She came out of a slumber several times deeper than the last. To her surprise she could move her arms and legs freely. She was lying on a single bed in what looked like a private ward, with hospital-issue bed-sheets thrown in. The walls around her were a brilliant white, peppered in places with oak-framed prints of famous paintings. A wilting aspidistra flanked one corner of the venetian-blinded room.
‘Good evening, Sheila.’
Could it be evening already? She must have been out cold for six hours. But it was the sound of her name – her real name – that threw her most. The voice, well-spoken and polite, found an identity in a man wearing a red baseball cap. Straining to get a better look at him, the dazzling of a desk lamp obscured her view.
‘Sheila Morrison, is it not?’ he purred.
The wo
