I shut my eyes when I sensed someone come into the room.
A gentle hand pressed against my shoulder.
"How are you feeling?"
I opened my eyes.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Dr Mia Malkova."
She was slim, cool, and blonde in her white coat, a stethoscope round her neck.
"Not at my best," I said.
She sat beside me on the bed. Held my wrist between her two fingers, feeling my pulse. She looked at my chart. Put her stethoscope to my chest. Then my back. Ran her fingers along my leg. Probed my knee. Finding the pain.
Took my foot in her palm. Rotated it to see where I injured the ankle. Pushed back my hair from my forehead. Pressed her fingertips against the bruises on my temple and cheek. I tried not to wince.
"I think you'll get away without stitches. This must hurt."
"A bit," I croaked.
"Do you think you may be sick?"
"Yes."
"The nurse is bringing a bowl. Still chilly?"
"To my bones. But it's getting better."
"Dizzy?"
"Just tired."
"How's your memory? What's your name?"
I gave it to her. A false one, of course.
"Do you know what day?"
"No idea."
"How many fingers am I showing?"
"Three."
"Fine." She stood. "You need warmth and rest. I've prescribed anticoagulant medication to prevent blood clots from the concussion."
"Tea," said Shellie Chapman, putting a large green mug on the table beside me. "And I've got a nightgown for you. Let me help you."
Dr Malkova left.
"She's nice," I said.
"I don't know," the nurse said. "Never seen her on this ward. But it's the NHS. Doctors come and go from this hospital."
With surprising gentleness, the nurse half raised me and, as if I was a tiny child, pulled the thin nightgown over my head, then tugged it over my sore, chilly body. Knotting it around the back. It smelt of soap.
She pulled the sheet and the blankets over me and withdrew. I lay back on my pillow and gulped at the tepid, milky tea. My hands shook, so that I slopped it on my neck.
Then I heard Fitzgerald's voice. "Can I just see him?"
I heard the sergeant pull up a chair.
"Jones has been detained. Tried to make a run for it. Smee was too quick for him."
"Good. Have you question him?"
"Not yet, but he will do."
Dr Malkova returned with a glass of water and two tablets. She ordered them to be taken as soon as possible.
"How is Clarissa Briggs?" I asked Fitzgerald.
"Recovering. But I'm not allowed to question her yet."
"She told me before she lost consciousness again, and they thought she had killed the two birdwatchers."
"Jesus! Why ought they think that?"
"Do a check on her, will you? Find out what you can."
He got up from the chair.
"I'll do that now," he said. "Don't forget to take your tablets."
We shook hands, and he left.
Nurse Chapman returned, invisible behind the pile of extra blankets she was carrying. She spread them over my bed layer after layer. I lay back with my eyes closed, heard her leave, and return in less than a minute.
I felt a rummaging in bed as she reached for me. Something was against my feet. The heat spread through my toes, my feet, my ankles, and up my legs.
"A hot-water bottle," I said, yawning.
"Don't shout it out," Nurse Chapman said, "or everyone will want one."
She went to leave, but I sensed her pause.
"Who left these?"
She gestured to the tablets and the glass of water.
"Dr Malkova."
"She's not allowed to do that."
"What?"
"Hand out medication," she said. "Do you know why she prescribed this?"
"My concussion, I believe."
She looked surprised and checked the tablets. She said they were not for concussion.
"What are they?" I asked.
"Thallium-201."
"What is that?"
"Thallium-201 is a radiopharmaceutical agent used in the diagnosis of coronary artery disease and parathyroid hyperactivity."
"And what would have happened if I had taken it?"
"Thallium can affect your nervous organs if the patient ingests large amounts, and this can lead to death."
"Then maybe you should take it away."
I was afraid.
Sergeant Fitzgerald posted two constables sent in from Ipswich at my door. That put me at ease. I let myself go.
"Hello."
I opened my eyes. They hurt in the harsh light of the hospital room.
A middle-aged man stood by my bed. A clipboard in his hands. He looks tired, a man at the end of his shift.
"Are you a doctor? I've just seen a doctor, and she attempted to poison me."
"Yes, I'm sorry. She just slipped into the hospital and slipped out again. The police are inspecting CCTV footage."
I said. "How can I help you?"
"I'm Dr Gordon Brown. Sorry if I woke you. Need to check on you. They hit you on the head and the nurses will wake you. To make sure you aren't unconscious."
"I know I look terrible," I said.
He wrote something on the clipboard. "You wait until tomorrow," he said. "Then you'll look as if you've been in a fight and lost."
"I have been in a fight."
"Yes," he said. "That's what it says here. But you won, didn't you? And I've just seen your friend."
"You have? How is she?"
"Improving," he said. "But I'd say she's lucky to have you as a friend. You can tell her that tomorrow."
"I don't think I will," I said.
Dr Brown frowned. "I'm here to check your comprehension and responses. How are you, now?"
"Okay, I suppose," I said. "I don't know."
He wrote something more on the clipboard. "You're staying in Cape Ore."
"Yes."
"I've never been. Isn't that funny? I work just a few miles away. I keep meaning to go. You are supposed to do things there. Recommend it?"
"Not today," I said. "I'm not sure I'll be going back. I think I've fallen out of love with it."
"Don't decide now. Everything will appear different when you're better. Let me try to find a pulse." He took my wrist in his left hand. "Yes, that sounds okay."
Dr Brown placed the clipboard on the bed. "I'll see you later. Try to rest. That is until the nurse wakes you again in twenty minutes."
He wrote something else on the clipboard.
He wanted to say something meaningful.
But he muttered.
"You did well."
He switched off the light as he left the room.