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A long pause in which Peter's—or John's—eyes traced the small, sparsely furnished cell as if seeing it for the first time.

"A prison?"

"We prefer to call it a psychiatric unit."

Peter looked away, opened his mouth as if to speak then shook his head. He took a deep breath. "In England? Upper Heywood's near Oxford, right? Where the old air base was?"

"That's right."

"Then what am I doing here?"

Ziegler paused. What should he say? Confront Peter with the truth and risk a negative reaction or let the scene play out? Both had their dangers.

He tried a middle way. "You were committed eight years ago."

"What!" Peter's mouth opened and closed in confusion. "But ... What year's this?"

"2056."

"2056! But that's..." He shook his head, turned away, the fingers of both hands flexing then balling into fists. "No," he said, swinging back to face Ziegler, spitting out the words as he fought to keep control. "I can remember August '54 like it was yesterday. And I sure as hell wasn't here. What the hell is going on?"

Ziegler didn't answer. He didn't want to guide the conversation.

"You must have seen me on HV." Peter waved his arms in exasperation. "Everyone did. The space launch, John Bruce the astronaut, the SHIFT project, you must know who I am!"

There was a pleading look in his eye.

"We've heard of John Bruce," said Ziegler. "And the space launch, but that was eighteen months ago and you've been here eight years. How do you explain that?"

"I . . . I don't know." He looked confused. And increasingly desperate. He looked from Ziegler to the warders and back again.

"But I can prove I'm John Bruce. Ask me a question, any question. I was born on September 28th, 2024 in Denver, Colorado. My father's Daniel John, my mother's Michelle. Bring them here, they'll recognise me!"

The words came out in a rush and then trailed off as he glanced at the face in the mirror. Ziegler could imagine what he saw. John Bruce had the face and physique of a chisel-jawed superhero. Peter Pendennis did not. Even in his mid-twenties, he still looked like a slightly built adolescent. Sallow complexion, large child-like eyes, scrawny limbs.

"What have you done to my face? Plastic surgery? Was there a fire? Is that it? The launch went wrong and I got burned up bad?"

Ziegler was unsure how to proceed. Peter was becoming agitated again. Was this the moment to tell him the truth? That John Bruce was alive and well and running for the Republican nomination? Or could he deflect him with questions about the SHIFT mission? Test Peter's knowledge, maybe find a reason for Peter's sudden interest.

"Well?"

Ziegler still wasn't sure. Peter was unpredictable and capable of extreme violence in all his guises. And at the moment he wasn't restrained.

And Ziegler was between Peter and the warders.

Ziegler shuffled—imperceptibly, he hoped—back towards the cell door.

Peter advanced towards him, his hands rising towards Ziegler's shoulders. A pleading look in his eye. Or was that an act?

"Tell me!" he shouted.

And then froze. His arms locked in space, stretching towards Ziegler's collar. His face rigid. His lower jaw . . . slowly beginning to twitch. Then his head shot back, his back arched and his chest pitched forward.

Ziegler threw himself back against the door. He'd seen this before. So had the warders. They rushed past him into the room.

Peter staggered in front of them, legs buckling, eyes bulging, a gurgling sound bubbling up from his throat.

Experienced hands grabbed hold of his shoulders, took his weight. After a few seconds the straining body relaxed and Peter smiled.

"You don't wanna believe a word that Yank says. He's madder than I am."

Then came the laugh. A forced laugh that gradually increased in energy, building and surging until it took control of his entire body, shaking it, shaking the arms of the warders who struggled to keep their grip. Jack was back. Jack enjoyed a good laugh. Trouble was he couldn't stop. Laugh himself into a convulsion would our Jack. And then they'd have to tie him down again. Until Peter, or one of his friends, returned and Jack could go home.

Wherever that was.

The following day, Ziegler strolled into the canteen. The smell of grease hit him the moment he stepped through the door. The joy of working at Upper Heywood—cutbacks, locked windows, no air-conditioning and a cook who believed that all food had to be sterilised in fat.

He smiled. One day it would be different. One day he'd have his own plush private consultancy, complete with rich, confused clients, wealth and respect.

And if he could write the definitive book on Pendennis, that day might be very close indeed.

He grabbed a tray and dreamed of future celebrity. There was more than a book on Pendennis, there was the talk show circuit, lecture tours, a film maybe. Pendennis was box office. A killer with his own gang of multiple personalities. A killer who dissected the bodies of his victims, searching for some hidden inner voice that only he could hear.

And that was just the start. Underlying everything was a pattern. An explanation, something that Peter would hint at before changing the subject or being pushed aside by another personality.

But it was there—Ziegler was convinced—and this John Bruce delusion might be the key to its unravelling.

He let his hand hover over the Thai salad before weakening—the steak and kidney pie did look especially inviting today, and that smell of chips and vinegar . . .

He paid for his meal and looked for a table. Bazley was sitting in the corner, reading a newspaper.

Ziegler walked over. "John's back," he said.

Bazley grunted and turned a page.

"And guess what. This time he's given me a list of contacts—names, addresses, even phone numbers. What do you think? Should we try them?"

Bazley shrugged. "Nothing to do with me. He's your patient." He didn't even look up. He kept on reading—or pretending to read—eyes down, tight-lipped, determined not to be drawn.

"Come on, Paul! You were as intrigued as I was about this John Bruce delusion. You know Peter better than anyone. What do you think I should do?"

Another shrug. And an outstretched hand. "Do you want all those chips?"

"Help yourself," said Ziegler, pushing his plate towards his colleague. "But I'm going to phone. I've got a feeling about this one."

He waited until late afternoon to make the calls to America. Couldn't get through to all the numbers but after the third one he didn't have to. They were all dead. Killed in a plane crash.

It was to have been a big surprise. A celebration dinner in Washington, everyone was going to be there: the President, senators, foreign dignitaries. A homecoming dinner for the astronaut hero, John Bruce.

A special plane was laid on at the President's request to fly in John's family and close friends. A kind thought. But that plane needed more than kind thoughts to keep it airborne that night. It was a sad day for America. An even sadder day for a hero.

"Do you think he knew they were all dead?"

Bazley hurried across the car park, pursued by Ziegler and a biting north-easterly. Neither were welcome. Clouds scudded low and fast overhead, the occasional flurry of light snow whipped up on the raw winter wind, the continual flurry of questions from Ziegler.

All Bazley wanted was to find his car and go home.

"Convenient isn't it?" continued Ziegler. "For Peter, that is. He can continue to claim he's John Bruce and no one can challenge him. Though where he got hold of their private phone numbers is beyond me. Most weren't even listed."

Peter, Peter, Peter. Doesn't anyone talk about anything else these days?

He pushed on, his breath coming fast as he picked up the pace. Yesterday had been a mistake. He'd weakened for a second and let that monster sneak back inside his head. Like an alcoholic walking into a bar, one sip and down he went. But not again. Not if he could help it.

The younger man matched his stride; effortless, unhurried, his speech uncluttered by pauses for breath.

"And the way he took the news of his parent's death—you would have sworn he was their son. He's totally convinced—I'm sure of it—that he's John Bruce. But what I can't understand is why, after all that careful preparation he gives me another name—and this one's alive."

"How do you know?" Bazley stopped and turned. Once again, Peter had managed to slide a hook inside his brain.

"Because I just spoke to her. She's coming over tomorrow."

Imagine that, John Bruce! How many years had it been? Twelve? Thirteen? Her first love. The boy next-door. She remembered feeling so grown-up talking to her friends about her American boyfriend. To be fifteen and in love.

And how strange. Both the phone call and the timing. It was only two nights ago that she'd had that dream.

Had it been a premonition?

And was that why she'd accepted such a strange request?

Louise emptied yet another wheelbarrow on the steaming muck heap. One of her many daily tasks—mucking out, strawing down, watering, feeding, medicating and checking. Maybe that was another reason she'd accepted—a break from the monotony of a smallholding in winter.

Funny how he'd changed. John Bruce, that is. Her John would never have entered politics. She could see him as an astronaut; he'd always had that mad desire to push himself into strange inhospitable places. And his family were all Air Force, it was obvious he was going to follow his father into the services when they returned to the States. But standing for the Presidency? Not Johnny Bruce. Not the boy she'd known all those years ago.

Nor the boy who'd floated into her dream the other night. And what a strange dream that had been, even for one of hers. He kept floating in and out, as though he wasn't really part of the dream. He'd be there and then he wouldn't. Just as she felt he was going to take the dream soaring in another direction, he'd fade and something else would take over. She'd be over a mountain range or dipping under the ocean and then she'd see him again—floating, calling to her, imploring. But she could never reach him. He'd blur into the background before she could react.

The unattainable? Was that it? One of those psychological dreams to prove how low Louise's social life had sunk? Condemned to dream about old boyfriends she could never have?

Or was it her subconscious, conspiring with the night to find the excitement that it lacked during the day? The daily grind of milking and feeding, struggling through mud and bottomless puddles carrying endless buckets of water to animals that would as soon knock them over as take a drink.

Why did she do it? A question she often asked herself when the days dragged and her muscles ached. And then she'd see the scars and protruding ribs of her latest rescue case and she'd know the answer. Someone had to do it.

Not that she'd meant to set up an animal rescue centre—it just sort of happened. First the donkey, then the goats—before she knew it they'd taken over her life. Who could resist those big sorrowful eyes or refuse to take in the battered and starving if they had the room? Louise Callander couldn't.

She had the space—just. Five acres of Oxfordshire scrub. An oasis of self-sufficiency in the midst of affluence. An affluence that couldn't find a home for its animals once they'd outstayed their welcome.

"You see, he thinks he's John Bruce." Ziegler stopped to open a door for Louise. Smiling, beckoning her through, doing his best to make her feel at ease.

"Like some people think they're Napoleon?"

"Similar. But this one's very convincing and, besides, he doesn't wear a funny hat."

They laughed, the ice broken. It wasn't every day that Louise found herself stalking the corridors of the criminally insane.

"I still don't quite understand why you want me here."

"He asked for you. He wants to prove he is who he says he is. He believes he can do that by convincing you. Little things that only the two of you could know—that sort of thing."

"But why are you helping him?"

"It's . . . part of his therapy."

The corridors seemed to stretch out for miles; a windowless warren of blank white walls and forbidding doors, the smell of disinfectant, echoing footsteps, recessed lights that hummed and flickered overhead. And cameras mounted at every intersection, their lenses turning to track Louise and Ziegler's every step.

"John's dad used to work here, you know?" she said, filling in the silence. "When it was an air base. This was part of the old air base, wasn't it?"

Ziegler nodded. "The barracks, I think. Did John live on the base?"

"No, his family lived in Wootton." She paused. "How does he explain that the real John Bruce is alive somewhere else?"

"He doesn't. Not yet. I'm waiting for the right moment to ask him."

"It still seems strange, though. To ask for me. What can he hope to gain?"

"He really does believe. He's a strange man but you do understand he'll be secured throughout the session? There'll be no danger to you whatsoever."

What?

Had she heard that correctly? The man had to be secured?

Doubt, and a rush of second thoughts. What on earth was she doing? The man had to be secured for Christ's sake! No one had mentioned that yesterday!

A request to help a sick patient—that's all she'd been told. A strange request but nothing dangerous.

Or was securing patients standard procedure? Were they being extra cautious because she was a visitor?

"You all right?" asked Ziegler.

"Yes, fine," she lied, feeling trapped. She'd promised. She was here. She couldn't back out now. "Just feeling a bit funny. I've never done anything like this before. I won't get hypnotised myself will I?"

She swallowed hard, fighting the temptation to turn and run back the way they'd come.

"No, don't worry. You can always close your eyes and cover your ears if you think it helps."

The room was stark and cold. The hum of a solitary overhead light, the only sound besides the slow drone of Ziegler's voice. The prisoner—someone called Peter—lay strapped to a reclining chair bolted to the centre of the room.