how far would I be able to run at top speed? I didn't know. A few minutes? I couldn't tell. It wasn't normal. I was running for my life.
Gradually the day seemed colder, greyer.
'I'm not helping, am I?' I said.
Cross seemed distracted and hardly heard me. 'What?' he said.
'I wanted to do better.'
'Take your time.'
Jack Cross barely spoke on the short journey back to the hospital. He stared out of the window. He murmured a few routine words to the driver.
'Are you going to search the estate?' I asked.
'I wouldn't know where to start,' he said. 'There's over a thousand derelict flats there.'
'I was underground, I think. Or in a basement. Or at least on the ground floor.'
'Miss Devereaux, the Browning estate is about a quarter of a mile square. Or more. I don't have the men.'
He walked back with me to my new special room. That was something, a room of my own. He stopped at the door.
'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I thought it would go better.'
'Don't worry,' he said, with a smile that quickly faded. 'We're depending on you. You're all we've got. If there's anything else .. .'
'There's the other women Kelly, Kath, Fran, Gail and Lauren. Can't you check them out?'
Suddenly Jack Cross looked weary of it all.
'I've got someone on it. But I've got to say, it's not as simple as you think.'
'What do you mean?'
'How do you imagine I can check for the names? We don't have a last name, any location, a date, even an approximate one. We have nothing. We've got a bunch of common first names.'
'So what can you do?'
He shrugged.
A nurse wheeled a telephone into my room and gave me a small handful of change. I waited until she was out of the room and then fed in a twenty-pence piece.
'Mum?'
'Abigail, is that you?'
'Yes.'
'Is everything all right?'
'Mum, I wanted to tell you
'I've had the most terrible time.'
'Mum, I just needed to talk to you, to tell you something.'
'It's the pains in my stomach. I've not been sleeping.'
I paused for a moment. I took a deep breath. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'Have you been to the doctor?'
'I'm always going to the doctor. He gave me some pills, but he doesn't take it seriously. I've not been sleeping.'
'That's awful.' My hand tightened round the phone. 'You couldn't come to London for the day, could you?'
'To London?'
'Yes.'
'Not at the moment, Abigail. Not the way I've been feeling. I can't go anywhere.'
'It's less than an hour on the train.'
'And your father's not been well.'
'What's wrong?'
'His usual. But why don't you come and see us? It's been ages.'
'Yes.'
'Give us some notice, though.'
'Yes.'
'I should go,' she said. 'I'm making a cake.'
'Yes. All right.'
'Ring again soon.'
'Yes.'
'Goodbye, then.'
'Goodbye,' I said. 'Goodbye, Mum.'
I was woken by a large machine being pushed through the door. It was a monstrous floor-cleaning machine with a revolving circular contraption and nozzles releasing soapy water. It would quite obviously have been far better to use a bucket and a mop and this machine was especially useless in the confined space of my room. It couldn't reach into the corners and it couldn't go under the bed and it didn't like tables very much so the man behind it pushed it along the few exposed spaces. He was followed by another man. This man didn't look like a cleaner or a nurse or even a doctor since he was dressed in black shoes, baggy brown trousers, a navy blue jacket that looked as if it was made out of sacking, and an open-necked checked shirt. He had wiry all-over-the-place grey hair. He was carrying a stack of files under his arm. He was trying to speak. I could see his mouth moving. But the noise of the cleaning machine drowned everything so he stood rather awkwardly by the wall until the machine had passed him and headed down the ward. He looked dubiously after it.
'One day somebody's going to check one of those machines and discover it doesn't do anything,' he said.
'Who are you?' I said.
'Mulligan,' he said. 'Charles Mulligan. I've come to have a word with you.'
I got out of the bed.
'Have you got any identification?'
'What?'
I walked past him and shouted for a passing nurse. She looked reluctant but she saw that I meant business. I said that a stranger had come into my room. There was a brief argument and she led him away to make a phone call. I went back to bed. A few minutes later the door of my room opened and the man was led back in by a more senior-looking nurse. 'This man has permission to see you,' she said. 'He will be with you for a very short time.'
She left with a suspicious glance at Charles Mulligan. He took some horn-rimmed glasses from his jacket pocket and put them on.
'That was probably sensible,' he said. 'It was very boring but probably sensible. What I was in the middle of saying was that Dick Burns rang me and asked me to have a word with you.'
'Are you a doctor?'
He put down his files on the table and pulled a chair over towards the bed. 'Is it all right if I sit down?'
'Yes.'
I am a doctor. I mean, I'm qualified as a doctor. I don't spend much of my time in the hospital.'
'Are you a psychiatrist? Or a psychologist?'
He gave a nervous, chopping ha-ha laugh.
'No, no, no, I'm a neurologist, really, more or less. I study the brain as if it were a thing. I work with computers and cut up mouse brains, that sort of thing. I talk to people as well, of course. When necessary.'
'I'm sorry,' I said. 'But what are you doing here?'
'I said. Dick rang me up. Fascinating case.' A sudden expression of alarm appeared on his face. 'I know it was awful as well. I'm terribly sorry. But Dick asked if I could come and have a look at you. Is that all right?'
'What for?'
He rubbed his face with his hands and looked almost excessively sympathetic. 'Dick told me something of what you've gone through. It's horrible. I'm sure somebody will be coming to talk to you about that. About the trauma. And all of that.' His sentence had trailed off and he looked lost. Now he pushed his fingers through his curly
