I stumbled along, one hand on the cool stone, following the wall back around to the front of the asylum and stopped there, crouching in the dirt and hyperventilating. I took several shuddering breaths then leaned out and peeked around the edge. There was a scrum of robed people and expensive, chauffeured cars outside, all jockeying to depart. I saw a Rolls Royce back into the fender of a Land Rover, lurch forward, swerve to avoid a man running past, the hood of his robe flying behind, then speed off up the road. Given the chaos, I wasn’t worried about being seen. All the participants seemed hell bent on getting away from the scene as quickly as possible. Casually, I strode across the edge of the parking area and into the backyard of the nearest house. My head pounded and I felt nauseous. I threw up on a bush in the next yard, retching over and over until my stomach was empty, the acrid smell making me nauseous all over again. A vibration in my pocket alerted me to an incoming phone call. It was Ashna, making an actual voice call. She had to be worried. I swiped the call away and continued across the dark lawn.
It wasn’t much farther but it felt like miles. At last, I made it to the yard of the model home and crossed the patio with lurching steps, coming up against the French doors. Ashna was seated at the table, furiously typing something into a command line. I knocked and she looked up, surprised, then stood and pulled the door open.
"What the hell is going on over there?"
"Long story. I can tell you in the car. We need to get out of here. Police will be here soon."
"Okay, let’s move," Ashna said, gathering her things and shoving them into her messenger bag. “Did you get what you went in for?”
"Yes. We’ll need to cut across the fields. The road will be packed. They might be stopping people and searching cars."
Ashna gave me a concerned look. I tried to control my voice but it must have sounded shaky. "Are you okay? What happened?"
"Not okay but I can make it to the car. Might need to see a doctor."
Ashna nodded and shouldered her bag. "Where’s your backpack?"
"Had to leave it." I remembered the paper in my pocket and pulled it out. "Take a photo of this and text it to Wolhardt before we go. It’s important."
"Okay," Ashna replied, pulling her phone out. She flattened the page on the table, took a photo, and fiddled with her phone for a moment. "Sent. Let’s go."
We followed the route I had used before, cutting through yards until we crossed over into fields. I don’t remember much of that hike—just scattered images of dirt clods breaking under my feet in the moonlight, bright stars above, passing through a grove of trees. I was dead on my feet when we made it to the car at last. Ashna opened the door and helped me collapse into the passenger seat. At the wheel she looked at me nervously and noticed for the first time the clotted blood behind my ear.
"Holy shit Justin," she exclaimed, touching the contusion. "We’re going straight to the closest emergency room."
"Not here," I croaked. "Back in London. Too risky here."
The speed limit on highways in the UK is ninety six kilometers per hour. At some point during the drive I regained awareness long enough to glance over and see the speedometer pegged at one forty five. I tried to tell Ashna to slow down but my head lolled and I was sucked under, sinking back into the numb, torpid ocean of fevered sleep.
A few scattered memories—being rolled on a stretcher into an emergency room, a woman prodding my head while I feebly tried to bat her hand away, being told repeatedly by someone with a very high class British accent to stay awake and stay still while a CT scanner hummed away, showering my brain with radiation.
****
I woke the next morning in a hospital room. A gray light fell across the foot of the bed, the putty colored blanket, and Ashna, seated in a chair with bent plywood armrests, cushions upholstered in a cherry motif with a white ground. Two cherries with crossed stems, space, two more cherries, space, on and on. It made me anxious. I exerted myself and sat up. Ashna looked up from her laptop.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Seriously? Don’t tell me you have amnesia or something. I need the story.”
“No, I mean, what happened last night? After we left the asylum. I think I remember what happened at the asylum.” I closed my eyes and thought for a moment. Images flashed through my head, settling into a timeline. “Yeah, I remember. Most of it at least.”
“Oh good. Nothing much. Drove fast. Pissed off some uptight people on the freeway. Brought you here. Hammersmith hospital urgent treatment centre. They checked you out, gave you a CT scan. You have a minor skull fracture and a pretty bad concussion. They said you can leave whenever you’re ready but you have to take it easy for a few days.”
“Have you slept at all?”
“Yeah. I went back to the rental last night. Got back here an hour ago. I brought you some fresh clothes.” She looked at her phone. “It’s
