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Denny to work it out.
    Denny’s face fell suddenly.  ‘Oh, no!’
    Denny struggled to a sitting position. ‘How long have I been here sir?’ 
    ‘Long enough,’
    ‘I have to write to her sir, I have to let her know I’m alive.’ 
    Stiles sighed; this was not going to be easy.  He had hoped to put off telling him until he was stronger, but now there was nothing else for it. 
    ‘She’ll never get the letter son, Britain’s been invaded.’
    Denny’s answer was automatic. ‘So, what else is new?’ Then his face fell. This was no time for flippancy.
     Stiles glanced at Denny’s stricken face and hurried on. ‘She may not have got the first letter, even. It’s possible.’ 
    ‘But not very likely,’ said Denny. 
    He looked down at his injuries.  They were serious enough for a discharge.  ‘Will I be going home sir?’ 
    Stiles shook his head gently. ‘Home isn’t there anymore, son,’ he explained
    * * *
    It was as Tamar had feared. The soldiers, having wasted no time taking over the house, rounded up the men (there was only Tristan and the two intruders) and shot them.  Tamar had covered her eyes when Tristan had been shot. Ophelia had become predictably hysterical, but Cindy had seemed indifferent when the other two men were shot. 
    She mentally shrugged.  ‘Oh, well, out of the frying pan …’
    Then the women were herded off down to the cellars while the soldiers made free with Tristan’s stock of wine and spirits.
    * * *
    The doctor peered at Denny in an officious manner.  ‘How are we feeling today?’ he asked. 
    ‘Why do doctors always have to talk to you as if there were two of you?’ wondered Denny.  (Although in Denny’s case, he was not far off the truth.) 
    ‘Weird,’ said Denny.  ‘I keep feeling as if I’m not who I think I am.’
    ‘Probably the concussion,’ said the doctor crisply.  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it son.’  He had heard it all before.  He thought Denny was bucking for a section eight discharge (for insanity).
    ‘Or maybe it’s incipient schizophrenia,’ joked Denny.  The doctor gave him a black look. 
    ‘Or maybe not,’ said Denny hurriedly, wondering what he had said. 
    The truth was he had been having slightly schizophrenic thoughts.  Ever since his bang on the head, he had been having odd memory flashbacks of things that he knew had not happened to him.  Yet they felt real, like memories, not dreams.  It was as if the concussion had placed a dark stain on his consciousness, and opened a door in his brain, a door to another place.  A place from which he was being visited by messengers whose words just escaped him.  By a glimpse of a world that he could never quite grasp.
     And just to confuse matters further, Tamar seemed to be in most of the memories that he saw.  A different Tamar, different and yet the same.  There were also other familiar faces, Stiles, for example (and this only compounded his feelings of déjà vu , and the déjà vu made him certain that the memories were somehow real). And he saw other faces – faces that he did not know, and yet he did.    
    He looked at his face in a pocket mirror, his familiar face.  ‘Maybe it was the concussion,’ he thought.  But that didn’t mean anything.  He still felt sure that he wasn’t who he thought he was.
    * * *
    Ophelia had gone quiet – unnaturally so.  She sat in the corner and rocked back and forth.  Tamar ignored her. She was also silent, thinking – about what had happened of course, and also about Cindy.  She had always scoffed at the idea of déjà vu and all that sort of thing, but it was such a strong feeling that she could not shake it off, and then there was the curious incident of knowing Cindy’s name before she had been told, although she could not be certain of this, but she thought …
    Cindy herself was calm now that the violence seemed to be over – for now.  She intended to be out of here before it started again.  As soon as