Sayer was there, stuck and bleeding out in no man’s land, as if he were a genuine casualty of war. Fantasy. But as he came back to reality he recalled clearly the sight of him crumpled on the ground at a godforsaken roadside. Murdered in cold blood. All too factual. He threw back the coarse blanket in anger and took in his surroundings once more. He had arrived in darkness, weary and footsore, and well after the camp had finished serving its meals, so had been allowed to keep a tin of bully beef to eat. Everything else of value had been confiscated by the camp guards upon his arrival. He had been assigned an area at the far end of Hut 7, part surgery and examination room and part bedroom, separated from the dozen other men by what looked like an offcut from a large, threadbare carpet. This makeshift curtain gave a modicum of privacy to the patients, he supposed, but also reduced the amount of heat that reached him from the hut’s pot-bellied stove.
