“In his office?”

“Yes. Over the desk. Don’t be such a prude, Alan. It happens all the time over there. What are offices for? Oh, you should have heard them: ‘Give it to me, big boy. Fuck me. Go on. Oh, yeah. Stick that big hard cock in me. Go deep. Fuck me harder.’”

Her voice had risen, and one or two tourist families looked at her uncomfortably. “Oops, sorry,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth. “Wash your mouth out, Jenny Fuller. Anyway, there was no mistaking whose voices they were.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I left before the shit hit the fan. So if I get murdered, you know where to start looking. I should imagine he got suspended. Maybe fired. Of course, it was hardly evidence you could use at a tribunal, but they can get quite stroppy about things like that over there. Fucking your students is almost as bad as being caught smoking in a restaurant.” She tossed back the rest of her drink and looked at her watch. “Look, I’m sorry I’ll have to go. The university’s been very good to me so far, but they won’t continue to be unless I get my courses prepared. It’s great seeing you again.”

She picked up her bag, paused and rested it on her lap. Then she looked Banks in the eye, reached out and touched his hand softly and said, “Why don’t you give me a ring? We could… you know, have dinner or something together, if that’s okay?”

Banks swallowed. “I will. That would be great. And you’ve got to come out and see the cottage.”

“I’d love to.” She patted his hand, blew him a kiss and then she was gone in a whirl of red, jade and black, leaving a faint trace of Miss Dior behind in the smoky air. Banks looked down at his hand. It still tingled where she had touched him. Now that he had found the courage and desire to start a relationship with Annie, Jenny was a complication he didn’t need. But she was a friend; he couldn’t turn his back. And there was no reason at all why Annie should object to his having dinner with her. Even so, he felt more confused than he had half an hour earlier as he picked up his books and left the pub.

It took some time, but after I had run and fetched Gloria from the farm, I was finally able to piece together what had happened. Matthew himself wouldn’t say a word. He looked at us as if he remembered knowing us once, as if some sort of deep homing instinct had brought him here, but our fussing didn’t make much sense to him.

Gloria and Mother comforted him while I went down to the telephone and began the long round of calls. The Ministry was about as much help as usual, the Red Cross a little more forthcoming, but it was ultimately a doctor in one of the big London hospitals (for it was clear Matthew was ill and had probably discharged himself from hospital) who told me the most.

At first, he didn’t know whom I was talking about, because they didn’t know the name of the man who had walked out of the hospital yesterday. When I described Matthew, however, he was certain we were talking about the same person.

Matthew had been found, along with several other British and Indian soldiers, at a Japanese POW camp near Luzon, in the Philippines. All his identification was missing, and all anyone could tell about him, from the scraps of his uniform that remained, was that he was British. He hadn’t spoken to any of the other prisoners and none of them had been captured in the same place or at the same time as he had. Consequently, nobody knew where he had come from or who he was.

When I asked the doctor why Matthew wouldn’t speak and why he also refused, when offered pen and paper, to write anything down, he paused, then said, “He’s probably suffering from some form of combat fatigue. That’s why he won’t communicate. There may be other problems, but I’m afraid I can’t be any more specific than that.”

“Is that why he refuses to talk?”

He paused again, longer this time, then went on slowly, “I’m sorry to say, but when we gave him a thorough physical examination, one of the things we found was that his tongue had been cut out.”

I could think of nothing to say. I stood there, head spinning, clinging to the telephone as if it were all that was holding me to earth.

“Miss Shackleton? Miss Shackleton? Are you there?”

“Yes… I’m sorry… Please go on.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry. It must have sounded so abrupt and callous to you. I didn’t know how else to tell you. If you only knew… some of the lads we’ve got in here. Well… I apologize.”

“That’s all right, Doctor. So Matthew is physically incapable of talking?”

“Yes.”

“But he could write if he wanted?”

“There’s no reason why not. There’s some damage to the fingers of his left hand, as if they have been broken and badly reset, but his right hand is fine, and as far as I can tell, he seems to be right-handed. Am I correct?”

“Yes, Matthew’s right-handed.”

“All I can assume then is that he simply chooses not to communicate.”

“What should we do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he ran away, didn’t he? Should we send him back?”

“I can’t see much point in doing that,” said the doctor. “And, quite frankly, we need all the beds we can get. No, physically, there’s nothing more we can do for him. There’s some deformity of the spine, probably due to being forced into a cramped environment, like a box or a cage, for long periods of time. A pronounced limp in the left leg, caused by an improperly set fracture. He was also shot in the arm and the abdomen. The wounds are healed now, though by the looks of the scars the surgery was of a poor quality.”

I swallowed, trying not to think of all the suffering poor Matthew must have gone through. “And mentally?”

“As I said, we don’t really know what’s wrong. He refuses to communicate. It’s a good sign that he came home, though. He knew his way and he negotiated the journey with what little money he took.”

“Took.”

“Ah, yes. Please don’t worry about it. We hadn’t supplied him with any clothes or money. He took another patient’s suit before he left.”

“Will there-”

“Don’t worry. The other patient is most understanding. He knows something of what your brother has been through. Please don’t worry about it any further.”

“But the money?”

“There wasn’t much. Enough for his train fare and perhaps a bite to eat.”

“He doesn’t look as if he’s eaten in months. Is there any treatment? Will he get better?”

“It’s impossible to say. There are treatments.”

“What sort of treatments?”

“Narcosynthesis is the most common.”

“And that is?”

“A drug-induced reenactment of the traumatic episode, or episodes. It’s used to assist the ego to accept what happened.”

“But if you don’t know what the traumatic episode was…?”

“There are ways of getting at that. But I don’t want to get your hopes up. The problem is, of course, that Matthew can’t express himself vocally, and that could mean a severe limitation in the value of narcosynthesis.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I suggest you tell me where you live and I’ll do my best to put you in touch with a doctor who knows about these things.”

I told him where I lived and where it was.

“It may mean visits to Leeds,” he said.

“That will be no problem.”

“I promise I’ll get working on it. In the meantime, just take good care of him. I don’t think I need to tell you that he has suffered appallingly.”

“No. Thank you, Doctor.” I put down the receiver and went back upstairs.

Matthew was sitting staring toward the window, though not through it, and Mother and Gloria seemed at their wits’ end.

“I’ve tried to talk to him, Gwen,” Gloria said, voice quivering. “I don’t think he even knows me. I don’t think he even knows where he is.”

I told her some of what the doctor had said. “He came back here, didn’t he?” I said, to comfort her. “He made his way here by himself. It was the only place he knew to come. Home. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine now he’s back with the people who love him.”