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Thursday.’
    ‘No.’ My voice is a hoarse whisper. ‘What date?’
    ‘Ninth of May.’
    Ninth of May? What? No, it can’t be.
    ‘Did you say the ninth of May ?’
    ‘Yes, that’s right.’
    But if the last thing I remember is Liam’s birthday party on the twenty-third of March, I’ve lost about seven weeks of memory.
    I lift a hand to the side of my head, touching the lump there. The pain brings nausea bubbling to the surface. ‘I’m going to be sick.’
    The nurse grabs a cardboard kidney-shaped bowl from on top of a cabinet beside my bed, thrusting it under my face just before I vomit. After the final spasms wrack my body, she wipes my face with a wad of tissues, also from the cabinet.
    ‘You’re OK, don’t worry. I’m going to page the doctor, and he’ll come and see you.’ She wheels a bedside table next to me and places a jug of water from the top of the cabinet on it, along with a glass that she fills. ‘You can have some water, but don’t drink too much at once. Slow sips, OK?’
    I nod. ‘My husband. Does my husband know I’m here?’
    ‘I’m afraid we haven’t been able to tell anyone where you are. You had no ID when you were brought in, you see, so we didn’t know who you were.’ She takes a pen and pad from her top pocket. ‘Give me your name, address, and phone number, and I’ll get in touch with him.’
    ‘I’m Chloe Benson. My husband’s name is Liam.’ Instinctively, I reach my sore hands to my raspy throat as I tell her our address, home phone number, his mobile number.
    She pats my shoulder so gently I can’t actually feel it. ‘I’ll contact him. And the doctor will be with you soon.’
    ‘I was kidnapped.’ My eyes water as the full realization of everything that’s happened sinks in.
    Her mouth falls open. ‘Kidnapped?’
    I can only nod, tears streaming down my face. Even to my ears, I know how it sounds. Crazy. Ridiculous. Who would want to kidnap a suburban wife and teacher?
    ‘Right. Well, I’d better add calling the police to my list then, too. Don’t worry; you’re safe now, pet.’ Her shoes squeak on the lino as she marches off out of the room, carrying the sick bowl with purposeful strides.
    I pick up the plastic cup of water in my bandaged hand, wincing at the throbbing pain in my fingertips. I intend to take a few sips, but I can’t stop myself. I gulp the whole thing down in one then pour some more. A wave of nausea rises inside, but I swallow it down and sip the next cup slowly, looking around my private room off the main ward.
    From my bed, I can see out to the nurses’ station. The nurse who just came in is on the phone, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. She frowns, looks up at me, and says something else into the phone, shaking her head. My gaze wanders past her, out into the rest of the ward. Someone wails in pain. Someone snores loudly. Chairs scrape against the floor. Footsteps echo.
    I wipe my damp cheeks with the back of my hand and lean my head against the pillow, closing my eyes.
    The next time I open them again, a man is standing at the end of my bed, reading my notes. He’s wearing a white coat over a suit. A doctor, then. He’s got wavy ginger hair and a smattering of freckles across his face. Another folder about four centimetres thick is tucked under his arm.
    ‘Who are you?’ I lift my head slightly from the pillow and feel dizzy. I rest it back again, eyelids fluttering as I try to keep them open.
    ‘Ah, glad to see you’re awake.’ He smiles, puts the notes he’s reading into a slot at the end of my bed, and sits down in the plastic chair next to me. He places the folder from under his arm onto his lap. ‘I’m Doctor Traynor. I’m a neurologist. And you are Chloe Benson, is that right?’
    ‘Yes. Did you get hold of my husband? The police?’
    ‘Yes. Apparently, your husband is in Scotland, but he’s making his way back now. The police are also on their way.’ He takes a slim-line torch from his top pocket