The blue light of a police launch was leaving a reflected path across the water as it came under Chelsea Bridge, followed by the white line of its wake. It was the last thing I remembered.

She was watching my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I told her.

"What?" She leaned closer.

"I'm sorry about the evening," I said. My voice sounded faint and not very distinct.

"Don't worry." She had calm brown eyes, with the reflection of lamps in them.

"What's going on?" I asked her, and tried to sit up, but my feet were too high: they'd raised them on something. She pushed me gently back.

"Don't worry. You're all right. But you've got to rest." To hell with that. This wasn't the same girl at all. "Listen," I said, "I want to know what's happening." But it didn't seem worth the effort. Drifting again. Drifting. Flash of a needle in the light, as she drew it away from my arm. "I want to know…"

"Don't worry."

Chandler came.

"For God's sake," I asked him, "what's the time?"

He glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Nearly five."

"Five what?" I swung my head to look at the windows, but the blinds were down. "Five in the morning?"

"Yes." He pulled the metal-framed chair closer, narrowing his eyes as he stared at me. "How are you feeling?" He had the face of a watchful bird of prey.

"Bloody awful." My feet were still raised on pillows or something under the coverlet and there was a saline drip plugged into my left arm and my mouth tasted of gunpowder.

"He mustn't talk too much," the nurse said; she was on the other side of the bed; she was the one with the brown eyes I'd seen before.

"Is this intensive care?" I asked her and tried to sit up, but my ribs hurt too much.