Before he could finish the gun kicked in my hand, rattling the air and something deep inside me.
The cutout swayed from side to side as the pulley dragged it down the range toward us. Six shots, each so close together they formed a ragged hole through the cardboard.
“He shot out his arsehole,” someone muttered in astonishment.
“Right up the Khyber Pass.”
I didn't look at the instructor's face. I turned away, checked the chamber, put on the safety catch and removed my earplugs.
“You missed,” he said triumphantly.
“If you say so, sir.”
I wake with a sudden jolt and it takes a while for my heart to settle. I look at my watch—not so much at the time but the date. I want to make sure I haven't slept for too long or lost any more time.
It's been two days since I regained consciousness. A man is sitting by the bed.
“My name is Dr. Wickham,” he says, smiling. “I'm a neurologist.”
He looks like one of those doctors you see on daytime chat shows.
“I once saw you play rugby for Harlequins against London Scottish,” he says. “You would have made the England team that year if you hadn't been injured. I played a bit of rugby myself. Never higher than seconds . . .”
“Really, what position?”
“Outside center.”
I figured as much—he probably touched the ball twice a game and is still talking about the tries he could have scored.
“I have the results of your MRI scan,” he says, opening a folder. “There is no evidence of a skull fracture, aneurysms or a hemorrhage.” He glances up from his notes. “I want to run some neurological tests to help establish what you've forgotten. It means answering some questions about the shooting.”
“I don't remember it.”
“Yes, but I want you to answer regardless—even if it means guessing. It's called a forced-choice recognition test. It forces you to make choices.”
I think I understand, although I don't see the point.
“How many people were on the boat?”
“I don't remember.”
Dr. Wickham reiterates, “You have to make a choice.”
“Four.”
“Was there a full moon?”
“Yes.”
“Was the name of the boat Charmaine?”
“No.”
“How many engines did it have?”
“One.”
“Was it a stolen boat?”
“Yes.”
“Was the engine running?”
“No.”
“Were you anchored or drifting?”
“Drifting.”
“Were you carrying a weapon?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fire your weapon?”
“No.”
This is ridiculous! What possible good does it do? I'm guessing the answers.
Suddenly, it dawns on me. They think I'm faking amnesia. This isn't a test to see how much I remember—they're testing the validity of my symptoms. They're forcing me to make choices so they can work out what percentage of questions I answer correctly. If I'm telling the truth, pure guesswork should mean half of my answers are correct. Anything significantly above or below fifty percent could mean I'm trying to “influence” the result by deliberately getting things right or wrong.
I know enough about statistics to see the objective. The chance of someone with memory loss answering only ten questions correctly out of fifty is less than five percent.
Dr. Wickham has been taking notes. No doubt he's studying the distribution of my answers—looking for patterns that might indicate something other than random chance.
Stopping him, I ask, “Who wrote these questions?”
“I don't know.”
“Guess.”
He blinks at me.
“Come on, Doc, true or false? I'll accept a guess. Is this a test to see if I'm faking memory loss?”
“I don't know what you mean,” he stammers.
“If I can guess the answer, so can you. Who put you up to this—Internal Affairs or Campbell Smith?”
Struggling to his feet, he tucks the clipboard under his arm and turns toward the door. I wish I'd met him on the rugby field. I'd have driven his head into a muddy hole.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I put one foot on the floor. The linoleum is cool and slightly sticky. Gulping hard on the pain, I slide my forearms into the plastic cuffs of the crutches.
I'm supposed to be using a walker on wheels but I'm too vain. I'm not going to walk around in a chrome cage like some geriatric in a post office queue. I look in the cupboard for my clothes. Empty.
I know it sounds paranoid but they're not telling me everything. Someone must know what I was doing on the river. Someone will have heard the shots or seen something. Why haven't they found any bodies?
Halfway down the corridor I see Campbell talking to Dr. Wickham. Two detectives are with them. I recognize one of them: John Keebal. I used to work with him until he joined the Met's Anti-Corruption Group, otherwise known as the Ghost Squad, and began investigating his own.
Keebal is one of those coppers who call all gays “fudge-packers” and Asians “Pakis.” He is loud, bigoted and totally obsessed with the job. When the Marchioness riverboat sank in the Thames, he did thirteen death-knocks before lunchtime, telling people their kids had drowned. He knew exactly what to say and when to stop talking. A man like that can't be all bad.
“Where do you think you're going?” asks Campbell.
“I thought I might get some fresh air.”
Keebal interrupts, “Yeah, just got a whiff of something myself.”
I push past them heading for the lift.
“You can't possibly leave,” says Dr. Wickham. “Your dressing has to be changed every few days. You need painkillers.”
“Fill my pockets and I'll self-administer.”
Campbell grabs my arm. “Don't be so bloody foolish.”
I realize I'm shaking.
“Have you found anyone? Any . . . any bodies?”
“No.”
“I'm not faking this, you know. I really can't remember.”
He steers me away from the others. “I believe you, Vincent, but you know the drill. The IPCC has to investigate.”
“What's Keebal doing here?”
“He just wants to talk to you.”
“Do I need a lawyer?”
Campbell laughs but it doesn't reassure me like it should. Before I can weigh up my options, Keebal leads me down the corridor to the hospital lounge—a stark, windowless place, with burnt-orange sofas and posters of healthy people. He unbuttons his jacket and takes a seat, waiting for me to lever myself down from my crutches.
“I hear you nearly met the grim reaper.”
“He offered me a room with a view.”
“And you turned him down?”
“I'm not a good traveler.”
For the next ten minutes we shoot the breeze about mutual acquaintances and old times. He asks about my mother and I tell him she's in a retirement village.
“Some of those places can be pretty expensive.”
“Yep.”
“Where you living nowadays?”
“Right here.”
The coffee arrives and Keebal keeps talking. He gives me his opinion on the proliferation of firearms, random violence and senseless crimes. The police are becoming easy targets and scapegoats all at once. I know what he's trying to do. He wants to draw me in with a spiel about good guys having to stick together.
Keebal is one of those police officers who adopt a warrior ethic as though something separates them from normal society. They listen to politicians talk about the war on crime and the war on drugs and the war on terror and they start picturing themselves as soldiers fighting to keep the streets safe.
“How many times have you put your life on the line, Ruiz? You think any of the bastards care? The left call us pigs and the right call us Nazis. Sieg, sieg, oink! Sieg, sieg, oink!” He throws his right arm forward in a Nazi salute.