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Holman nodded and sat in the chair she had just vacated. The nurse left the room after checking the girl’s pulse for the sixth time since she’d been on duty, her face noncommittal to Holman’s stare.

He sat watching Casey’s face for several minutes, her frailty causing him concern. She had been through so much it seemed impossible that she would ever be the same again even if the parasite had been vanquished. When her eyes opened, would she recognise him or would they still hold that lost, faraway glaze that was so haunting, so terrible? He knew her wrists were strapped to the sides of the bed beneath the white sheets and the knowledge made his own eyes fill with tears he was unable to shed. He wished it were possible for him to cry, to find release for his emotions, but tears were a luxury he hadn’t enjoyed for many, many years.

He reached forward to stroke her face, the desire to weep not conquered, but unwillingly suppressed, the incapability a burden rather than a strength.

He touched her lips with his hands, then her cheek, then her throat. She stirred, a slight frown creasing her forehead, but her face relaxed again, and became peaceful. He spoke her name, not to wake her, but because he needed to say it, and for an instant, her eyelids flickered. And then they opened.

They found his, and for an instant, they gave no sign. He froze, and for that tiny second, nothing existed, nothing was real, and there was no time and there were no questions.

Then the eyes became a person’s because emotion was filtering through them, feelings reflected what lay beyond, and they smiled and her lips smiled with them.

‘Why do you call me Casey, John?’ she asked, and fell back into a deep sleep again.

Janet Halstead was delighted when Holman told her of Casey’s words. She couldn’t be sure until Casey had recovered consciousness fully, but it seemed fairly certain that her brain would function normally once she had. Janet urged Holman to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep, promising to wake him as soon as Casey came out of her slumber. She found him a quiet room containing a couch and left him resting while she went back to study Casey’s chart.

It was three hours later that Barrow shook his shoulder to wake him.

‘She’s awake, Holman, and she’s fine,’ he told him.

With a grin, Holman sat up and rubbed his face. ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘I need a shave.’

‘I don’t think she’ll mind.’

‘Any new developments with the fog?’ he asked the policeman as he hurriedly slipped on his jacket.

‘Plenty, but I’ll tell you after you’ve seen the girl.’

When Holman reached Observation Room 3, Casey was sitting up in bed talking to Janet Halstead. Her face lit up as he walked through the door and in a second they were in each other’s arms, Holman smothering her face with kisses. Janet smiled at Barrow and they discreetly left the room.

‘You’re all right!’ Holman laughed, breaking away from the tight embrace at last.

‘Yes, yes, I’m all right.’

‘Do,’ he hesitated, ‘do you remember anything?’

‘A few things, John.’ She became serious, her eyes averting his. ‘I remember trying to kill you.’

He drew her towards him and said nothing.

‘It’s all so unclear,’ she went on. ‘Different images going through my mind, all mixed up, none of it real.’ She clung to him, tighter.

‘My father . . .’ Her voice drifted off.

‘Casey,’ Holman began.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

Holman was stunned into silence. She remembered that? Finally, he said, ‘Yes, Casey. He’s dead.’

‘He wasn’t my father.’

Again, Holman fell into inadequate silence.

‘He told me, John, just before I killed him. He told me he loved me . . . but it was more than a father’s love. He . . . he wanted me.’ She began to weep now, her body trembling, but the tears were of sadness and not remorse. ‘I can’t feel it yet. I feel sorry for him, but for some reason it’s not really affecting me the way it should. Why, John? Am I still mad?’ She pulled away and looked at him imploringly. ‘Tell me, John, am I still