Running wasn’t easy. Banks’s head was bursting, and he kept tripping over himself as he made his way through the door and into the night outside, the flames at his heels. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight to see that he had been in an abandoned water treatment plant. The rectangular reservoirs stood before him empty of water and filled only with weeds, ghostly in the moonlight. He ran around the first one and headed for the woods beyond, with no idea of where he was going. He could hear the flames roaring behind him and turned to see how close Zelda was, then stopped in his tracks.
She wasn’t there.
The flames were quickly engulfing the building, already eating their way through the roof, but he had to go back. He stood in the doorway and saw there was no way he could go any further inside. Parts of the ceiling were collapsing, the whole floor was blazing, and the fire was spreading fast to every last corner. He called out Zelda’s name but got only the roar of the flames in return.
He looked towards the spot where he had been tied up and thought he could make out Keane’s burning body, but that was all. So what had happened to Zelda? Why hadn’t she been right behind him? Should he have waited and made her go first? He hadn’t been thinking clearly, couldn’t think clearly because his head hurt and his thoughts were muddled. The heat was too much, and he staggered back towards the reservoir. Before he could stop himself, he fell backwards over the edge into the bed of weeds and felt his head jar against the hard bottom. And there, as the fire raged, he lost consciousness again.
13
When Banks opened his eyes, he had no idea who or where he was for the first few seconds. It was a fleeting sensation, but terrifying while it lasted. Then he saw he was in a white room, in a hospital bed with stiff sheets. He must have somehow got a private room because there was nobody else near him; nor was there another bed. He could see through the window that it was daylight, though what time it was he had no idea. Someone had removed his watch. But why was he there? What was wrong with him? How had he got here? Try as he might, he couldn’t remember. Had he had a heart attack? A car accident? No, he could feel his heart beating more or less normally, and all his body parts seemed to be in working order except his brain. His head hurt and he felt sick and dizzy. Perhaps he’d had a stroke or cerebral haemorrhage? He could see that he had a line in the back of his hand with a tube leading to a drip of clear fluid on a stand, and there were the usual machines beeping away. Heart rate 80, blood pressure 145/83. That wasn’t too bad, was it? Maybe his heart was beating too fast, but then it always had done.
He wished someone would come and explain what was happening. The only thing he knew about hospitals was that if there was nothing wrong with you when you went in, there would be when you came out. He also knew that despite all the criticism the NHS came in for in the media, when it came to an emergency, they couldn’t be beat.
Was he an emergency? In intensive care? He was sure he must have work to do, a case to be getting on with. A case. That rang a bell. He was a detective. He had been on a case. Was that how he had got injured? He could feel bandages on his head. Perhaps some scumbag had coshed him. But why? What was it all about? He couldn’t remember.
‘Ah, good,’ said a voice in the doorway. ‘I’m glad to see you’re back in the land of the living again.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Dr. Chowdhury.’
He looked about twelve, Banks thought. Surely they didn’t entrust serious injuries to twelve-year-olds yet? ‘Where am I?’ he asked.
‘Eastvale General Infirmary.’
‘What’s wrong with me? Why am I here?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘No.’
‘Can you tell me your name?’
‘Alan Banks.’
‘Address?’
‘Newhope Cottage, Gratly.’
‘What line of work are you in?’
‘I’m a detective superintendent. A policeman.’
‘What day is it?’
‘No idea.’
Dr. Chowdhury laughed. ‘It’s Thursday,’ he said. ‘You had a very lucky escape. You sustained a nasty blow to the back of your head — two blows, actually — and that sometimes causes short-term memory loss, along with other symptoms: dizziness, nausea, headaches. One of the head wounds required a few stitches, but that’s all. Fortunately, there’s no skull fracture, or we’d have whizzed you up to Newcastle or down to Leeds already.’
‘I can’t remember being hit on the head.’
‘That’s not unusual. You have a concussion. It should be only a temporary condition. Your memory should come back.’
‘How long?’
‘Before it comes back? Not long, I shouldn’t think. Days rather than weeks. Maybe even hours. But you need rest.’
‘How long have I been here?’
‘You were brought in at a quarter past two this morning.’
‘And now?’
‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning. You’ve been under observation regularly during the night. We’re always especially careful with concussion patients where loss of consciousness is involved.’
Banks glanced towards the window again and saw his mobile and Bluetooth headphones on his bedside table. ‘How did these get here?’
‘A young lady brought them not long ago,’ said Dr. Chowdhury. ‘Said her name was Annie. But you should know that mobile phone use is strictly prohibited in here.’
Bless her, thought Banks. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be using the phone,’ he said. ‘What happened to me?’
‘All I know is that you were brought in by ambulance with a head wound and minor burns to your ankles. There was also some bruising, most likely caused by a fall, and rope marks on your neck, wrists, and feet, as if you’d been tied up.’
‘Burns? Tied up?’
‘Yes, I know it sounds strange. But the burns are nothing serious. We’ve dressed them. As for the rest, it’s superficial.’
‘Where was I brought from?’
‘I believe it was a disused water treatment plant outside Eastvale.’
‘I know that place,’ said Banks. ‘Not from last night. From before. I’ve driven past it dozens of times. I always wondered when they were going to knock it down and use the land for something useful.’
‘Well, it’s gone now,’ said the doctor.
‘Gone?’
‘Fire. Burned to the ground.’
‘Why was I there?’
‘I have no idea.’
A vague memory of flames came into Banks’s mind. It gave him a sudden feeling of nausea. ‘Zelda,’ he said.
‘What was that?’ the doctor asked. ‘I didn’t catch it.’
‘Nothing,’ said Banks. He wasn’t certain of the importance of what he’d said yet, himself, so he could hardly explain it to a stranger. ‘Who found me?’
‘I suppose it must have been the firefighters. They were the first responders at the scene.’
Banks fell silent. Talking had worn him out already, and he was starting to feel sick and dizzy again.
‘Nausea and dizziness aren’t unusual in cases like this,’ the doctor said, as if aware of what Banks was feeling. ‘That, too, should pass soon enough.’
‘Not soon enough for me,’ said Banks. ‘How long do I have to stay here?’
‘We’d like to keep you in one more night for observation and to conduct some tests.’
‘What tests?’
‘Nothing invasive, don’t worry. A severe jolt to the brain such as you have experienced can cause any number of problems. For a start, we need to test your reflexes and make sure there’s no lasting physical damage. As far as other symptoms are concerned, it’s mostly a matter of self-monitoring over time. I’ll give you a list of things to watch out for. We’d also like to conduct an MRI scan, but for that we’ll have to arrange to take you to the Friarage in Northallerton. We don’t have an MRI machine here. Until then, rest as comfortably as you can. Rest is very important in cases of concussion.’