Many thanks to those who read the last chapter and the reviews were gratefully received.

This chapter is based in part on the comment Harry made re Sullivan referenced earlier and Zoe's scripted comment that she didn't think much of Sullivan's weekends. Part of the writing in this is deliberately repetitive as this is a private diary and most of us use the repeat phrases especially when stressed.

Extract from the diary of Dr Diane Sullivan

4 May 2002 Thursday:

When I woke up this morning I assumed that today would be a routine Thursday. No reason why not, routine typifies my life. Some would call it boring. My ex-husband frequently did so, which is why he's now my ex. As I informed him, more than once, what is considered boring is simply a matter of opinion and anyway it's my life and I like that way. Not that I'm not adverse to the occasional surprise, it's just that I prefer to be organised, knowing what I'm going to do, when I'm going to do it and with whom. Ironically it now it appears as if this perfectly reasonable trait has put me into danger's way.

Overall the working day was ordinary enough. As usual I spent it in the clinic, reassuring patients, explaining that aborting one foetus – a much less emotive word than child or baby and technically, until week twenty four of gestation, that is the correct term – won't prevent them from having a family in later life, when it is more convenient. That latter statement of course is pure professional speak, privately I doubt that there is ever a convenient time to branch off into two years plus of nappy changing followed up by having to deal, a few short years later, with a near decade of teenage angst. However I don't think it's my place to disabuse paying clients of their 'ideal time' illusions. The afternoon was reserved for aftercare follow up with earlier clients, mainly prescribing contraception to avoid a repeat trip all the while trying mask my exasperation with the patient who'd just had her third termination in five years, assuring her that she'd been unlucky rather than careless – probably a palpable lie but again I'm a clinician, not judge and jury on how my clients chose to conduct themselves.

It transpires though that someone else has taken on that role with regard to my own existence. I'd ignored the anonymous letters, if doctors who carry out terminations paid heed to those cranks we'd be opening the doors to uninformed intimidation on every issue going. We all receive these foul communications, for which the words, 'water', 'duck' and 'back' were coined, so it was a surprise when, upon returning home, no sooner had I closed the door of the flat behind me than I was summoned back to it, courtesy of an insistent and continuous knock. Opening it cautiously, to be exact I opened it the length of the chain I keep on the door, aka the single woman's defence against pests. Peering through the small gap I saw a young and very unthreatening blonde woman standing there. My first thought was that she was a potential patient. Before I could suggest my clinic was a more appropriate venue from which to approach me she thrust an id card at me, almost literally under my nose. My immediate reaction was to inform her that I didn't appreciate sick jokes – I mean MI5? I'm a doctor not a terrorist.

But it wasn't a joke - was it. The blonde was pleasant, even sympathising with the shock, but adamant. My life was in danger and I needed to be moved, quickly and quietly. Normally I might have argued but the presence of the uninvited heavy, who loomed up and into the sitting room once I'd admitted her across the threshold, made me decide it would be more dignified to go quietly. The only struggle I put up being to insist on a ten minute delay, during which time I threw some clothes and toiletries into a bag. A very small bag at that. A large one, I was strictly informed, might arouse suspicions if we were seen leaving. Then it was down the fire exit stairs and straight into a big black car parked near the dustbins. Not only were the vehicle's interior blinds pulled down so I couldn't memorise the route, I was also obliged to wear a blindfold before being lead into what Veronica – which incidentally I'm sure is not her real name - described as a safe house.

So here I sit, mobile phone removed, no laptop or any means of communication with the outside world that I can hear bustling a few yards away, cocooned in what I will admit are comfortable surroundings - impersonal but comfortable – swept clean of all trace of whosoever was here last, for whatever reason. My only company this diary that I grabbed from my bedside drawer. I'm keeping it hidden as I suspect that if my hosts knew I'd brought it with me they'd confiscate it.

With nothing else to do, other than write, I can't help wondering who else has been held here and why. While outside….. what is happening…the agony of uncertainty ….the not knowing. Perhaps by tomorrow it will all be over and I can return to my normal life.

May 5 2002 Friday.

I hardly slept last night. I thought I would as I've never been prone to nerves. My not lamented ex continually complained about my prosaic attitude to life but when I lay down and tried to close my eyes I has haunted by thoughts of what might have been – or even what might be if these people aren't caught. If the Security Services fails to track them down them, those faceless menaces that kept me awake I can't stay here, or in hiding for the rest of my life – can I?

I should be at my clinic today, gainfully occupied, instead I'm stuck here brooding as I scribble. I can't work since no computer has been allowed and with all the hussle to leave my flat I forgot to pack a book. The only realistic alternative on offer is daytime TV which I can't bear to watch. I did switch on but the relentlessly cheery trivia, combined with synthetic American cop shows got on my nerves, while all the time at the back of my mind I keep wondering what is happening. Outside I know watchers will be sitting, guarding my safety with a care that is indistinguishable from imprisonment. I'm confined in what in effect is a comfy cell for doing a perfectly legal job!

The sole break in this desert of island of human contact was the arrival of Veronica in the early afternoon. All smiles accompanied by a barely concealed excitement that made me want to scream with frustration. After asking politely if I was okay and had everything I wanted. I felt like saying yes other than my peace of mind and freedom, but of course I didn't. I never waste my breath pointlessly. Pretend civilities over, she drilled down to the real brass tacks of her visit. She hadn't fooled me anyway with her earlier enquiry and expressions of concern for my safety. I recognised the style. I do likewise with my patients. It's a clinical, purely professional, façade of caring. Not entirely false in that you of course care about the outcomes, and the subject's welfare, but only with detachment before you move on to the next person or investigation.

Now I think about it, I mean really think, who does care about me: both parents dead, only child, a few professional acquaintances and one or two friends who have busy lives of their own. It might have had the advantage of allowing my self appointed guardians to remove me from circulation with minimal explanation – a plus for them, but the start of an incipient depression for me.

So Veronica began her grilling, despite not being authorised to tell me anything much I successfully forced her to come clean by refusing to co-operate. Eventually she caved in and admitted that there was a plan in the offing to swap me with a female officer of a similar build and age. Basically her colleague will ostensibly slot into my daily round and common task, and for that they require some further in-depth detail to fool the – what precisely do I call them - terrorists, crusaders, murderers! So I obliged, detailing the clothes I usually wear at weekends, the times I set out, the car route I take etc, etc etc. Anything to get out of here. It was like taking an exam on the subject of my daily life, something which, as I described it, is not exactly eventful. My ex just before he left castigated me as boring, as if there is anything wrong with liking to be structured! When it came to my mentioning that I tend to avoid shops and spend about an hour on Saturdays touring the market stalls I sensed a slight pause from Veronica, just an air of mild alarm, but she gave nothing specific away. Having answered her questions some answers to mine, such as when they anticipate this operation being concluded would have been nice, but nothing doing.

So here I sit my body protected for now, as I wait and wait and wait, with my mind continually returning to that thought, the one that has niggled at me since yesterday evening. If I was killed who would care, I mean really care that I was dead.

6 May 2002 Saturday

Slept a little better, I think auto sleep mode took over. Awoke to the realisation that today might be the day. Veronica has sent a message via one of the heavies outside that she will be joining me. I'd like think it's a friendly gesture but as she's always the same, irritatingly smiley, I suspect that real deal is that if everything goes badly wrong I may have to be moved. I'd like to know what happens if all goes well, which for me is every bit as problematic as if everything goes wrong. I mean do I just get taken home and that's it.

Do I really find out what happened?

Will I spend the rest of my career looking over my shoulder worrying that this group will reform and leave me as the No 1 target?

Who can I talk to about this – I was forced to sign the Official Secrets Act when they brought me here.

Will I need or be offered counselling or will this, like other traumatic experiences, eventually just fade away?

If I do return to the outside world what do I do with the future I've been granted?

Thanks for reading if you have a moment do review.