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He turned to Louise, his eyes pleading. "I can say you're unfit to stand trial. Make up some condition to keep them away. Anything as long as you keep my name out of it. I've destroyed all the records of your visits to Peter. But you've got to help me. You've got to."

The man was terrified.

"Keep who away from us?" asked Nick.

Ziegler stared at him, incredulous. "The Americans, of course."

"What Americans?" asked Louise.

"Bruce's Truth Commission."

"John Bruce?"

"President Bruce," corrected Ziegler. "He wants you extradited. His Truth Commission have named you as part of the terrorist group who had McKinley and the other political leaders assassinated."

Nick felt numbed. President Bruce. Truth Commission. Extradition.

"President Bruce?" asked Louise. "How long were we out?"

"Twelve months," said Ziegler. "I had you moved here the moment I could. I've done everything to keep you safe. Now you've got to repay the favour. Keep my name out of this. Don't let the Americans know I brought you together."

Twelve months, thought Nick. Twelve months and now Mr. Hyde's President.

"Has John attacked China?" asked Louise.

"Not yet," said Ziegler. "He's too busy purging his own country. Interning and deporting. But the terrorists are still getting through—fifteen senators have been killed so far, three supreme court judges. Which is why Bruce set up his Truth Commission—to fast track justice. And backed the formation of local militia—armed gangs of patriots to hunt out and interrogate subversives in their neighbourhoods. It's trial by mob over there. If we're extradited we'll be dead within a week."

Ziegler turned to leave. "I've got to run," he said, checking his watch. "Remember, keep quiet. Feign memory loss if you have to. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"What are we going to do?" asked Louise as soon as the door closed.

Nick felt shell-shocked. What could they do? They'd had the word 'terrorist' attached to their names. That changed everything: their rights, their ability to question the evidence against them, everything. Even if they could prove their innocence who'd want to listen, they were terrorists.

And it transferred their fate from the judicial arena to the political. They would become bargaining chips—political pawns dependent on the relationship between Downing Street and the White House. You hand over those two terrorists and I'll make sure a British company's at the top of the list when the next round of defence contracts are handed out.

If John Bruce wanted them, he'd get them.

Unless they could whip up a media campaign in their favour . . . but what chance was there of that? As terror suspects they'd have no access to the press. And how many friends or colleagues would dare speak out on their behalf? Ziegler was terrified, the scattered body parts found at Nicks' home and college had probably convinced most of Oxford of his guilt. And how many friends would Louise still have a year after being accused of killing Karen?

They were not so much in the shit as drowning in it.

Unless . . .

"Try and separate, Lou. Maybe there's still time if we can get the two John's back together."

They both tried. Several minutes of concentrated mind-stretching to no avail. Something was holding them back. Drugs, stress, lack of practice.

"It's no good," said Louise. "I can't move an inch."

More time passed. They tossed ideas around. Whatever was preventing them from separating had to end soon. There was still hope.

And there was still despair. The silences between them grew longer. The two of them, lying shackled to beds by wires and tubes, waiting for God knows what—interrogation, torture? Imagining all kinds of futures. Most of them bad.

Time crawled. There wasn't even a clock or a watch in the room to measure it by. There wasn't even a window to look out of. It could be night outside. It could be raining, snowing, blowing a gale. And it was so quiet. No sound of life outside: no snatches of passing conversation from the corridor, no doors slamming in the distance, no squeak of wheels as a trolley rolled by. The electronic hum of the overhead light was the only sound.

Which was strange, thought Nick. He hadn't registered the fact before but now he thought about it, he couldn't remember hearing a single sound from outside the room since he'd awoken. The room wasn't sound-proofed was it?

He looked at the door. An ordinary-looking white-painted wooden door. With about an inch gap between its base and the floor. There was no way it could be sound-proof.

And yet . . . 

"Have you heard anything from outside since we've been here?" he asked Louise.

She sat up. "No," she said, turning her head to one side. "Why?"

"Because it's not right," said Nick. "Asylum's are noisy. We should have heard someone shouting or screaming by now."

"Maybe they're all drugged. Or it's night."

He hadn't thought of that. It probably was night. But if so . . . where had Ziegler gone in such a hurry? He was hardly likely to be called to a meeting in the middle of the night.

And how long had he been gone? It seemed like hours.

Then he heard it. Footsteps. Someone was walking along the corridor, the sound getting louder. Ziegler?

Nick sat up, his eyes fixed to the door. The footsteps stopped. The door began to open, a crack at first then wider. Then . . .

A sharp intake of breath. A diminutive figure in a red uniform stood in the doorway—Pendennis—unchaperoned and smiling.

Nick tore the monitor patches from his body, pulled back the sheets. Louise was doing the same. Pendennis's smile grew wider, he ambled into the room, walked up to the foot of Louise's bed and leered.

Louise bounced off her bed onto Nick's, two quick rubbery steps and then she grabbed hold of Nick and bundled him away from his bed and into the far corner of the room, slamming him against the wall.

Pendennis didn't move. He just stood there, smiling.

"I only came to ask how you were," he said.

Nick pushed Louise behind him, clenched his fists, and braced himself. Would Peter be armed? He couldn't see a knife but Peter's right hand was hidden inside a pocket.

Another man appeared in the doorway—a warder from his uniform. Peter hadn't seen him. Nick waited as the warder slipped silently into the room. Any second now he'd grab Pendennis. Any second . . . why wasn't he doing anything? The warder had stopped a few feet behind Peter. He could have reached out and grabbed the little pervert, locked both his arms and dragged him into the corridor without breaking sweat. He was twice Peter's size.

But he hadn't. He still wasn't. Was he waiting for something? The right moment, a clear corridor so he could knock Pendennis senseless without anyone seeing him?

Nick called to him. "What are you waiting for? Take him!"

The warder didn't move. Neither did Pendennis. He didn't even look round. Maybe he was unaware of the warder behind him, maybe he thought Nick was trying to trick him into turning his back.

"Get Pendennis out of here!" shouted Nick.

At last the warder moved. But not towards Pendennis. He strode past the red-clad killer, marched up to Nick and slapped him hard across the face with the back of his hand.

Pain seared across Nick's right cheek. He'd been too shocked to move. Then the warder spoke, spitting the words into Nick's face.

"Doctor Pendennis to you."

Louise watched in growing horror. Had the warder gone mad?

"You," he said, prodding Nick in the chest. "Move! Along the wall to the other corner. And don't try anything unless you really want to piss me off."

There was hate in his eyes. A blind, belligerent hate that Louise couldn't understand. Was it because he considered Nick a terrorist?

Another warder arrived. Louise's hopes soared . . . and then collapsed. He too looked to Pendennis, awaiting instructions.

"Restrain the girl," said Pendennis.

"No!" Louise was not going to be restrained. She ran at Pendennis, lunging forward, preparing to claw at his face with her hands. If she could just . . .

A warder's hand grabbed her by the left elbow, swung her around, almost off her feet, away from Pendennis and back towards the wall. She slammed into it—hard—cushioning some of the impact with her right hand, trying to push away but the warder grabbed a fistful of hair on the back of her head and sent her forehead crashing against the wall.

Dazed, her legs buckled. She was vaguely aware of another fight to her right. Nick and the other warder. Then she was grabbed, her arms gathered up and locked behind her. She was swung round, turned to face the centre of the room where Pendennis waited, unruffled and amused.

Her head hurt, her eyes watered and her arms felt like they were being tugged out of their sockets. She felt weak and vulnerable, a feeling exacerbated by the hospital gown. Why couldn't she have been wearing clothes! She could feel the warder press up against her. The gown open at the back. Her imagination on fire.

Nick was on the floor now. She tried not to look, tried to blot out the grunts and shouts and sickening crunches as kick after kick went into the squirming body on the ground. Why wouldn't they stop? Why wouldn't any of them stop?

"I think that's enough pre-op, Bobby," said Pendennis, picking at his fingernails. "Put him on the bed."

Bobby dragged Nick along the floor, hoisted him up and flung him onto the bed, then leaned down and pulled out a series of webbing straps attached to the frame and threw them over Nick's body. Pendennis walked over to the other side and did the same, connecting the straps together and pulling them tight. Nick didn't struggle once. Louise wasn't even sure if he was conscious.

Once finished, Pendennis sauntered towards Louise.

"Make sure you watch all of this, Lulu. May I call you Lulu? Louise seems so formal."

He smiled at her, so smug, so sickening. She could have killed him. She strained forward, tried to break the lock the warder had on her arms, but was immediately tugged back. Peter reached out a hand and lightly brushed her cheek.

"Such pretty skin. Seems almost a pity . . ."

Louise tried to spit. She wanted to cover that sick bastard from ear to ear but fear had dried her mouth. Peter stepped backwards.

"I like a girl with spirit. Don't you, Tony?"

Louise leaned back against Tony and kicked out with her legs. She caught Pendennis a glancing blow on the hips. He darted backwards out of range and shook his head.

"That will not do at all, Lulu," he said and nodded to Tony.

Louise acted first. She brought her heels back against Tony's shins. If only she hadn't been barefoot! If she'd had boots she could have scraped them down his shins, done some damage. She threw her head forward then jerked it back, hoping to connect with Tony's face, hoping to hit something. But finding nothing.

Her arms came free as her captor switched holds. She struggled and twisted but an arm locked across her throat constricting her windpipe. She tried to break the hold, she pulled at the arm, dug in her nails, reached up, flailing wildly with her fingers in search of an eye, something vulnerable she could grab at or poke. She began to choke, difficult to breathe, the room spinning, feeling weak . . .

"That's enough," said Pendennis. "We don't want her to miss the show."

The pressure on her throat eased. She gulped in a lungful of air. Coughed. And once more lost the use of her arms as her captor reverted to his previous hold.

Pendennis cracked his knuckles and moved towards the bed. "Time to begin," he said.

Nick must have come to. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Preparing you for surgery, of course," said Peter, standing in the aisle between the two beds, rolling back his sleeves. "Surely a doctor like yourself should know all about things like that?"

Louise watched in horror. Was Pendennis going to kill them? Chop them up into little pieces like he'd done to all those other people? She tried to break free. She pushed with her legs, rocked, did everything she could to throw her captor off balance.

Nothing worked. The warder whispered in her ear. "One more stunt like that and the gown comes off . . . slowly."

"Ready, Lulu?" said Pendennis, his bare forearms raised like a surgeon after scrubbing up.

She swallowed hard and looked towards the door. Surely someone had to come soon? The warders were obviously inmates. Someone must have noticed them out of their cells.

"You're making a huge mistake," said Nick, breathing hard. "We've already told Ziegler and the other doctors. We've named you. Anything happens to us and we won't be able to retract it. Understand? Kill us and the Americans will have you extradited and dead within a week. You told us to kill McKinley."

Louise held her breath. It was a desperate plan. But if it could buy them some time . . .

Pendennis laughed. "I'm not here to kill you. Look." He showed Nick his hands, spread his fingers, rotated his wrists, indicated his bare forearms. "See? No knives. I'm here to heal you. I'm your psychic surgeon."

Nick went quiet then turned his head towards Louise. "It's all right, Lou. Nothing that you're about to see is real. Psychic surgery is a con—sleight of hand. He'll pretend to dig his hand into my stomach and then palm a piece of chicken liver."

Pendennis shook his head. "No, no, no. Really, doctor, you're so out of date. Haven't you heard the news? Everyone swears by psychic surgery these days. Especially here. We're so good at it, aren't we, Bobby?"

Bobby grinned. "We've won awards."

Louise took a deep breath and braced herself. Pendennis was out to terrorise them. The next ten minutes or hour or however long he took would be an ordeal. A sickening, horrific, vomit-inducing ordeal. But it would pass. And someone would come. She had to believe that and she had to keep on believing it.

"This too shall pass," she shouted to Nick. "Remember that."

"How's the gown, Lulu?" asked Pendennis. "A bit draughty round the back?"

He laughed, a long humourless, dry laugh. The kind of laugh a cat would have when moving in on a wounded, cornered mouse.