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that’s something. Subject is responsive. At last.’
    ‘Subject?’ Cameron tried to repeat, but his voice sounded cracked and dry, as if he’d been crawling across a desert for a week.
    Still, the word told him something. It sounded medical. Was he in hospital? Surely not. In hospital they called you a patient, not a ‘subject’. But the man leaning over him seemed to be wearing a white coat. That meant he had to be a doctor, didn’t it?
    Yes, that was it! The man was a doctor. Cameron had seen him on the TV.
    Perhaps he was in some strange kind of hospital, then. He certainly seemed to be lying down, but if he was in a bed, it could have donewith being a lot more comfortable. It was hard and cold, and his head was resting on a solid, unyielding lump rather than a pillow.
    Before he could croak out another question, a probing light pierced Cameron’s eyes, blinding him.
    ‘Hmm. Light filter has failed to engage.’
    The words meant nothing to Cameron, but the speaker sounded disappointed.
    ‘Pupils not equal, of course,’ observed the voice, with a humourless chuckle. ‘But reactive nonetheless.’ The light vanished and the voice hardened. ‘What do you remember?’
    Cameron frowned. Was the doctor talking to him ? He tried to force the blurred outline into a sharper image. With a superhuman effort, he focused his eyes on the speaker.
    Wispy white hair atop a high-domed head. A pale face, broad and bony at the cheeks, that narrowed to a pointed chin. Shrewd eyes magnified by thick lenses, fenced in with gleaming silver frames. He did know this man.
    ‘Dr Fry?’ said Cameron, his voice still rough.
    Dr Lazarus Fry was something of a local celebrity. Massively rich, he lived in a gleaming modern house on the north side of Broad Harbour. The Fry Foundation, his personal charity, was always involved in some generous new project for the community – repairing a run-down school or building an orphanage. Cameron knew he should be in safe hands. But he didn’t feel safe.
    ‘Facial recognition,’ remarked the doctor. ‘And some evidence of intact memory.’ He leaned closer, treating Cameron to an overly clear view of flaring nostrils. ‘But what do you remember?’ he repeated.
    Cameron frowned again, thinking back. His memory was foggy, but faint images jostled together in his mind: a large building filled with children; a thick-set boy with his fists raised; bright, blossoming orange light.
    ‘An explosion. We were … We were on a school trip.’
    But where am I now?
    Cameron tried to turn his head to get a better view of the room he was in, but it wouldn’t budge a centimetre. They must have strapped his head in place. Had he broken his neck? Concentrating, Cameron tried to flex his arms and legs, but his limbs didn’t respond. It was as if his brain had been disconnected from the rest of his body. Panic flooded him.
    ‘Am I hurt?’ he croaked.
    As Cameron spoke, another jolt of pain shot through him. It was gone as quickly as it had arrived, but it left his nerves tingling and jittery, like a mega-bad case of pins and needles.
    ‘Hmm,’ said Dr Fry, standing up. To Cameron’s hazy senses it seemed as if the man’s face was floating away from him into the air.
    Fry raised an instrument over Cameron’s body – something that looked like a mobile phone or Nintendo DS – and inspected the screen. He pursed his bloodless lips and shook his head.
    ‘W-w-what is it?’ stammered Cameron. ‘Am I going to die?’
    The doctor ignored him, turning instead to address someone out of Cameron’s field of vision. ‘Barely acceptable. This will do for our first objective, but I think we can do much, much better. Store it and bring me the next subject.’
    ‘Yes, Dr Fry,’ said a gruff voice.
    Cameron heard footsteps shuffle closer, felt a jab in his left shoulder. Cold poured into his arm, and the static started to buzz across his vision again, like a TV that had lost its signal.
    Then the screen went