The activist had been transferred to a luxurious clinic on the outskirts of suburbia. An Edwardian facade, spacious car parking and leafy seclusion eloquently told of the profits to be made in private medicine. It had been often used by officialdom on sensitive occasions and there, head hidden in bandages, the activist awaited his sedated trip to the United States of America although he remained unaware of this intended fate. In order to ‘simplify matters’, no record existed of his admission. Although he could recall nothing of the accident at the Corran Ferry slip road, his cognitive functions had otherwise been restored. So too had his ability to reason.
He knew the time and date from the wristwatch of a hospital porter who had negligently rested a hand on the trolley that had rolled him into the ambulance. He felt certain that the general direction of travel was south. Catching sight of a corridor clock on arrival at the clinic, he guessed that he was somewhere in the Glasgow area.
An elevator hoisted him to a third level and he was unstrapped from the trolley and placed on a standard hospital bed in a large private room. No-one spoke. Silent whitecoats loitered in plain sight. He was certain that he was being held incommunicado, beyond the reach of law, and equally certain that much of the bandaging was purely for concealment. He had no sense of facial injury but knew that he had, at the very least, suffered severe concussion. The whitecoats strapped him down on the bed and he concluded that he must therefore be mobile.
A dainty male nurse recorded his temperature and blood pressure. Two clinicians followed and shone a pencil torch into his eyes, both leaning over the bed and breathing peppermint into his face. Neither appeared fazed by the strapping. Satisfied that he posed no immediate medical difficulty, the Hippocratic oath takers withdrew and left him with his minders, but otherwise undisturbed.
He continued to feign confusion. A whitecoat was always in the room. He allowed them to feed him with a spoon. They did this gently enough, but without speaking. From time to time they would unstrap him, change his position, and re-tie him to the bed, he presumed to prevent bedsores from developing. No-one came to question him. He was puzzled by that.
Physically, he could feel himself gain in strength. When his minder was engrossed in a magazine or paperback he would flex thigh and stomach muscles, being careful to control his breathing. His head ached when he exercised in this way. He persevered nonetheless. An opportunity would arise and when it did he needed to be able to take it.
He gave no thought to Control or to the fire raised at Loch Shielside. His firearm had been discovered with multiple fake passports. They would be trying to discover his identity. If they succeeded, and then informed their callow cousins, the Americans, he was finished.
So he lay, from time to time tightening and relaxing, enduring throbbing headaches; pretending disorientation and a confused state of mind.