Pendulum

by Adam Hamdy

Genres: Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Solitary photojournalist John Wallace struggles to consciousness to find he has been bound and blindfolded by a masked man who is preparing to hang him in his own living room. Forced onto a chair with a noose around his neck, Wallace briefly reconsiders his mostly lonely life before the chair is kicked out beneath him and his world fades to black.

Then he gets lucky and manages to escape his apartment, just ahead of his assailant. Bloody, barefoot, and with at least one broken rib, he has no choice but to run for his life. With no idea who would want to kill him, he makes it to the hospital and files a police report, but it soon becomes clear that as far as the authorities are concerned the only threat to Wallace's life is himself, and he is placed under suicide watch.

When his would-be killer strikes again, Wallace realizes he will have to figure out who is hunting him and stop him on his own. The pendulum of fate swung briefly in his favor, but it's only a matter of time before its momentum carries it to the other side....

Release date: November 3, 2016

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

1

Burning sour acid caught in the back of John Wallace’s throat, and he knew instantly that he had been sick. He opened his eyes, but the world remained dark. Wallace felt his eyelids twist and his lashes turn inward as they moved against the blindfold. His heart raced, pounding in his chest with the jackhammer pace of a full-blown panic. He was familiar with the vicissitudes of an anxiety attack, but this was different, no trick of the introspective mind; this was all too real. Trying his arms, Wallace felt the strong grasp of surprisingly soft bonds around his wrists; it felt like silk. His ankles were similarly bound. Wallace could no longer feel his clothes, just his underpants; someone had all but stripped him. He heard movement nearby; soft footsteps against his thick rug. Stay still. Stay silent.

Wallace listened to the movement around him and tried not to give the slightest indication that he was awake. A sudden rush of air and a blow to his stomach made him cry out in pain.

‘Please don’t,’ Wallace tried, hearing the crackling weakness of fear in his own voice.

Movement across the room, and then noise – the familiar sound of the opening chords of Rogue, Air. Powerful speakers blasted the deep bass at full volume, and Wallace doubly regretted his inability to conceal his consciousness, knowing that the loud music would drown out any cries for help. And help was what he desperately needed. He imagined Leona, the sultry fire breather who lived above him. He fantasised about her knocking on his door to ask him to turn the music down, realising something was awry and urgently calling the police. The fantasy instantly died away; Leona had never once complained about noise. Neither had the Levines, who lived below. The solid brickwork of the converted church provided effective soundproofing, which, when combined with the residents’ laissez-faire approach to life, meant complaints were rare.

Wallace didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious, but, until the knock at the door that started this nightmare, he’d been confident that his solitary existence was the safest way to go through life. Real connections brought nothing but suffering, so Wallace limited his relationships to the smilingly superficial. Until Wallace had risen from his desk and walked away from his computer, he’d been certain that very little good could ever come from other people. All they offered was disappointment, betrayal and pain. Now, lying vulnerable and afraid, Wallace realised that one person, just one person, might bring salvation.

Noise. Activity somewhere above him. Something hit one of the wooden beams that the slick estate agent had pointed out when showing this feature-rich desacralised church. Second-floor views of one of London’s most expensive streets through original arched stone windows. A landscaped communal garden. A wet room. A dressing room. A bright studio space. A large kitchen diner. A list of things that had seemed so essential, so important at the time, but which now wouldn’t even figure as footnotes in his life. What really mattered was freedom. Escape.

Movement. Near his head. Wallace’s heart raced faster and his breath grew shorter as panic gripped him. Someone – the person he had opened his door to – moved his head. Something. No! No! No! This can’t be happening. Something was slipped over his head. If he didn’t admit what it was, it wasn’t real. It’s not real. This is a trip. A dream. This isn’t life. No!

The noose tightened and Wallace couldn’t pretend any more.

‘It’s easier if you stand,’ came the voice. It was somewhere above and behind him. Deep, serious, unfamiliar, and delivered with a bland mid-Atlantic accent. Wallace clung to the faint hope that this was a practical joke taken too far. A colleague. A friend. A neighbour. Someone he knew seeking to repay some act of unkindness. But he didn’t recognise the voice. If this was a joke, someone had paid money for an actor. Please let it be an actor.

‘Please,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Please don’t do this.’

Wallace remembered Kabul. He remembered the condemned men shuffling slowly to the gallows. He remembered wondering why none of them tried to run. He remembered pressing his cheek against his camera and peering into the viewfinder, searching for the answer in their eyes. The men, foot soldiers in a militant group determined to overthrow the Afghan government, had cast their faces at the ground, and it was not until they reached the foot of the small run of steps that Wallace saw the first man’s eyes. He had seen the man look up at his destiny, and, as the shutter chattered away to capture a stuttering record of the moment, Wallace saw the hollowness of defeat in the man’s eyes; such fire that animates the human soul had already been extinguished. You’re not one of them! Wallace told himself, as he felt the fire of life burning fiercely within.

If I stand, Wallace thought now, as the noose choked tighter, I might be able to lash out and catch this guy off guard. Risky, but if I do nothing, I’m dead anyway. He fumbled to his feet, his upward progress aided by the taut rope around his neck. Once on his feet, Wallace strained his ears, listening for movement. The rope tugged at his neck, squeezing his windpipe, but it wasn’t getting any tighter. Wallace tensed his muscles. For almost two decades he had trained for just such a moment. He remembered his first aikido instructor, Shiodin Bal, telling him that true warriors had to be willing to greet death as a friend. As glorious as that sounded to a fourteen-year-old from West Hampstead, the combat techniques Wallace had learned in the intervening years all relied on him having free movement of his hands and feet. There was no glorious grace in fighting from the end of a noose, just simple, ugly survival.

A creak and movement in the air ahead of him. Wallace jumped up and kicked out with both feet, holding nothing back and committing himself to the manoeuvre entirely. All in, high stakes, no holds barred. He visualised his feet connecting with his attacker’s head, the man going sprawling; freeing himself and living to tell his triumphant tale to the amazed police officers who arrived to arrest the villain. Reality had other plans. Wallace’s legs barely climbed above knee height, such was the difficulty of jumping while bound. His limbs connected with nothing but air, and he fell flat on his back, his neck catching the rope at a perilous angle. If his attacker hadn’t fed him some slack, Wallace’s neck would have snapped under his own weight. He felt the terrible blow of failure, and he realised that his effort would have looked less like an escape and more like an attempted suicide.

‘It’s easier if you stand,’ came the deep voice. No anger, no disappointment, just factual, like a doctor delivering a diagnosis. Or a vet talking to an animal.

Wallace found himself trembling as he got to his feet. The music had changed; Polarized by Seven Lions. Haunting, moody, atmospheric, Wallace felt he finally understood the significance of the track. It was about second chances, a celebration of life. I don’t deserve to die here. Even as the words formed in his mind, Wallace knew that they represented the desperate plea of a fool, not a man who had seen enough of the world to know that tens of thousands of undeserving people die every single day.

‘Please. I’ll give you anything you want.’ Tears soaked his blindfold, and his tremulous voice said it all; he was broken. There was no practical joke, no action movie escape. Just him in a room with a stranger who controlled the noose around his neck.

Movement. Something touched his skin. Wallace recoiled, but then realised it was a hand. A gloved hand. Leather or rubber. Cold but malleable.

‘Please don’t,’ he blubbed.

The gloved hand grabbed his arm and held it firm. He felt movement in between his wrists and his arms were suddenly free – his bonds had been cut. Relief beyond any he had ever experienced rushed through him, as the man cut the ties that bound his legs.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ Wallace croaked.

He didn’t care who the man was, or why he had felt the need to punish him, Wallace would forgive him. He had come face-to-face with his own mortality and it had taught him many valuable lessons. Get a chain for your door, Wallace thought to himself as he giggled inwardly, drunk with hysterical euphoria. Don’t trust strangers. Buy a dog. A big dog.

He sensed movement around his head and the blindfold fell away. Every valuable object in his luxurious flat was undisturbed; this was definitely not a robbery, but there was no sign of the practical joker.

‘You can lose the noose,’ Wallace suggested, his confidence returning. He tried to turn his head, but the noose was pulled tight. ‘Alright!’ he cried out hoarsely.

He heard the shard of doubt in his voice and his confidence faltered. It crumbled completely when he saw something being pulled towards him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a black-gloved hand holding one of his kitchen chairs, the ends of the chipped wooden legs brushing the long hairs of the woven rug as they travelled the short distance to his side.

‘Up,’ his assailant instructed, with a firm tug of the rope. The noose tightened and pressed his Adam’s apple into his throat with such force that he wasn’t able to talk. Every breath became a strain as he gasped for precious air. He hated his legs; he knew they were deceiving themselves because they believed there was blessed relief on the chair. Legs that could carry him fifteen miles at a run were weak enough to fall for a lie. He cursed his treacherous body as it mounted the chair, the crushing noose pulling him ever higher. He looked at the weathered, pockmarked beam and regretted his decision to have it treated for woodworm even after the structural survey had found none. Wallace wished that for once he had not chased perfection. If he’d been the kind of person who’d let things slide there was a chance that the beam would have been weakened by woodworm and that the weight of the heavy rope and his even heavier body would have brought it crashing down.

With the blindfold gone, Wallace could feel tears cutting gulleys down his chiselled cheeks. He was too wrapped up in the prospect of his own death to maintain the pretence that he was anything other than an abysmal failure. He’d made a living chronicling other lives, but he had done nothing with his own. He would leave the world without having made the slightest difference; his only legacy was a few photographs that would soon be lost and forgotten. We’re all weak. We all fail. And then we die. Staring up at the beam, Wallace realised that something inside him had died: hope. Like the men he had photographed in Kabul, he felt nothing but the hollow emptiness of defeat.

Movement at the edge of his vision. Wallace cast his eyes down, and what he saw filled him with dread. A man dressed in heavy black boots, black leather trousers and some kind of black body armour over his torso. A black combat mask with a mouth hole covered with a wire mesh, and round, opaque black goggles. Wallace could see his reflection in the lenses – a sickening echo of the ghost he was about to become. A full-length black leather coat with a beautifully rich purple lining completed his attacker’s attire. A superhero, Wallace thought darkly. Only there was nothing heroic about the figure before him. Even through the mask Wallace could sense brooding hatred.

Who was he? Serial killer. No. There’s no hope with a serial killer. Don’t go there. Wallace ignored his fears and continued reaching for a memory; searching his past for someone he had wronged. His relatively blameless life frustrated him and he could think of nothing that merited murder. This lunatic had the wrong guy.

‘You’ve got . . .’ Wallace tried, but the words were trapped in his throat, his voice box crushed by the noose. Anger overtook fear and the tingling fire of indignation coursed through his body. He was going to die for no reason, because a monster had got the wrong address.

He tried to shout, but his throat wouldn’t open enough to get the words out, and he watched in horror as the masked man kicked the chair away.

Time slowed.

Wallace felt himself suspended in mid-air, free of any support, outside the laws of gravity; he was weightless, flying, he would live forever. He’d make some changes. Start fresh. Find purpose in life. Maybe find someone to share it with. Connie . . . Why was he falling? That’s not right. I can’t die.

Time kicked in and Wallace fell, his full weight pulling against the noose, which tightened around his neck like a hand squeezing a tube of toothpaste. He was surprised by the lack of resistance his neck offered – it collapsed under the rope without any argument. Unlike the condemned warriors in Kabul, he hadn’t fallen far enough to break his neck, so Wallace knew he would choke to death. Slowly. His hands clawed at the noose, but it was so very tight, the fibres cutting into his neck, fusing with his flesh. Wallace’s fingers went further up, to the rope that rose behind his head. He pulled at it, lifting his own weight, and the noose stopped tightening, but it did not get any looser. Wallace was shocked at how heavy he felt, and how quickly his arms began to burn with the strain. All those hours spent in the gym, obsessively training his body to ensure it could meet the physical demands of his work. That obsession would finally pay off. He’d pull himself up to freedom and somehow overpower his misguided attacker.

He trembled with the effort of keeping himself aloft. He was strong, fit, and determined. He would never give up. Letting go of the rope, letting the noose take his weight, he’d be almost as culpable in his own death as the masked man who put him there. He would endure whatever pain it took to pull himself up the rope, to the beam, out of the reach of his would-be murderer. Aikido had taught him that he was master of his mind and body. John Wallace was not about to give up.

Like his treacherous legs before them, his arms betrayed his mind. They were weak when he most needed strength. Despite his desperate commands for them to ignore the pain, they dropped to his side. His legs kicked the air as his neck took his full weight. Wallace finally realised that there would be no escape. I’m dying.

The old cliché wasn’t true; his life didn’t flash before his eyes. Instead Wallace found himself reliving only the most painful moments. The death of his parents. The mutilated bodies of the Afghan children that had finally sent him home. And Connie. Warm, sweet, tender Connie, her sad, tear-drenched face looking up at him, full of love. She had been right, and now, more than ever, he regretted letting her go.

Through the free-flowing tears, Wallace looked down at the masked man, who watched impassively as his life was choked away. Wallace’s lungs, full of stale, fetid air, burned with the desire to expel their contents. His eyes pushed further and further forward, edging their way out of their sockets. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should have done better.

Remorse was the very last feeling Wallace experienced before he blacked out. Inertia kept his body swinging after his legs had stopped kicking. A pendulum marking the final moments of existence.

The masked man watched Wallace’s body until it fell still. Satisfied, the killer began the next phase of his work.



2

Primal pain stabbed searing barbs that jolted Wallace back to consciousness. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced in its sheer brutal ferocity. It overshadowed being shot on the road out of Kandahar and made the resultant fleshy shoulder wound seem like an alluringly benign experience. Wallace forced his senses through the pain and realised he was lying on his back covered in heavy timber, plaster and rubble. The beam had collapsed. The beam had collapsed! Euphoria trumped agony, and the pure joy of being alive surged through his body.

The impact of the beam landing on him had rapidly compressed Wallace’s lungs, expelling the toxic air, and shocking him awake. He instinctively tugged at the noose, loosening it enough to take a breath. The relief he felt was instant, and a warm, divine feeling flooded his body. It was the most intoxicating moment of his life. His heart pounded, pumping euphoric adrenalin everywhere, and this time his limbs didn’t betray him; he got to his feet as he removed the noose. The room was empty; no sign of his attacker. Phone. Police. Wallace’s brain kicked into gear.

He started for the door only to be greeted by the sight of his masked killer running into the room from the inner recesses of his apartment. Drawn by the noise, the killer seemed momentarily shocked to find Wallace alive. The moment didn’t last, and the killer took action, producing something – a Taser? – from beneath his long coat. Wallace didn’t wait for his attacker to use the device. Get away! Distance was life. Proximity was death. The logic was simple, but the execution was not. The killer stood in the only exit, a doorway that led to the entrance hall that led to the front door that led to the sweeping staircase that wound down two flights of converted church to the main entrance. Wallace’s only way out was past the killer. The killer with a weapon. Not the only way. Wallace’s legs were moving before he’d even fully registered the thought. He would risk the chance of dying over the certainty of it.

He crashed through his large living room window and heard himself scream as he tumbled two floors and hit the well-groomed lawn of the front garden, landing on his back. Even in London, where citizens were adept at ignoring the most terrible sounds, the noise of his fall would draw attention. But Wallace didn’t want to be found, not here, not in sight of the man who had tried to kill him. He fought back the dark mass crushing his consciousness and looked up at his window. The killer thrust his head through the jagged hole in the glass and looked down at Wallace before withdrawing. He’s coming.

Wallace felt the dark mass grow heavier as oblivion beckoned, but knew that he had to stay awake. He reached for his chest, the part of his body that was causing him the most pain, and felt something bony and wet – an exposed rib. He pushed it, hard. The ensuing agony was so severe that it cut through his drowsy mind like a searing laser and startled him to life. Wallace staggered to his feet, ignored the screaming pain that came from almost every inch of his body, and stumbled down through the front garden to the street.

Death is hunting you. Think. Think. Think. Wallace’s creativity made him a living, but this wasn’t a matter of lighting and composition, this was real. He was badly injured, wavering on the edge of consciousness. He had no clothes, no money and no weapon. He considered appealing to his neighbours for help as he stumbled down Hamilton Terrace, but this was one of London’s most exclusive addresses and nobody in their right mind would open the door to a battered lunatic on a dark September night.

He tumbled down Abercorn Place, the gentle slope drawing him towards the throng of Maida Vale. The yellow street lights hanging high above the busy road looked like the glowing hearts of angels. Salvation, Wallace thought. If it wasn’t a mistake, if the killer had come for him, Wallace knew his safest bet was anonymity – losing himself in the teeming city would rob the murderer of a second chance. Rush hour had long passed and traffic was moving freely on Maida Vale. He looked up Abercorn Place and saw no sign of his assailant. Then something in one of the gardens, a figure pulling himself over a wall – he was being followed.

Fear injected him with energy and Wallace staggered towards a bus stop where one of London’s double-deckers was discharging its contents. He leaned against the bus while commuters stepped off, and then slipped through the doors as they closed. If the driver had spotted him, he didn’t say anything. He’d probably been on the job long enough to know that it wasn’t worth confronting nutters over their bus fare. With his last reserves of strength, Wallace hauled himself upstairs. He barely registered the looks of disgust as he made his way along the upper deck. As one of London’s rare considerate drivers finally gave way, and the bus pulled out, he collapsed on a seat near the back of the bus. His nearest neighbours gave him concerned glances and moved towards the front, but Wallace didn’t care. He leaned against the cold glass and looked out of the window, scouring the gardens of Abercorn Place for signs of his killer. When he saw none, he finally relaxed. The bus rolled along Maida Vale, and he felt the gentle warmth of adrenalin subsiding before comforting darkness closed in.



3

One word stuck in Wallace’s mind as he came round: suicide. He’d heard it a great deal over the past few kaleidoscopic days. Suicide. Suicide attempt. Suicide watch. He’d tried to explain, but he hadn’t been making much sense, and the world flickered by like a zoetrope. Wallace caught spinning moments that gave the illusion of being connected, but in reality he had no idea what games time was playing. His only certainty was that everything around him seemed to be urgent and important; things happened quickly and seriously. Wallace didn’t mind; during his conscious moments he felt like he was swaddled by a white world of soft clouds, and when he was asleep he dreamed the most colourful nightmares. Horrors so terrifying they made everything else seem utterly blissful. Wallace drifted and drooled as he was eased in and out of life, the zoetrope whirling on. While doctors operated and nurses drained, orderlies pushed, anaesthetists had him count in reverse, lights shone brightly, steel gleamed, blood flowed, and life continued. And that’s what made it all so pleasurable: life. Wallace recalled the crushing, unconquerable grip of death and it made everything that came after it a joy. Each breath, each blink, each simple movement was a prize that he had stolen from the man who’d tried to kill him. He drifted in and out, half registering the world around him, existing in a place without time or meaning.

Then he woke up. This is different, Wallace thought as he looked around the hospital room. He felt the self-awareness and mental acuity that came with sobriety. He guessed they must have dropped the dosage of whatever was keeping the pain at bay. Three months on a photo assignment in Nepal had given him a passing familiarity with opiates and he recognised the muted feeling of withdrawal rooted somewhere deep in his gut.

Laminated vertical blinds cut the sunlight that shone through the frosted window and illuminated Wallace’s private room. There was nothing unusual about it: an electric bed, a trolley tray pushed to one corner, a stand supporting a bag of clear liquid that ran through a tube into the needle embedded in his arm, a heart rate monitor, a television attached to the wall, and an old lady. The old lady smiled as Wallace did a double take. She sat in a low chair positioned against the wall opposite his bed. She wore a floral jumper and a long black skirt and held a book: Gibbon’s History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Her smile was joined by wide eyes that conveyed a perfect mix of sympathy and pity. Should I know you? Wallace tried to place the face, but he didn’t recognise her.

‘How are you feeling?’ the old lady asked.

‘OK,’ Wallace croaked, his throat raw.

The old lady stood and went to the tray table to pour a glass of water from a plastic jug.

‘They said you would find it difficult to talk,’ she said as she brought it over. ‘This might help.’

Wallace nodded his thanks and took a sip, which immediately caused his throat to clam up with what felt like the worst case of tonsillitis he’d ever experienced. He mouthed an oath and grimaced as he held the glass out for the old lady.

‘It may take a while,’ she observed as she replaced the glass on the tray.

‘Police,’ Wallace rasped, the searing sensation now registering through the diminished painkillers.

‘No, I’m just a volunteer. We sit with some of the more . . .’ the old lady hesitated, searching for the right word, ‘. . . vulnerable patients.’

Suicide watch. Great. Wallace shook his head at the old dear.

‘Police,’ he said again, willing her to get it this time. He wasn’t sure his throat could take much more.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed with sudden realisation. ‘You want me to fetch the police. Of course. I’ll ask one of the nurses to call someone.’

Wallace was surprised at how tired he’d become; that simple attempt at communication had exhausted him. He passed out shortly after the old lady had left the room and came round to find someone gently touching his shoulder. A moment to focus; then recognition, one of the faces from the zoetrope; a doctor.

‘Mary said you were awake,’ the doctor began. ‘We were wondering if you could tell us your name.’

The doctor wasn’t wearing a badge. Wallace put him in his mid-forties. He had a harsh Afrikaans accent and a severe, unfriendly face, which reinforced Wallace’s paranoia.

Wallace touched his skull and shook his head to indicate that he didn’t remember.

‘Don’t you remember?’

Wallace nodded.

‘Odd. You don’t show any signs of neurological damage,’ the South African continued. ‘It’s one of the few parts of your body that was OK. You suffered serious bruising to your legs and back, three broken ribs, one compound, a fractured collar bone, broken wrist, lacerations of the neck and a collapsed windpipe.’

Wallace’s eyes widened.

‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ the doctor said as he studied Wallace in puzzlement. ‘I’m going to order another MRI. Make sure we didn’t miss anything.’

Wallace smiled and nodded.

‘There’s a police officer outside. Are you up to seeing him?’

Wallace nodded as emphatically as his damaged neck would allow.

‘If you need help with anything, just press this button,’ the doctor gestured towards a green button that hung from a cord beside Wallace’s bed.

Wallace smiled and waved his thanks as the doctor withdrew. Moments later the door opened and a young black man in a shabby, crumpled suit entered.

‘Hi, I’m Detective Sergeant Bailey. The doc tells me you can’t remember your name. Is there something you’d like me to call you?’ Bailey was tall and slim, but had round cheeks that gave his face a babyish look, making him seem kinder and more approachable than he probably was. His closely shaved hair was almost certainly an attempt to give himself a menacing edge.

‘John,’ Wallace croaked.

‘John. OK, John, how can I help you?’

Wallace beckoned the police officer closer. The pain each word caused him meant he didn’t want to repeat anything. Bailey drew near. Wallace could see that his eyes shone with intelligence.

‘Someone tried to kill me,’ Wallace rasped.

‘OK. Someone tried to kill you,’ Bailey said with more than a hint of scepticism.

Wallace glared at him. ‘Man in body armour,’ he said through the pain.

‘I don’t mean any offence,’ Bailey replied. Wallace guessed he was somewhere in his mid-twenties, young enough to be eager, old enough to know that things aren’t always exactly how they seem. ‘It’s just that, well, patients’ records are confidential, but I’ve been waiting out there a while and I’ve always found that if you chat to the nurses, maybe buy them a tea, you can learn way more than you’d ever learn from a file. They say your injuries are consistent with a suicide attempt and that maybe you panicked when it went wrong. You were found passed out on a bus in Victoria Station.’

Wallace had wanted to get lost, but couldn’t believe he’d made it all the way to the depot without any of the other passengers alerting the authorities. He shrugged inwardly: London, the place where nobody wants to get involved.

‘Man tried to kill me,’ he protested, his hoarse voice making him sound menacing and inhuman.

‘I haven’t dealt with many situations like this,’ Bailey responded, ‘But I do know that a lot of people feel embarrassed. Rather than admit what happened, they’re all like, “I don’t know how I finished up in front of the train, I slipped,” or, “I miscounted the pills, I meant to take two, but I took sixty.’’’

He smiled down at Wallace, who hadn’t considered the possibility that he’d have to convince the police someone had attacked him.

‘Not suicide. Murder,’ Wallace rasped. ‘Was working. Knock at door . . .’

He felt the world fade. His chest tightened and his mind became light and fuzzy. He could feel his heart pound and his palms grow moist. The memory of what happened was triggering a frightful reaction in him. Wallace felt the familiar haze of a panic attack, and his head grew light as reality drifted into a distant bubble.

Bailey drew close. ‘Are you OK?’

Wallace nodded and then shook his head. Don’t try to fight it. Breathe. He focused on his breathing – slow and full. Slow and full. The tightness in his chest subsided.

‘I died,’ he whispered. ‘Shouldn’t be here.’

‘Let’s start from the beginning,’ Bailey suggested, his demeanour changing from light scepticism to serious professionalism. ‘Have you really forgotten your name?’

Wallace hesitated. Someone had tried to kill him and he?