Even I knew that wasn’t good. Core temperature is normally thirty-seven degrees Celsius. Hypothermia can kick in at thirty-five degrees, amnesia at thirty-three degrees, loss of consciousness at twenty-eight degrees. Profound hypothermia and death occur at twenty-one degrees and below. The man had clearly spent a long time in the water. Had he fallen or jumped? Tried to take his own life but changed his mind, hauling himself out of the sea? The only plus side is that a low body temperature can reduce inflammation of the brain in the event of cardiac arrest. In rare cases, people can survive up to thirty minutes with no heartbeat and recover without any brain damage if their body has been kept cold.

  For the next five minutes, the team battled to save the patient’s life, gently warming him. I couldn’t see his face – there were too many people crowded around his body – but then he went into cardiac arrest and the decision was taken to defibrillate. He had already been defibrillated once, at the base of the cliffs, but a steady pulse was proving elusive. It wasn’t clear what might have triggered the latest arrest, but the emerging consensus was that he could have had an acute allergic reaction to something while in the water, in addition to suffering from extreme hypothermia. There were no signs of any jellyfish stings, which can cause anaphylaxis.

  ‘Clear!’ one of the medics said.

  Everyone stood back as the paddles were applied to his chest. And then, for the first time, I saw the man’s swollen face as his body bucked upwards with the shock of 3,000 volts. I’d have recognised that jet-black hair anywhere.

  It was Louis.

  53

  Adam walks up Maze Hill towards his house, head down as he passes the camera, Ji’s words still ringing in his ears. It’s been impossible to avoid being filmed on his way back from town. Going dark won’t be easy, if that’s what he needs to do. London has even more CCTV than Warsaw.

  Adam pushed Ji further, asked him if he really thought that his life is being live-streamed for a bunch of sick gamers, but Ji wouldn’t be drawn. He’s going to ask his team to do some further research and get back to Adam. In the meantime, he urged Adam to stay away from cameras as much as possible, just in case. ‘“Dig your well before you’re thirsty,”’ he said as Adam left. This time it was Confucius.

  Adam stops outside his house, glancing up and down the street as he unlocks the front door.

  ‘Adam? Adam? Oh yes, it is you. I almost didn’t recognise you under that curious hat.’

  He bows his head in defeat. For one joyful moment, he thought he might be able to slip in without being spotted by his neighbour, Lynda. Some chance. Louis doesn’t need to hack into London’s CCTV network to keep an eye on him. He just needs to talk to Lynda. She’s a one-person surveillance unit, trained to spot neighbourhood activity at a thousand yards.

  ‘Hello, Lynda,’ Adam says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, which isn’t a lot.

  ‘Tania and the children still with her parents?’ Lynda asks.

  ‘Just been down with them, actually.’

  ‘Ah, that’s nice. Not at the hospital today, then?’

  Adam manages a thin smile. ‘Working from home this morning,’ he lies. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much paperwork doctors have these days. Even our paperwork’s got paperwork.’

  He resents having to explain himself to Lynda, but he hasn’t got much choice. The last time he saw her, he was bundling Clio out of the door and into a taxi. He’s about to go inside, hoping he’s said enough – Tania’s always telling him to be more friendly to her – when she produces a small parcel from the porch.

  ‘I’ve got this for you,’ she says, holding it up triumphantly. She’s not done with him yet.

  ‘I’ll come over.’ Adam walks across to her front door, just in case she tries to bring it round to his house, invite herself in, have a good snoop, expect a cup of tea over a chat about his marriage. He has no idea what the package might be. They’re not expecting anything, not as far as he knows.

  He thanks Lynda and takes the lightweight parcel, managing another smile as he turns to go. Lynda’s shot her last bolt and he’s escaped unharmed. Resisting a little skip, he heads back to his house.

  ‘She was here again today,’ Lynda calls after him.

  Adam stops, his back still towards her. ‘Who was?’ he asks.

  She’s enjoying this, got him on a string. ‘That pretty university friend of Tania’s.’

  ‘Really?’ Adam says, spinning around. His blood runs cold. ‘Do you know what she wanted?’

  He realises it’s a stupid question.

  ‘You tell me,’ she says, raising her eyebrows. ‘Rang your doorbell, but I told her you were up at the hospital. At least that’s where I thought you’d be on a Monday morning. And then she gave me the parcel.’

  ‘She delivered it?’ Adam can’t disguise his surprise. Lynda’s a sadist at heart. Cruel. Why didn’t she tell him that straight away?

  ‘Wouldn’t fit through the letterbox, so she asked if I’d take it in.’

  Adam walks back round to his house, checking the street before he goes inside. He’s glad he missed Clio, fears what he might have said or done. Has someone bid for her to try to seduce him again? Is that what’s happening here? Because if it is, they’re wasting their bloody bitcoins.

  He places the parcel on the kitchen table and looks around. He might not have as long as he thought. A quick search on Google before he’ll call Tania, fill her in on what Ji said. Only then will he open the parcel. Walking over to the windows, he scans the moss-infested lawn, Freddie’s sagging mini goalposts, the broken footpath fence. No one’s out there, but he still draws the curtains, glancing at his watch. It’s not even lunchtime. Let Lynda think what she likes. He’s not going to give anyone the satisfaction of watching him unwrap it, particularly as he has an idea what it is.

  He pulls out a packet of Elastoplast from a drawer – Tania calls it ‘Adam’s drawer’, as it’s the only untidy place in the kitchen – and flicks open his laptop on the kitchen counter. Covering the camera with a plaster, just to be sure, he types in ‘Adam Pound’ and ‘paediatrician’, searching for news. Nothing. The press hasn’t got hold of the story of his text messages yet.

  He checks his work email but can’t seem to log on. He tries again. Access denied. He’s been locked out of the system. A rush of panic. Snapping shut the computer, he pours himself some fresh orange juice, glances at his iPhone on the sideboard. It won’t harm to check for messages one last time. He gets out another plaster and sticks it over the camera lens of the phone. There are three increasingly urgent text messages from his boss, Stephen Goddard. The Sun is about to break the story and can he ring him ASAP? They’re running it tomorrow.

  The room starts to spin and for a second Adam thinks he’s going to black out. He’s also got a voicemail. It’s a journalist from The Sun, offering him a right of reply: ‘We’ve interviewed a teenage girl who’s made a number of sexual allegations about your behaviour towards her in a recent consultation. She’s also shown us the explicit texts and photos you sent her afterwards. Perhaps you’d care to give us a call back with your response before 6 p.m. Cheers.’

  Cheers? They’re not down the bloody pub, having a cosy chat over a pint. He writes the journalist’s details on a scrap of paper. Louis must have paid the teenager. It’s the only explanation. He turns off the iPhone and flings it across the room.

  54

  May 1998

  Nobody seemed to mind that I hung around the Emergency Department in a daze. The waiting time went back up to over four hours, which I duly recorded on the whiteboard, and Cornwall’s sick, inebriated and injured continued to be dropped off by ambulance, taxi and helicopter. I tried to do what I could to help, but the sight of Louis on the trolley had completely thrown me. There is only one major hospital, one proper Emergency Department, for the whole of Cornwall, so it wasn’t a complete coincidence that he’d been brought there, but it was still a shock.

  Louis did once talk about having a holiday home in Polzeath and spending time there with his younger brother Gabe, making films together. He mentioned the Minack too, come to think of it, but I had assumed he was still in Cambridge. Perhaps he was sent down after all and sought refuge in Cornwall, just like I have, so maybe it shouldn’t be such a surprise that our paths have crossed, however strange the circumstances. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve been wondering if he tried to take his own life, if he’s not so confident and assured as he seemed at Cambridge. Cut off by his own family, thrown out of university.

  ‘I told you that case would be interesting,’ the registrar said in a rare quiet moment.

  It was the first time I’d talked to her since Louis had been brought in by helicopter.

  ‘How is he, anyway?’ I asked.

  ‘Alive – though I’m not sure if he wants to be.’

  ‘You think it was suicide?’

  ‘It might explain the lack of ID on him,’ she said. ‘It’s a miracle he’s not dead. His body temperature was ludicrously low and his heart kept stopping, which is never good.’

  ‘What caused the anaphylaxis, do you think?’ I asked, trying again to imagine Louis on the rocks below the Minack Theatre.

  ‘We suspect he might have had a very rare allergic reaction to the sodium chloride in seawater. A form of aquagenic-induced urticaria. He already suffers from atopic dermatitis and in some cases sodium chloride can be a factor in allergic immune reactions. His body temperature made no sense at all. No bloody sense. We’re warming him up slowly.’

  ‘Will he survive?’ I asked.

  I tried to keep the tone of my question as neutral as possible, but a lot was hanging on her answer. Potentially my entire future medical career. If Louis died, a cloud would be lifted from my life. There would be no danger of the film of Lecter’s death being released, now or in twenty-four years’ time. I would be free of my strange bond forever.

  ‘He should do,’ she said.

  ‘Where is he now?’ Again, I tried to keep my question casual, matter-of-fact.

  ‘Critical Care – second floor, Trelawny Wing. Ever been up there?’

  ‘Once, I think.’ It was when I volunteered at the hospital last summer. I glanced around us. ‘I think I might know him, actually,’ I said. Louis’ face had been distorted, but I was certain it was him. ‘From uni.’

  ‘You sure? That could be helpful,’ the registrar said, looking across at me. ‘As we have no clue who the guy is.’ We were walking down the corridor towards the canteen. ‘There’s no ID on him, no relatives have visited. What makes you think you might know him?’

  ‘I may be wrong,’ I said. ‘His face was…’

  ‘Swollen. That was the anaphylaxis.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ve seen him around at uni.’ I didn’t want to tell her how I knew Louis. I was already in denial, determined to expunge him from my memory.

  ‘You should definitely go up there, take a look,’ she said. ‘They’d appreciate a visit, any help you can give with a positive ID.’

  ‘Is he conscious?’ I asked, convinced that my questions were beginning to sound suspicious.

  ‘Not as far as I know. Hey, why are you still here anyway? Shouldn’t you have gone home hours ago?’

  ‘Couldn’t tear myself away,’ I said, pleased to be talking about something else. ‘Been an interesting evening.’

  ‘One way of putting it. I had no idea it was so late.’

  Ten minutes later, I was on the second floor, talking to a nurse at the Critical Care Ward reception. I explained that I’d been in the Emergency Department on work experience when Louis was brought in and that I thought I might know who he was.

  ‘That would be super useful,’ she said, leading me down the corridor. ‘He’s in here.’

  ‘Has his body temperature risen?’ I asked.

  ‘Very slowly,’ she said, turning to me. ‘Cold as a penguin’s arse, he was. At least the swelling around his face and neck has gone down. And his heart rate’s stabilised.’

  The nurse held open the door and I stepped inside. I expected her to follow me, but a colleague called out to her from the far end of the corridor.

  ‘Won’t be a minute,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Call me if there’s a problem.’

  I turned and faced Louis as the door slowly closed. The room was dimly lit, an eerie blue colour. The ECG monitor winked and glowed in the corner, behind the bed. Louis was still intubated and had a drip in his arm and an array of electrodes attached to his torso and limbs. I checked the door again and moved to stand beside Louis. The nurse was right: the swelling around his mouth had subsided. He looked like the Louis I’d last seen in his house, when he showed me the footage of Lecter. His lips were back to being puckered, almost feminine.

  It was strange to be in Louis’ company again. And this time he was the vulnerable one. I held all the cards. He was at death’s door, in the hands of doctors. In my hands. I could quietly disconnect the oxygen, set myself free from our perverse pact and the ongoing threat of a jail sentence, and help him to succeed in what he had seemingly attempted at the Minack.

  Without warning, a light flashed on the ECG monitor and an alarm sounded. It was Louis’ heart rate, starting to accelerate. Had he become aware of my presence? Felt threatened? Sensed the dark thoughts that were swarming through my head? His eyes burst open and he stared upwards. His heart had suddenly stopped. I watched his pulse flatline across the screen again, just as I had done in the Emergency Department. If I reached out and turned off the cardiac monitor, silenced the alarm… the nurse would not come. It would only take a second. His heartbeat might return or, more likely, his condition would deteriorate rapidly. I could slip out of the door, leave Louis to die in silent agony, and tell the nurse on my way out that I was sorry, I didn’t recognise him.

  But I did none of these things. Instead, I rushed to the door and called down the corridor at the top of my voice. ‘Nurse! Nurse!’ I couldn’t do anything else, couldn’t stay silent. My response was instinctive. It was in my DNA to do everything I could to help this man, just like it had been with Lecter. The nurse hadn’t heard the alarm and came quickly. What seemed like seconds later, the cardiac arrest team arrived too, flooding into the room with their trolley and defibrillator. For the second time that night, I watched as Louis was once again brought back from the brink of death.

  ‘You saved his life,’ the nurse said later. ‘Saved my arse too. I was talking to my boyfriend – he works in the canteen. We’re having a baby.’

  I left as dawn broke, having saved a man’s life. Louis’ life. Oh, the irony. I told the nurse his name, hoping that, by some strange moral alchemy, it might one day help to save my life too, but I had a horrible feeling that it wouldn’t.

  55

  Adam stares at the package on the sideboard, stalking around the kitchen as if it’s an unexploded bomb. Why did Clio feel the need to deliver it herself? He doesn’t want to dwell on what The Sun might say in its story tomorrow. Stephen Goddard’s phone went straight to answerphone when Adam rang him just now. He left a message, asked him to call back on the landline, said his mobile’s playing up.

  He still hasn’t rung Tania, warned her of the media tsunami that’s about to break over their lives. Is he afraid that their marriage won’t survive? Hanging on to the hug she gave him, he starts to open the package. What was going through Clio’s mind when she wrapped it? She seems so determined to destroy his life. For a brief, intense period twenty-four years ago he had genuinely thought there was something between them, felt a love for her that he’d never felt for anyone before. And he was sure she’d felt something back, however fleetingly. But he’d been wrong.

  He rips apart the final layer of cardboard and stares at the contents. As he suspected, it’s the missing Scalextric car, wrapped up in tissue paper. The red Ferrari, Freddie’s pride and joy. He’s about to ring Tania when the front doorbell rings. It’s probably Lynda, wanting to talk more about Clio. He walks over to the door to open it and then hears voices outside. Peering through the spyhole, he sees a man and a woman. The man has two cameras slung round his neck. Press. Adam freezes. Should he front up to them, explain that the text messages are fakes? That his phone must have been hacked? They’ll never believe him. He also doesn’t trust himself to keep his cool. Instead, he backs away from the door and tiptoes upstairs, from where he can look down onto the front doorstep. Four reporters now – and Lynda, calling to them from next door. Careful not to be seen, Adam watches as they are drawn like magnetic filings across to her porch, from where she addresses them. She’ll be loving every second of it. She’ll also tell them that he’s definitely inside the house.

  Moving quickly, he packs a rucksack in their bedroom, stuffing in random clothes. He hesitates, pulls out a sleeping bag from a top cupboard, and stuffs that in too. Who knows where he might have to sleep tonight? Down in the kitchen, he replaces the Scalextric car in its box and adds it carefully to his bag. It had been his plan to stay here, but the arrival of the press has changed everything. He has no intention of appearing on his doorstep, a shamed middle-aged man hounded out of his job by a sex scandal. He’s not a bloody Tory politician.

  Two minutes later, he’s about to slip out of the kitchen door into the garden when he hears a noise in the hallway. The letterbox flap. And a voice so loud and clear, he thinks that someone is inside the house.

  ‘Doctor Pound, are you a paedophile? One of your teenage patients, a seventeen-year-old girl, says you touched her breasts and sent her intimate photos of yourself. Have you got anything to say?’

  Adam stands there, frozen to the spot.

  ‘Doctor Pound, we know you’re in there. Are you a paedophile? Why did you send her intimate photos of yourself?’

  Adam can’t bear to hear any more. He closes the kitchen door, slips on the rucksack and takes his bike out of the garden shed. Grabbing his helmet, a snood and a pair of sports sunglasses tucked inside it, he lifts the bike over the broken fence at the end of the lawn, hoping that Lynda is still holding court out front. The footpath takes him down to the station car park, but it’s too narrow and uneven to cycle. Instead, he pushes his bike along, running beside it like a triathlete on a dismount, his heart humming. Doctor Pound, are you a paedophile?