‘Yes.’
‘What did your surgeon say was causing them?’
‘Phantom pain.’
‘From losing your eye?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have pain anywhere else? Ribs? Back? Did any of the kicks do any damage?’
‘No.’
‘Can you stand up?’
Acland made an effort to comply, but the movement sent bile shooting into his mouth. He clamped both palms over his mouth and retched convulsively.
‘Great!’ said Jackson sourly. ‘Chuck us a towel, Daisy.’ She caught the cloth and handed it to Acland. ‘Use that,’ she said, hauling him upright and hoisting him over her shoulder in a fireman’s lift, ‘and don’t mess up my clothes or it’ll cost you another fifty.’ She paused briefly in front of the two policemen. ‘I’ll knock him flat if he’s a nutter and goes berserk,’ she warned, ‘so don’t try pinning GBH on me if he complains to you afterwards.’
‘You’re all heart, Jackson.’
‘That’s the truth of it,’ she agreed, carrying the weight of a grown man on her back as easily as she would a child.
*
Acland remembered her lowering him on to a bed and telling him to use the bowl that she placed beside his pillow. Shortly afterwards she came back with a briefcase and asked him about the injuries to his face. Where had the surgery been done? Was he on any drugs? When was the last time he’d seen a doctor? How often
did he have migraines? How did he manage them? Were they getting worse? Was nausea always involved? What remedies did he use?
He answered as well as he could, mostly in monosyllables, but when the retching continued unabated, she offered him an injection of an anti-emetic to help him take on fluids and keep a painkiller down. Worn out, he agreed. He fell asleep soon after the sedative properties of the analgesic took effect, but not before he had revealed rather more about himself than he’d ever told Willis.
*
Sunshine filtered through a gap in the curtains when Acland woke the next morning and he could hear the clatter of crockery in the kitchen downstairs. There was no confusion about where he was or what had happened. He remembered every event of the previous evening – or thought he did – right up to the question he’d put to Jackson shortly before she gave him the anti-emetic. ‘Are you a doctor?’ But he couldn’t recall if she’d answered. He was lying on his left side, facing the window, and he noticed his shoes and socks on a chair beside it. He was naked except for his underpants but had no idea when his clothes had been removed or who had done it. He levered himself into a sitting position to look around the rest of the room. It was small and utilitarian with a pinewood wardrobe in one corner and a pedestal basin and mirror on the wall opposite the window. The vomit bowl, emptied and washed, stood with his wallet, watch and eyepatch on the bedside cabinet, and a hand towel lay folded next to his pillow. There was no sign of his jacket, shirt or trousers. He strapped on his eyepatch, then checked the time by his watch. Almost nine o’clock. Wary of squeaking floorboards, which would tell whoever was in the kitchen that he was awake, he slid out from under the duvet and tiptoed to the wardrobe. At the very least he was hoping for a dressing gown, but all he found were five empty coat hangers. Feeling foolish, he put on his socks and shoes, tucked his wallet into the waistband of his underpants, then stripped the pink floral cover from the duvet and wrapped it round his middle.
He eased open the door to the landing and poked out his head, looking for a bathroom, but all the adjoining rooms were firmly closed. To his left was a staircase, and the sounds from the kitchen carried clearly up the well. Aromas, too. Someone was grilling bacon and the smell shot pangs of hunger through his empty stomach. He couldn’t tell if he was in a private part of the building or if the nearby rooms were to let, so with an increasing sense of awkwardness he edged quietly along the landing, looking for anything that might indicate a lavatory.
It was sod’s law that when he finally plucked up the courage to try a handle he’d find Jackson inside. She was sitting astride a bench press, facing the door, with her arms stretched out at shoulder height and a dumbbell in each huge fist. She gave a throaty chuckle at Acland’s appearance as she bent her elbows to bring the dumbbells back on to her chest. ‘Nice skirt,’ she said. ‘If you’re looking for the bathroom it’s the room opposite yours. You can borrow the robe on the back of the door, but don’t go using my razor. I’ll be through in five minutes.’
A flush stained the lieutenant’s neck and cheeks as he backed out with a muttered apology, and Jackson wondered if he was younger than the thirty-something she’d estimated last night. It was difficult to age him with his buzz-cut hair and damaged face, but she’d certainly thought him older than Mansoor and his friends. As she straightened her arms to raise the dumbbells again, she revisited some of the answers he’d given her about his medical history.
What caused your injuries?
The answers he’d given after the retching ceased but before the painkiller took effect were even more interesting. Who died?
*
Acland was sitting on his bed with his door wide open when Jackson emerged at the end of her exercise session. He was wearing her navy-blue bathrobe and he greeted her with more confidence than he’d shown five minutes earlier. ‘Are you a doctor?’ She folded her beefy arms across her chest and subjected him to a close scrutiny. She looked to be in her mid-forties and was as tall as he was, over six feet, but her muscular jaw, short spiked hair and sloping shoulders made her look more like a man than a woman. She was dressed in similar singlet
