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footbal results. Of course this could have been a near-death experience. I was given a glimpse of Hel and it was ful of surgeons.
    Perhaps if I start with the simple stuff, I may get to the point where I can remember what happened to me. Staring at the ceiling, I silently spel my name: Vincent Yanko Ruiz; born December 11, 1945. I am a Detective Inspector of the London Metropolitan Police and the head of the Serious Crime Group (Western Division). I live on Rainvil e Road, Fulham . .
    .
    I used to say I would pay good money to forget most of my life. Now I want the memories back.

    2
    I only know two people who have been shot. One was a chap I went through police training col ege with. His name was Angus Lehmann and he wanted to be first at everything—first in his exams, first to the bar, first to get promoted . . .
    A few years back he led a raid on a drug factory in Brixton and was first through the door. An entire magazine from a semiautomatic took his head clean off. There's a lesson in that somewhere.
    A farmer in our val ey cal ed Bruce Curley is the other one. He shot himself in the foot when he tried to chase his wife's lover out the bedroom window. Bruce was fat with gray hair sprouting from his ears and Mrs. Curley used to cower like a dog whenever he raised a hand. Shame he didn't shoot himself between the eyes.
    During my police training we did a firearms course. The instructor was a Geordie with a head like a bil iard bal and he took against me from the first day because I suggested the best way to keep a gun barrel clean was to cover it with a condom.
    We were standing on the live firing range, freezing our bol ocks off. He pointed out the cardboard cutout at the end of the range. It was a silhouette of a crouching gun-wielding vil ain with a white circle painted over his heart and another on his head.
    Taking a service pistol the Geordie crouched down with his legs apart and squeezed off six shots—a heartbeat between each of them—every one grouped in the upper circle.
    Flicking the smoking clip into his hand, he said, “Now I don't expect any of you to do that but at least try to hit the fucking target. Who wants to go first?” Nobody volunteered.
    “How about you, condom boy?”
    The class laughed.
    I stepped forward and raised my revolver. I hated how good it felt in my hand. The instructor said, “No, not like that, keep both eyes open. Crouch. Count and squeeze.” Before he could finish the gun kicked in my hand, rattling the air and something deep inside me.
    The cutout swayed from side to side as the pul ey dragged it down the range toward us. Six shots, each so close together they formed a ragged hole through the cardboard.
    “He shot out his arsehole,” someone muttered in astonishment.
    “Right up the Khyber Pass.”
    I didn't look at the instructor's face. I turned away, checked the chamber, put on the safety catch and removed my earplugs.
    “You missed,” he said triumphantly.
    “If you say so, sir.”

    I wake with a sudden jolt and it takes a while for my heart to settle. I look at my watch—not so much at the time but the date. I want to make sure I haven't slept for too long or lost any more time.
    It's been two days since I regained consciousness. A man is sitting by the bed.
    “My name is Dr. Wickham,” he says, smiling. “I'm a neurologist.”
    He looks like one of those doctors you see on daytime chat shows.
    “I once saw you play rugby for Harlequins against London Scottish,” he says. “You would have made the England team that year if you hadn't been injured. I played a bit of rugby myself. Never higher than seconds . . .”
    “Real y, what position?”
    “Outside center.”
    I figured as much—he probably touched the bal twice a game and is stil talking about the tries he could have scored.
    “I have the results of your MRI scan,” he says, opening a folder. “There is no evidence of a skul fracture, aneurysms or a hemorrhage.” He glances up from his notes.