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Finally, Mr Samuels came to. For a moment, in that wooze of growing consciousness, he thought he was in a helicopter; the whirr of the rotary blades, the rush of air. This turned out to be a ceiling fan. It gradually came into full view, from which Mr Samuels surmised he was on his back in a bed. What bed, he could not yet say, but not his own. The smell was wrong, for a start. The laundered sheets gave off a faint hint of jasmine whereas his own laundered sheets gave off no discernible smell at all. Sounds too slowly came to him which marked this place as somehow other: cooing of doves, the chirrup of insects, distant howls of dogs and further distant braying of a donkey. All this came to Mr Samuels as he stared up at the blades of fan.
As yet, no noises or smells of humans, save hi
