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'At least you're out in the countryside,' Sam said.

'Yes,' agreed Russell.

'So what?' said Taylor.

She shrugged. 'Well, it's better than the city, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'No. Nothing to do, is there?'

'Well...' Sam thought hard. 'At least it's relaxing.'

'Yes.'

Taylor shifted his bulk off the sofa and slunk out of the conservatory, slamming the door behind him.

Sam sighed. So much for keeping an eye on the patients.

'So, Russell, tell me...' He was looking intently at her, concentrating on her every word and nodding studiously, kiss curl concrete over his forehead.

'Have you got any hobbies?'

Russell considered this at length. 'No,' he concluded.

***

Bulwell grimaced as the Doctor removed the growth from the incision in Austen's shoulder. It was about three inches long, black and glistening, enclosed in a thin layer of transparent mucus.

'Would you sew him up for me, please?' the Doctor asked. Bulwell nodded.

"Thank you.' He peered at the lump, held gently by the steel forceps. 'I want to study this straight away.'

Bulwell threaded her needle, concentrating, trying to push the image of the cyst from her mind.

It had looked for all the world like a leech.

4.4

Fitz sat on his orange amp, smoking furiously. He couldn't believe these coppers: they didn't have a warrant, he should've refused to let them in.

Now they were going through his stuff. Thank God he kept his top drawer locked. He didn't think even these overzealous constables would resort to malicious damage. He had nothing to hide - at least, nothing from last night. Let them search. What harm could it do?

His heart sank when he saw Dixon waving a bottle of his mum's pills around and Spotty triumphantly brandishing a shirt. It was the one Fitz had been wearing last night.

'You doing my washing for me, now, are you?' Fitz inquired.

'There's blood on it,' said Spotty, waving a sleeve at him.

Eh? Damn, probably Sam's from the cut on her head where he'd dropped her. 'I had a nose bleed,' he said, coolly. 'What of it?'

'These pills yours, son?' asked Dixon.

'They're my mum's. Old ones.'

'Your mum's. Right. And where's she then, eh? Her bed don't look slept in.'

'She's gone away,' said Fitz, his heart sinking.

'People don't stick around long with you, son, do they?'

'I can give you an address!'

'What are these pills, then, sir?' chipped in Spotty.

'Chlorpromazine. My mum's got... a condition.'

Dixon walked over to him. 'It's your own condition you'd better start worrying about, lad. You're coming down the station with us.'

Fitz choked up a cloud of fag smoke. 'You're joking me.'

'Am I laughing?'

This was so unfair. Here was no cheery, genial copper, but a satanic Dixon who commuted to Dock Green from hell.

Fitz sighed. 'I'll get my coat.'

As he walked past them, a wild impulse overtook him, and, before he'd even worked out what he was doing, he'd nipped through the front door, which was still ajar.

'Oi! Get yourself back here!'

'Don't make it hard on yourself, son!'

'I'm late for work!' Fitz shouted, ignoring the angry yells of the policemen as he pegged it down the street faster than he would’ve believed possible, legs and lungs aching.

'End of Act Two, where are you?' he gasped to himself.

***

Watson kissed Lucy lightly on the forehead. Her eyes opened, wide and dark. Her gaze could melt chocolate, he mused. Her teeth were showing in her smile, the enamel left ragged in patches by the endless medication over the years. It didn't matter.

'You're beautiful, Lucy,' he said, brushing aside a stray dark hair from her cheek.

'Am I?' she whispered to him. 'Really?'

Watson smiled and looked up at himself in the mirror. His tie was straight, his blazer immaculate, trousers neatly pressed.

'I have to go now. Roley wants to have his sport.'

Lucy nodded. 'Later, you can have yours with me.'

She heard the door click shut. Almost now. So close this time. Soon.

***

The