit road.
“What’s with the windows?” Kaine asked.
“Doctor’s orders.” Rollo jerked a thumb towards Lara, who finally turned to face them.
“Any symptoms?” she asked, referring to the short time he’d spent in the Doomsday Creed’s infirmary, and to his brief but potentially dangerous exposure to an exceptionally virulent form of typhoid.
“None. I’m good, thanks.”
“Raised temperature?”
“None so far.” He smiled and double hitched his eyebrows. “Although being this close to you has ...” She scowled and he let the remains of the trite sentence fade into oblivion.

Still scowling, Lara tugged a medical bag from her footwell and rested it on the seat between them, using it as a barrier to keep them apart. She opened the bag, removed an infrared thermometer, and pointed it at his forehead. “Hold still.”
“Anything for you, my guardian angel.” In the front, Rollo snorted. He waited for an automatic barrier to rise before gunning the Beemer’s engine and filtering his way into heavy exit traffic. They tucked in behind a white panel van and ahead of a compact Fiat. The Fiat driver—a long-haired youngster smoking a cigarette—blared his horn. Rollo stuck an arm through the open window and waved in apology and thanks. Shaggy blared the horn again and closed the gap to danger levels.
“Bloke’s an idiot,” Rollo said. “There was plenty of room.”
Kaine nodded. “Doesn’t know who he’s messing with.”
“I told you to keep still,” Lara snapped.
“Sorry, boss.”
“You will be.”

No doubt.

Seconds later, the thermometer bleeped. Lara read the temperature displayed and returned the device to her bag.
“Normal?” he asked.
“So far,” she answered. Noncommittal. The way of all medics. She fished around inside the bag and removed a blister pack from one of the internal pockets. “Take these with plenty of fluids. You need to stay fully hydrated.” She handed him two tablets and a one-litre bottle of still water.
“What are they?”
“Antibiotics. Five hundred milligrams of ciprofloxacin. You’ll take them twice a day for the next five days. It that clear?”
“Yes, doctor,” he answered in his most serious voice. To confirm his promise, he popped the pills into his mouth and eased them down with half the bottle in three long pulls. “Where are we heading?” Kaine asked, still looking at Lara.
“A place called Glyn Coes,”Lara answered.
“Hmm,” he said, nodding. “What’s at Glyn Coes?”
“Becky and Gwynfor Cadwallader, and their two children, Dewi and Myfanwy.”

Cadwallader?

The surname didn’t ring any bells.
“Members of The 83?” Kaine asked and she nodded. “I don’t recall seeing a Cadwallader on the list. I’d have remembered a name that distinctive.”
“Gwyn’s widowed sister, Sharon, was ... on the plane,” Lara said, finally making eye contact. “Her surname was Pierce.” Lara’s voice softened in deference to the sensitive nature of the subject matter. They were, after all, talking about the eighty-three innocent people who had lost their lives on Flight BE1555. The eighty-three innocent souls Kaine had killed.
“I see,” he said, forcing out the words. “And the Cadwalladers are Sharon Pierce’s nearest next of kin?” Lara glanced at Rollo through the rear-view mirror. Something passed between them. Something Kaine couldn’t read and didn’t understand. They were holding out on him. Unwilling to interrogate either the woman he loved or his longest-serving friend, he let it pass. They’d tell him what he needed to know, and when he needed to know it. “What’s the issue?” he asked.
“Sheep rustling,” Rollo said. “Amongst other things.”
“Sheep rustling?” Kaine asked, again looking at Lara, trying not to appear dismissive.
“There’s more to it than that, Ryan. Much more.”
“Rollo, how long before we reach Glyn Coes?”
“About ninety minutes.”
“But we are breaking the journey, right?”
“Of course.” Rollo indicated right and made the turn. “Services on the M4, Junction 33. We’ll do without the coffee.”
“How long?”
“Thirty minutes in this traffic.”
“Okay, that should be long enough to make a start on the briefing. Fire away, Lara.”
“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head. “From now on, I’m Annabelle Hallam. Annie. Rollo is Adrian Bennett, my older brother. I’ll give you our full bios later.”
“Okay, Mrs Hallam. And who am I?”
“You are Peter Sidings.”
“Sidings again? Got it,” he said, trying not to smile. He did push out an extended sigh, though. “How the mighty fall.”
“Sorry?” she asked. “An instant demotion. Major Bill Griffin one minute, Staff Sergeant Peter Sidings the next.”
“No more than you deserve, sir,” Rollo announced from his perch in the driving seat. Forever sniping. Rollo eased the Beemer into the outside lane and added more pressure to the throttle. The big saloon’s rapid acceleration forced Kaine deeper into his plush leather seat. Within seconds, the Fiat and its floppy-haired tailgater had faded into the distance, unable to match the 7 Series’ superior performance.

Staff Sergeant Peter Sidings.

Kaine ran through the bio in his head. Having used the Sidings legend many times before and since the disaster that changed his life forever, he didn’t have to work too hard. Staff Sergeant Peter Sidings. Retired2 PARA veteran of two Gulf Wars, registered bodyguard, advanced driver, and long-serving employee of Conqueror Security Services, one of the largest and most well-respected private defence consultancies in the UK. Physical characteristics: dark hair, blue eyes, badly broken nose.

Uh-oh.

Becoming Peter Sidings required a couple of cosmetic props. “I’ll need blue contacts and something for the schnozz.”
Lara reached into her capacious bag, pulled out a contact lens case, and handed it across.
“Thanks, love. I’ll wait until we stop. Last time I tried fitting contacts in a moving car I nearly poked my eye out.” He tried a cheery grin, but again, she dismissed his attempt at levity.
“No need for the putty, though,” Rollo announced. “Staff Sergeant Sidings recently went under the knife. Cosmetic surgery. The doctors rebuilt his nasal bone. Straightened his nose up a treat, apparently.”
“You updated his bio?” Rollo dipped his head in a nod but kept his eyes on the road. “Sure did. At least, Corky did. The doc asked him to work his magic last night. She thought you’d find sticking a tissue up your nose for days on end a little uncomfortable. Isn’t that right, Doc?”

She does still care.

He turned to face her. “Thanks, Lara. I appreciate it.” “It’s ‘Annie Hallam’, remember.” Another frown furrowed her forehead, this one less defined, less severe. Signs of a thaw? Kaine’s shoulders relaxed and the tension in his stomach eased.
“Okay, Annie. Why not spend the time telling me all about Glyn Coes and the Cadwalladers.” “Okay,” she said. “Pin your ears back. I don’t want to repeat myself.”

Uh-oh. The ice is still crackling.

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Each time she moved her hand, the iron manacle that attached the chain to her wrist chafed her skin a little more. The protective cloth she used—a piece torn from the sleeve of her nightshirt—had fallen loose during the night. The wound felt as bad as it looked. It wept blood and a yellow-green pus. Assuming she lived long enough for the wound to heal, it would leave a scar.
Sans doute. No doubt.

The questions remained. Why had the colonel kept her alive? He did not usually spare the lives of those he believed worked against him. Ruthlessness had been his modus operandi.
Clutching the coiled chain tight to her thigh, Sabrina arched her back and tried to ease the tension that had formed between her shoulder blades. The movement did nothing but allow a biting cramp to attack her muscles. Every muscle in her body ached, cried out for warmth. The warmth of food, of nourishment.
Grit scratched her eyes and crunched when she ground her teeth. She tried to swallow, but a dry throat made it a near impossibility.
All her own fault. Such an idiot. As grand-père Mo-Mo often said, one day, arrogance would be the end of her.
Sometime during the past few weeks, she had spoken to the wrong person. Greed had turned that person against her. Or maybe the betrayer came from closer to home.
But who?

Sabrina sighed.
Identifying the individual responsible for the treachery would be a challenge for others. As a task, it fell outside her capabilities. At any moment, she expected a member of the Creed to drag her away to her death. Hopefully, it would be quick. Quicker than the slow death of dehydration or starvation.
Why had it taken her so long to discover the cause of the missing inventory? The clues had been there from the very outset, but her covert investigation had been blocked at every turn. Only by pure luck did she stumble upon the first crack in the fortress of silence. One fissure led to another, and eventually they coalesced into a canyon. Death and destruction became a trail leading to the colonel, the Doomsday Creed, and this very place. She had only lacked the evidence to convince the authorities to move in and close down the band of home-grown terrorists.
One day. Perhaps two. That was all she required. But it was not to be.
In the dead of night they came for her. They overpowered and drugged her, and they spirited her away to this grubby cell. Three nights and two days ago.
Merde à leurs cœurs noirs! Damn their black hearts!

The hours stretched out interminably and each moment, the death she expected failed to materialise. All she had were her thoughts, which turned relentlessly in on themselves, becoming more and more distorted as the hunger and thirst took effect. Her stomach tightened, grumbled, rebelled against the deprivation, and her throat constricted in pain from the lack of drink.
L’eau. Water.
What would she give for a tall glass of cool, clear water? A drink to extend her life for one more day.
No. Think of something else.

The treachery.
Who had turned against her? Who had turned her over to the Creed?
The names on the list were many, and crossed at least two continents. Too numerous to determine in her weakened state.
Why had they acted against her?
The obvious answers came easily enough. Either greed, or a belief in the cause espoused by the colonel, or both. Greed seemed the more likely option, since the cause was hopeless—the dream of a lunatic. The missing weapons and ammunition were worth millions of dollars on the black market, and the colonel possessed very deep pockets.
Sabrina, sitting on the edge of the bed, doubled over and clenched her belly against the next attack of raging cramps. More and more, thirst and hunger dominated her waking thoughts, making it difficult to think logically.
She cast her eyes to the ceiling. One solitary lightbulb suspended from a cable attached to a rafter. She had never seen it alight.
Time passed evermore slowly. Her mind wandered.
Concentre-toi, Sabrina. Concentrate.

Tex might arrive at any moment, and she did not want him to see her weakness, or to see her cry. Not that tears would actually form. Dehydration would not allow it.
Yes, she needed to concentrate on Tex and his slack-jawed partner, George.
Focus upon Tex. Use anger as a driver. Fight. Stay alive for as long as possible. Help will come. Please God, help will come.
The first time she saw the blond-haired mountain of a man, he slammed open the door to her filthy prison cell and stood in the opening. So tall, he had to stoop when passing through the doorway to avoid striking his head. Shoulders so wide they almost blocked the opening, and his huge silhouette stood out dark against the blinding sunlight. Behind him, head poking through the gap, stood a squat, ugly young man. He had an underslung jaw, a shock of uncombed hair, and carried a pump-action shotgun pointed at his toes.
When the big man stepped inside, sunlight seared her eyes so painfully she had to close them tight and turn her head away. He stood inside the threshold, unmoving while she recovered enough to look up at him.

“Hey there, little lady,” he said. His soft Southern drawl made him sound almost friendly. “My name’s Tex. I sure am glad to meet you, ma’am.”
When he made the greeting, he touched his forehead as though tipping his hat to her.
Still shielding her eyes, she stared up at the man who remained well out of reach. The youngster with the shotgun hovered just outside the doorway.
Tex leered at her, taking in her state of undress. The men had snatched her while she slept, and she sat on the cot barefoot, wearing only a silk nightshirt and shorts. The translucent cloth left little to his imagination.
“I said, ‘Hey there, little lady’,” Tex snapped, teeth bared, all pretence at civility disappearing in an instant. “Answer me, damn you!”
Sabrina swallowed and tried to speak, but she could not drive any words through her parched throat. Instead, she looked up at him and nodded.
Once satisfied he had her full attention, Tex smirked. He took a set of keys from the pocket of his dusty jeans, selected one, and used it to unlock the only other door in her cinderblock cell—a door she had tried, and failed, to open since the start of her incarceration. She assumed it to be the door to another cell. Many times, she had knocked upon it but had received no response.
Tex turned the handle and pushed. The door creaked inwards to reveal a toilet and a washbasin.
Tex ducked low and entered the closet. He rested a hand on the tap.
“Thirsty?” he asked, still smiling.

Again, she could only nod.
From the moment Tex entered the cell, the ugly one with the shotgun had not taken his eyes off her. His lower lip glistened with drool and he wiped it dry with the back of his free hand.
Ensuring she could see his actions clearly, Tex fitted a plug into the drain and twisted the handle of the tap. It squeaked open and clear water trickled into the bowl, filling it slowly. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the flow, which sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the small, frosted glass window on the far wall of the closet.
Miraculously, her mouth watered at the sight and allowed her to swallow.
“Yes,” she croaked.
His smile grew even wider. Brilliant white teeth stood out against his dark suntan.
“Well, come get some, honey,” he said, beckoning with a hand as large as a shovel.
She stayed put—sitting on the edge of her cot. Wary.
“What’s wrong, Frenchie? Scared o’ little ol’ me?”
Sabrina stared him down. She said nothing.
“Aw, honey. There ain’t no need to be afraid of ol’ Tex. I ain’t gonna touch you none. Here, I’ll prove it.”
When the water reached the lip of the bowl and started to dribble over the sides and puddle on the filthy concrete floor, the huge man turned off the tap.
He said, “Go on, honey. Help yourself,” bowed gracefully, and backed out of the cell, locking the door behind him.

Sabrina jumped up from the bed and raced to the closet. She reached all the way past the inner door before the chain stretched taut and the manacle tore into the flesh of her wrist. It brought her up short—short of the basin, but not the toilet.
She screamed out in pain and frustration.
Outside, behind the locked door, Tex let loose a huge belly laugh.
“What’s wrong, Frenchie? Chain too short? Shame that. A cryin’ shame!”
The cell door opened, and once again, Tex blocked the sunlight with his huge frame.
Sabrina backed away to her cot, hugging her injured arm tight to her chest.
His braying laugh echoed throughout the cell and drove deep into her head. The one with the shotgun shifted his gaze from her to Tex and back again as though he was struggling to understand the joke.
“Serves you right for bein’ so eager, Frenchie.”
“Why am I here?” she croaked.
“That’s what happens to people who work against the Creed. You brought it all on yourself, honey.”
“What do you plan to do to me?”
“Gonna tenderise you a little, then you’ll find out.”
Still laughing, he backed out of the cell, barged the smaller man out of the way, and locked the door again. She sat on the cot, crying silent, dry tears, listening to his footfalls crunching on gravel and disappearing into the distance.

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At first, he assumed she’d just left the Aspire following a nose job, but the way she reacted to her driver’s aggressive proximity fired off warning bells in Danny’s head. Then, after a brief exchange of words, the driver had raced away in the Range Rover, ignoring Danny’s request for a lift and leaving him standing in the driving rain. But as the driver made the turn, he showed Danny the SUV’s tailgate and the cherished licence number it carried, RNP 111.
During his sodden jog to the hospital, Danny contacted Corky, and it had taken the talented hacker mere seconds to identify the SUV’s registered owner, one Robert Neil Prentiss. Corky also provided the man’s home address and the name of his wife—Marian Jennifer Prentiss.

#

Deep in the Amber Valley, twenty miles northwest of Derby, Chequer Way stood pretty much in the middle of nowhere, but Danny’s slow, overnight drive-by had shown him plenty.
The security wall running along the front of the pretentiously named “Prentiss House” stretched out for a little over one hundred and fifty metres. The only gap in the brickwork allowed for a grand entrance, flanked by stone pillars that were crowned with prancing horses carved from white marble. Recessed from the road by a short gravel driveway, a pair of electrically-operated wrought iron gates protected the opening, defending the floodlit home from whatever rampaging hordes the owners most feared.
Behind the gates, Prentiss House—more a mansion than a working farmhouse—stood in all its glory. Sandstone walls shone bright under the orange floodlights. Imposing and expensive.
Pompous or what?
Danny didn’t need to be hit over the head with a lump of sandstone to recognise valuable real estate when he saw it. No doubt about it, Robert Prentiss was loaded.
Didn’t give him the right to beat his wife, though.
No bloody way.
So, Danny asked himself, now he’d made the trip, what was he going to do?
He couldn’t exactly breach the fortress, knock on the front door, and ask the householder how long he’d been beating his wife. No way. There could only be one response to such a question.
Prentiss would refute the charge and dismiss Danny from the grounds. The bugger might even call the police and try to have Danny arrested. And where would that leave the possible victim? No, such a bumbling, half-arsed approach might even make the situation worse for Marian Prentiss.
Danny needed proof.
Not the same level of proof required by the UK’s stodgy legal system. Oh no. He just needed enough to convince himself of the rich man’s guilt. Then, and only then, would Prentiss receive his lesson.
Only then would the bastard learn what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a thumping.

Danny parked his leased, mid-range BMW 3-Series in a layby two miles to the north, returned on foot under the cover of darkness, and completed a surreptitious circuit of the defensive wall. He found another opening at the rear barred by a pair of solid wooden gates, which he scaled with ease. Keeping to the deep shadow, Danny skirted around to the front of the house and found a row of rhododendron bushes where the wall formed a corner, then dropped to his haunches.
Inside the wall, landscaped gardens to the front, rear, and sides showed the intensive work of someone with green fingers. Mainly set to lawns and with well-stocked herbaceous borders, the grounds at the rear contained numerous outbuildings, including a detached triple garage, a large greenhouse, and two small wooden sheds.
Danny’s hiding spot gave him a good view of the house’s frontage and most of the rear. He settled in for the long haul, his back propped against the cold brickwork. He grew colder by the minute, but the memory of Marian Prentiss’ bruised and battered face warmed him and drove him on. What was a little discomfort compared to her injuries?
He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck, and pointed the Zeiss Victory SF 8x42 binoculars—the one piece of surveillance equipment he hadn’t forgotten—at the front of the house, making the most of the floodlights’ illumination.
The entrance portico—two white-painted columns supporting a triangular canopy—aimed for impressive but only hit excessive and ostentatious. Two steps led up to a semi-circular floor covered in black and white tiles laid out in a chessboard pattern. Double doors, panelled and painted black in a high-gloss finish, wore wrought iron furniture. Two huge lionheads with thick metal rings in their mouths acted as knockers. Two more formed the handles. Raised iron rivets fastened enormous wrought iron hinges into the woodwork, trying to give the impression of a drawbridge.
Fuck’s sake, what a mess.
Danny raked the binoculars across the façade, looking for security cameras or motion-activated spots, but found none. He returned the binoculars to his small rucksack and settled back to wait.
At 01:30 hours the floodlights powered off, plunging his world into blackness. It left Danny blind and immobile until his natural night vision took over. While waiting for the house to sleep and before venturing out of his obbo point to take a closer look, Danny replayed his most recent conversation with Corky.

#

Behind the wheel of the BMW on his way towards Amber Valley, Danny cleared his throat before tapping the comms unit in his ear.
“Hi Corky, what you got for me, over.”
“Plenty, Danny-boy. Plenty. Whatcha need first?”
Danny grinned. If he hung around for Corky to comply with correct comms protocol, he’d be waiting forever.
“Names and bios will do for a start, over.”
“Corky sent them to your mobile half an hour ago.”
“I’m driving. Can you give me the bullet points, please? Over.”
“Yeah, okay. Sure. Like, why not. After all, it ain’t like Corky’s not got a million other things to do, is it?”
“Sorry Corky,” Danny said, slapping some life into his cheeks. “I appreciate all your efforts, mate. I really do. Hoped you’d save me a little time, is all—”
“Nah, just joshing, Danny-boy. Corky’s happy to oblige. Just a sec.”
To Danny’s surprise, the active map on the dashboard’s GPS screen shrank into a corner, and Corky’s round and bearded face took its place.
Jesus!
He nearly lost control of the BMW.
How the tech genius achieved the trick, Danny would never know. Corky was able to do things beyond the scope of even the most gifted military techies.
Apart from the small-scale map, the screen behind Corky showed nothing but a white wall, which made a change from the usual panoramic view of sea and sky he preferred.
“Whatcha, Danny,” Corky said, his cheeks fattening into a grin. “Much better speaking face to face, yeah?”
Danny returned the grin. “Sure is.”
“This way, we don’t need none of that ‘over and out’ bullshit, neither.”
“If you say so, Corky.”
The GPS map indicated a left turn in eight hundred metres, and Danny slowed to make the manoeuvre.
“Didn’t know these consoles had built-in cameras.”
Without bothering to indicate—no cars about to make it necessary—Danny turned left, straightened the wheel and fed more fuel into the engine. The big BMW surged ahead.
“You’d be surprised what the manufacturers hide inside their ‘infotainment systems’, Danny-boy. These days, Big Brother is always watching you.”
Big Brother and Corky!
But at least Corky was benign.
“Okay,” Dany said, moving things along, “so who exactly is our target?”
“Robert Neil Prentiss, aged thirty-six. Owns Prentiss Haulage Limited, and operates from a distribution centre on the outskirts of Derby. Likes to call himself, ‘Robbie P’. That’s the geezer on the screen right now.”
Corky pointed over his shoulder and a colour headshot of a man emerged on the white background. Strong face, square jaw, light brown eyes. Some might say good-looking. Danny tried to match the image with the driver of the Range Rover from the previous afternoon, but it didn’t really work.
In the headshot, Robbie P had short hair, was clean shaven, and the smile reached his eyes. The headshot made him seem warm and friendly, but looks could be deceptive.
“How old’s that picture?”
Corky shrugged. “Dunno when it were taken, but that pic were uploaded to the company’s website three months back. Why?”
Danny sniffed. “Bloke I saw driving the Range Rover had long dark hair and a beard. Didn’t get a clear sight of him through the tinted windows, though. Might be the same guy, I guess. You couldn’t find anything more recent?”
Corky pinched his lips together and shook his head. “Nah, not really. Corky found a few publicity shots of Robbie P when he opened a distribution centre in Hungary eighteen months back, but the quality’s poor and there aren’t none any newer than that online. By the way, his hair were short in them pics, too. And he didn’t have no beard.”
“Find anything interesting on the wife?”
“Nothing much. Marian Jennifer Prentiss. Maiden name, Turvey. Aged twenty-eight. They’ve been married five years. No kids yet. She’s got herself a degree in Fine Arts from Nottingham Trent University.”
“Anything worrying in her medical history?”
“Didn’t find nothing in her NHS records.”
“No emergency admissions for unexplained injuries? Broken bones? Facial trauma?”
“Er, nope.” Another headshake.
“What about the damage I saw to her face yesterday? No record of that on the Aspire’s records?”

Corky scrunched his mobile face into a wince. He almost seemed embarrassed. “Yeah, now that’s where Corky’s had a little bother. As you know, for some reason, the Aspire’s computer systems fell over last night.”
“You don’t say.” Danny couldn’t prevent the irony invading his voice.
Danny knew all about the Aspire’s computer troubles. He knew, because he’d asked Corky to disable their IT infrastructure long enough for him to break into its dental clinic and “liberate” Melanie Archer’s replacement ceramic crown. The same ceramic crown she’d been paroled from prison for the day to have fitted.
“What happened, Corky? You didn’t break their IT system, did you?”
“Nah, ’course not. It ain’t nothing to do with Corky, and it ain’t permanent, neither. The hospital’s IT service provider is running a system-wide diagnostic sweep on account of the unplanned shutdown. Just means that Corky can’t interrogate the system right now. At least, not safely.”
Danny relaxed into his seat.
“How long are you going to be locked out?”
Corky’s wince transformed into a deep scowl. “Now listen here, Danny-boy. What part of that explanation said Corky were locked out? Corky ain’t never been locked out of a computer system in his life! Bloody insulting, that is.”
Keeping a straight face and concentrating on the road ahead, Danny raised a hand in apology. “Sorry Corky. Didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Locked out! Ain’t no way Corky’s locked out. He’s keeping his distance for security purposes, that’s all. Get it? Any outside interference on the Aspire’s systems at this stage will lead to questions Corky don’t want no one asking. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Corky. It’s clear. I get it. And again, I’m sorry. Any idea how long the systems are likely to be inaccessible?”
“The idiots are taking their time over the security scan. They say it’ll be down ’til at least midday. Typical. If Corky were running the systems check, it would already be done.”
Danny nodded. “I understand. Can’t be helped. Until then we’re blind, yes?”
The chubby hacker’s cheeky grin returned. “On the other hand, Corky did discover who provides the Mr and Mrs Prentiss with their medical insurance. It’s a company called Notts Private Health Services. Seems they agreed to cover the costs of ‘emergency treatment’ at the Aspire Hospital under Robbie P’s account. Apparently, two nights ago, she tripped and fell down the stairs. Broke her nose and right cheekbone.”
Yeah, right.
Danny clenched his fists and tried not to grind his teeth. “The bastard hit her.”
Corky tilted his head to one side in agreement. “Looks that way. What you gonna do?”
Good question.

“Corky hates wifebeaters. You gonna give the guy a good thumping?” the hacker asked, excitement shining bright in his eyes.
“Probably, but I need to do some obbo first. I want to be certain of my facts.”
“The facts seem clear enough to old Corky.”
“Maybe, but I’m not in the habit of turning people over without proof. Before doing anything serious, I’ll try to get Marian on her own. It would be good to hear her side of the story. You never know, her injuries might well have been accidental.” Danny tried to sound convincing, but failed miserably. He happened to be as certain as Corky of Robbie P’s guilt.
“So, anything else you need from old Corky?”
“A layout of the house would be useful?”
“More ‘bullet points’?”
“Please.”
Corky coughed into his hand. “Okay, here you go.” His gaze slid to the left and he started reading, probably from another monitor. “The architect’s plans are online and Corky’s been taking a shufti. Robbie P started renovating the house six years ago, right after they moved in and renamed the place. The house has two storeys and an attic. Ground floor’s got three receptions, a home office, a sun room, and a kitchen with utility room. First floor has four bedrooms, two with en suites, and a family bathroom. The attic has planning permission for a granny annex, but the work stopped three years ago. Dunno why. Maybe the bugger ran out of money.”
“Can you find out?”
Corky winked. “Next thing on the to-do list, Danny-boy. Corky reckons Prentiss Haulage Limited might have stretched their finances a bit thin when they opened that satellite hub in Hungary. Seems to be something fishy going on there. Like, who chooses chuffing Hungary for their base of operations? Hardly the epicentre of the European haulage trade. Ain’t that many routes to and from the major agriculture or manufacturing centres, you know.”
“You’ll keep searching, I imagine?”
“If there’s anything iffy going on, Corky’s gonna find it.”
The BMW’s headlights dipped automatically as its sensors registered the dazzling full-beams of an approaching vehicle. Danny squinted and waited for the ignorant prick to pass before speaking again.
“Don’t suppose Prentiss House has a burglar alarm or surveillance system you can hack into?”
Corky shook his head and his expression turned glum. “Nah, ’fraid not. They got an alarm and a CCTV setup, but it ain’t hooked up to the web, at least not yet. Corky can’t give you ears or eyes inside the house without splicing directly into the system. And there ain’t no way that’s happening any time soon.”
“Okay, mate. I’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Thanks for everything. I’ll find a spot inside the grounds and lie doggo for a while. If and when Robbie P heads out to work in the morning, it’ll give me a chance to ask Marian about his behaviour. Assuming he leaves her home alone.”
“Good luck with that, Danny-boy. Corky’s off now.” He chuckled, faded away, and the GPS map expanded to fill the screen again.

#

Slowly, one by one, the stars blinked out and a pale dawn washed away the darkness of night.
Danny shivered, the morning dew had long since soaked through his clothes, and the chill had worked its way into every joint of his body. Should have come better prepared. A groundsheet would have helped, but no point crying about that now. Wasn’t as though he could call on anyone for help, either. For the first time in years, he was operating solo, which felt both good and bad. Good, to have no one questioning his actions or monitoring his performance. Bad, to have no one to bounce ideas off, not even the captain.
What had originally seemed like the most obvious thing in the world—save the girl, punish the arsehole—had turned into hours of waiting in the perishing cold. Hours of double-guessing and doubt.
Earlier, his post-floodlight searches hadn’t added to his small pool of knowledge. Peering through windows and pressing his ear to the glass achieved nothing. Heavy curtains hid the view inside, and double-glazed windows on the ground level prevented all sounds filtering through into the night. A complete bust.

He’d been deaf and blind to whatever was going on inside Prentiss House and had failed to add to Corky’s intel.
A thermal imaging camera might have told him how many people were in the house and where they slept, but he’d forgotten to pack one in his haste to “save the damsel in distress”. Another bloody mistake. One of many. No groundsheet, no parabolic microphone, no infrared or night vision glasses, no nothing. Damn it, he wasn’t even armed.
What did Rollo used to say? “Fail to prepare and you might as well prepare to fail, laddie.” Yep, the team’s quartermaster wasn’t averse to spouting the odd platitude or three.
And anyway, why the hell would he need a weapon?
Danny faced nothing but a wifebeater. A bully and a coward, not a Taliban insurgent, and Danny knew how to handle bullies.
Around him, the dawn chorus welcomed the onset of day and the temperature rose with the sun. With the minimum of movement, Danny loosened his joints and warmed his muscles in preparation for whatever the morning would bring.
Before him, Prentiss House remained silent. The curtains hid what went on behind the ground floor windows, and shutters covered those on the upper two floors.
Once again, Danny waited.

#

The middle of the three high-security garage doors rolled up to expose the gleaming white and ludicrously expensive Range Rover 5.0 V8. Brand new, the top-of-the-range beastie would have set Robbie P back more than £130,000. The powerful monster’s engine growled in smooth anger. White exhaust fumes spewed from the tailpipe, and the SUV pulled slowly out of the garage and into the daylight, some thirty-five metres from where Danny hid amongst the rhododendrons.
Finally, after damn near seven hours freezing his nuts off, Danny had movement.
He allowed himself a little fist pump.
Here we go!
The Range Rover rolled forwards and stopped outside the grand front entrance, purring, waiting for release. Behind it, the garage door rolled down and clunked into place. The driver’s door popped open and a swarthy man with long wavy hair and a trimmed beard climbed out. Slightly below average height but powerfully built, the man wore a dark business suit, white shirt, muted brown tie, and polished leather shoes. He bore a striking resemblance to the driver from the previous afternoon.
Yep, the same guy he saw driving the Range Rover yesterday afternoon.
Robbie P?
Danny raised the binoculars, focused them on the man. Pale blue eyes shone out of a weather-beaten face.
Blue eyes?
Can’t be right.
Danny tweaked the knurled nut of the binoculars’ focus adjuster to sharpen the image further. Yep, the driver’s eyes were definitely blue.
Shit!
Definitely not Prentiss.
The headshot Corky had thrown up on the BMW’s infotainment screen showed Robbie P with light brown eyes, not blue, and Corky’s bio confirmed it. The bio also stated that Robbie P stood at nearly six foot two, but the driver was no more than five nine.
What the hell was going on?
The swarthy man, Driver, glowered at the closed front doors and peeled back the sleeve of his jacket to reveal a heavy gold watch. He all but tapped his foot on the gravel in his impatience.
Driver waited another thirty seconds before shouting something guttural in a language Danny didn’t understand. Moments later, one of the front doors opened and a second man in a business suit stumbled out, propelled by the stiff-armed punch of a third man.
The man in the suit bunted into one of the columns supporting the portico’s canopy and fell to his hands and knees.
The third man stayed in the open doorway. He wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt under a sleeveless denim vest. Squat with a shaved head, his muscular arms and thick neck were covered in black ink—prison tats.
Tats shouted, “Idióta,” and coughed out a harsh laugh.
With his back to Danny, the fallen man scrambled to his feet. He raised his hands to Tats, shouted, “Don’t hurt her. Please don’t hurt her again!” and spun towards Driver, finally showing his face to Danny.
Robbie P!
Fuck.
In that instant, Danny realised his mistake. Robbie P was no more a wifebeater than Ryan Kaine was a terrorist.
What the flaming hell had he stumbled into?

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Someone whimpered, cried. Close by, high-pitched and feeble. Melanie Archer felt the sounds inside her head. Another groan, this one louder.
Her cries.
Her whimpers.
What’s happening?
She tried to open both eyes, but only the left lid reacted, letting in the searing agony of white light. Too bright, too much to suffer. She squeezed her lid closed and the ache lessened. But not by much.
Sunny? It’s sunny?
The sun gave off little heat. Her skin was cold. Sweaty cold. Clammy. Somewhere close by, water splashed. Dripped. The sound echoed off hard, reflective surfaces.
The shower block. Another kick, to the back, this one barely noticed. Barely felt.
Darkness closed in. Restful darkness. Peace.
Relax, Mel. Let it end. End now.
Shouts.
Raised voices.
Female voices, but sharp and guttural, high-pitched.
In the distance, way off, an alarm bell rang. Too far away. No safety there. No help.
Melanie lay on her side, curled into a foetal ball. That much, she could tell. The unforgiving surface she lay on—stiff, cold, gritty—it smelled of urine, caustic bleach, and … decay.
Another blow, this one to her head.
She retched. Gagged. Vomited.
Blackness rushed up to swallow her and end the pain.
Please.
End it.
Thank you, God. Thank …

#

Quiet peacefulness.
Softness. Scratchy softness.
Murmured voices in the distance, talking over the subdued, tinny music expelled from a radio. Mel didn’t recognise the song, but it was peaceful, relaxing. She smiled—or tried to. Her lips were swollen and split. Pain, the stinging pain of lemon juice driven into a cut, shocked her fully awake.
Mel lay on her back, the rough grit of tile and grout beneath her had been exchanged for the firm, intermittent lumpiness of an old, well-worn mattress. The smell had changed, too. From urine and corrosive bleach, to lemons and something else. Something sharp.
Starched sheets tucked in around and over her.
She tried to lift her head, but it was heavy, far too heavy, as though a concrete block was pressing against her forehead.
Her heartbeat thumped inside her head. Pounding. Adding to the cluster of pain.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.
Mel moved her tongue, trying to generate some spit, some moisture. The tongue found a hole. A gap where her upper front tooth used to be. No pain though. An old injury. One of many. Years old. Nearly a decade. The missing front tooth, had been replaced by a ceramic implant. A perfect match to the original in shape and colour, but not in feel.
In the gap, something sharp—the implant’s metallic head protruding from her gum—cut the side of her tongue. Made it bleed. The blood seeped into her mouth, tasted of old pennies. She swallowed. Gagged. Swallowed again. Coughed.
Fresh, exquisite pain blazed though her side. The jagged edge of a rib bit deep. She yelped.
The distant conversation stopped. Footsteps approached. Heels clicked on a hard floor.
Metal rattled. Keys on a chain.

“Try not to move.”
“What?”
“You have a couple of broken ribs, a fractured wrist, multiple contusions, and a suspected concussion,” the woman said. Her voice was cool and unemotional, but carried the rasp of a long-term smoker. Her breath stank of cigarettes. “Try not to move. Wouldn’t want the ribs to pierce a lung.”
“Where … Where am …”
“The infirmary.”
“Where?”
Hesitation. “You don’t know where you are? Can you tell me your name?”
“Sorry? What?”
“You took a few blows to the head. What’s your name?”
Mel swallowed, blood mixed with saliva.
“Mel … Melanie Archer.”
“Good. Do you know where you are, in general terms?”
She tried to nod but, again, her head refused to move. Pain knifed behind her eyes, running between the temples, pulsing along with the rapid beat of her heart. Her neck seemed pinned in place, as though held in a vice. Something restricted her movement, stopped her from dipping her chin. A neck brace. She recognised its softly restrictive force. She’d worn one before.
“Falston,” she answered, “Falston Manor?” Her voice sounded as dry and cracked as the other woman’s, but Mel had never smoked a cigarette in her life.
Wouldn’t have dreamed of it. He wouldn’t have let her.
“Yes, that’s right. Memory’s unimpaired. Good,” the woman said, but didn’t seem particularly relieved. “Means we won’t need to send you for a scan. Paperwork for a transfer on medical grounds can be a nightmare. Expensive.”
Mel tried opening her eyes again, but her lids wouldn’t move. The right was being held in place by something soft but unforgiving—bandages. The lids of her left eye were stuck, gummed together.
“Oh God, I-I can’t see.” Even though she fought the panic, Mel’s voice rose in pitch and volume.
“Calm down, Archer. Far as I can tell, there’s nothing wrong with your vision. Heavy swelling and a deep laceration to the right side of your face needed bandages. I’ll clear the left in a second. Hold still.” The last words were barked in an order.
Footsteps clicked again, these ones moving away.
In the near silence that followed, broken only by the ticking of a clock and the tinny music, the seconds stretched into minutes. Mel tried to stay calm, keep her breathing shallow and slow. Panic wouldn’t help. She’d learned that the hard way, over decades.
Think.
Plan.

Stay calm and subservient on the outside, cool and determined on the inside. The only way to survive.
How much damage had they done? What could she move?
Head? No, the neck brace and bandages handled that.
Hands and arms? She could make a fist with her left hand, but when she tried moving the fingers of her right, a fireball of pain exploded. Broken. Probably at the wrist. Again, not for the first time.
Hips, knees, and ankles? All moved normally, and without excessive discomfort.
Now for the important part, the one kept for last, the chest and stomach.
Mel moved slowly, testing each area gently by tensing and relaxing the necessary muscle groups.
Broken ribs were a given. She already knew that, and the bones would heal. Doctors didn’t bandage damaged ribs anymore. Not worth the time or effort. Pain would restrict movement well enough, and the patient needed to breathe. But what about her stomach?
Mel held her breath and tensed her abdominal wall. Sore, bruised, but not seriously. In the past, she’d suffered worse, much worse. The damage was superficial. Damage to the belly didn’t matter. No chance of her ever being pregnant again. He’d seen to that seventeen, no, eighteen years ago.
Oh God. Little Bella.
Gone, and without having had a chance at any sort of a life.
Bella would be doing her A levels this year. She’d have been smart, like her mother, but more worldly wise. Better prepared for what life could throw at her. Mel would have seen to that. Bella would have had none of the naïve ignorance of her teenage mother, and absolutely none of her father’s cunning evil or his vileness.
Tears formed behind gummy, gritty eyes.
She would have protected little Bella from his scheming, his anger. Mel would have done anything to save her daughter from the fear and the misery.
So many years of guilt and suffering had led to … where? Her Majesty’s Prison, Falston Manor.
Overcrowded cells and strip searches.
Inmates.
Why? What had she done?
Nothing.
Why wouldn’t anyone believe her? It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. It never had been.
Returning footsteps broke into Mel’s drift into self-pity.
“By the way,” the woman with the gravelly voice said, “I’m Dr Milliner, the Chief Medical Officer here. You might remember me from your orientation.”
Orientation?

Ritual humiliation, more like.
It started before Mel had even arrived.
Blurred, fractured memories crawled through her head, unwanted. An hour-long ride in a prison van with blacked out windows. Sitting handcuffed on a bench seat, safety belt around her lap. Two more luckless, pale-faced prisoners on the bench to her left. One, fat and brassy with hair bleached at the tips and a ring through her nose, kept leering at her, licking her lips and blowing kisses. The other, pale, skinny, and terrified. Hair cut in an angular bob and no more than a teenager, she cried throughout the journey and bit her nails.
Normally, inmates were allowed to wear their own clothes, but the guards deemed Mel’s were too expensive, too eye-catching. They stripped her, gave her a faded green tracksuit three sized too big, T-shirts, and plain, cotton underwear.
The so-called medical exam was cursory and performed by a wizen-faced fifty-something woman. She had short grey hair, horn-rimmed glasses, pale brown eyes, and a sneer. Presumably, the owner of the raspy voice and the harsh bedside manner, Dr Milliner.
For the exam, Milliner asked a few general health questions, ticked the answers on a form attached to a clipboard, and made Mel sign it. No stethoscope to the chest, no blood pressure test, nothing “hands-on”.

Medical over, the real horror began.
How long ago was that? Two weeks? Three?
The days blurred. They merged into one long, indeterminant routine, interspersed with threats and intimidation, leading to … here.
Metal scraped onto a hard surface close to Mel’s head. Plastic rustled and crumpled. A vacuum-sealed bag popped open. The lid of a plastic bottle clicked, its seal broken. Liquid poured into a small container.
“This will feel cold,” Dr Milliner said, her voice close, her breath still reeking. “Nothing but distilled water to clean your eye. Keep it closed until I’m done.”
Cool liquid from a cotton wool swab soaked her lids. The cold water ran down the side of her face and pooled in her ear. Tickled. The doctor’s touch was more gentle than expected. A dry swab dabbed the excess liquid and, two firm swipes later, Milliner pulled away from the bed, taking the smell of stale cigarettes with her.
“Okay, try now.”
Mel opened her eye, closed it against the sharp white light, and took a shallow breath. She opened the lid again, blinked two, three times, and waited.
Slowly, the fuzzy pictures cleared and the blurry images sharpened.
The hatchet-faced Dr Milliner pressed the tips of her fingers to Mel’s bandaged head and held up a brown-stained index finger.
“Follow my finger. Don’t move your head.”
The hazy digit moved, left and right, up and down. Mel followed it as best she could, keeping her head still. The migraine flared when she looked up and to the left. She winced and groaned but said nothing.
Milliner pulled away.
“You’ll have a headache for a while. If it gets any worse I might be able to prescribe some ibuprofen.” She paused, reading the time from her wristwatch. “Paperwork to do. I’ll be back to check on you shortly, maybe remove that neck brace. Meanwhile, try to get some rest.”
The doctor spun on a low-heeled shoe and marched away. Her footsteps clicked on the tiled floor once again, and the keychain attached to her belt jangled. She paused at one of only two doors in the three-bed ward, selected a key from the bundle, and turned the lock. She left the ward without looking back.
“Paperwork? Really. Fag break, more like,” Mel mumbled, struggling to form the words with damaged lips.
Someone turned off the radio. Apart from the continuous ticking of the cheap wall clock, the room fell silent. For the first time since entering Falston Manor, Melanie Archer felt safe.
But how long would it last?

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