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tired. All day he’d been lying there, breathing in the clean, conditioned atmosphere that at St Dominic’s passed for air.
    He lay in the semi-darkness, wondering what to do. Then he got up and slipped into his dressing gown.
    This was the worst thing about being in hospital. There was no way out, nowhere to go. Alex couldn’t get used to it. Every night for a week, he’d woken up at about the same time, and finally he’d decided to break the rules and escape from the sterile box that was his room. He wanted to be outside. He needed the smell of London, the noise of the traffic, the feeling that he still belonged to the real world.
    He put on a pair of slippers and went out. The lights had been dimmed, casting no more than a discreet glow outside his room. There was a computer screen gleaming behind the nurses’ station but no sign of Diana Meacher or anyone else. Alex took a step forward. There are few places more silent than a hospital in the middle of the night and he felt almost afraid to move, as if he was breaking some sort of unwritten law between the healthy and the sick. But he knew he would just lie awake for hours if he stayed in bed. He had nothing to worry about. Mrs Jones was certain that Scorpia was no longer a threat. He was almost tempted to leave the hospital and catch the night bus home.

    Of course, that was out of the question. He couldn’t go that far. But he was still determined to reach the main reception with its sliding glass doors and—just beyond—a real street with people and cars and noise and dirt. By day, three receptionists answered the phones and dealt with enquiries. After eight o’clock there was just one. Alex had already met him—a cheerful Irishman called Conor Hackett. The two of them had quickly become friends.
    Conor was sixty-five and had spent most of his life in Dublin. He’d taken this job to help support his nine grandchildren. After they’d talked a while, Alex had persuaded Conor to let him go outside, and he had spent a happy fifteen minutes on the pavement in front of the main entrance, watching the passing traffic and breathing in the night air. He would do the same again now. Maybe he could stretch it to half an hour.
    Conor would complain; he would threaten to call the nurse. But Alex was sure he would let him have his way.
    He avoided the lift, afraid that the noise of the bell as it arrived would give him away. He walked down the stairs to the first floor, and continued along a corridor. From here he could look down on the polished floor of reception and the glass entrance doors. He could see Conor sitting behind his desk, reading a magazine.
    Even down here the lights were dimmed. It was as if the hospital wanted to remind visitors where they were the moment they came in.
    Conor turned a page. Alex was about to walk down the last few stairs, when suddenly the front doors slid open.
    Alex was both startled and a little embarrassed. He didn’t want to be caught here in his dressing gown and pyjamas. At the same time, he wondered who could possibly be visiting St Dominic’s at this time of night.
    He took a step back, disappearing into the shadows. Now he could watch everything that was happening, unobserved.

    Four men came in. They were in their late twenties, and all looked fit. The leader was wearing a combat jacket and a Che Guevara T-shirt. The others were dressed in jeans, hooded sweatshirts and trainers. From where he was hiding, Alex couldn’t make out their faces very clearly, but already he knew there was something strange about them. The way they moved was somehow too fast, too energetic. People move more cautiously when they come into a hospital. After all, nobody actually wants to be there.
    “Hey—how are you doing?” the first man asked. The words cut through the gloom. He had a cheerful, cultivated voice.
    “How can I help you?” the receptionist asked. He sounded as puzzled as Alex felt.
    “We’d like to visit one of your