Staring at the ceiling was slightly more interesting here than at the hotel. The doctors and nurses busy with removing the scoop, checking every inch of their patient for injuries. In that process seeing the scars inflicted by Sarov and during earlier adventures. The criss cross of welts on his back, buttocks and thighs had lessened but were still very visible. He'd lost count after the thirtieth stroke after the plane took off from Edinburgh. His mind suddenly back there.

The doctor talking to him, in soothing concerned that their patient had blacked out again. "Tell me your full name?"

The patient the slightly slurred American accent "Aleksandr Borisovich Kiriyenko. Call me Sasha or Alex or Lexi… Aleksandr is a dork's name."

"Date of birth?"

"13th June 1988."

Then the doctor asked "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital? London? Errrrh UCL at a guess."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Ummm… errr… I … I was in my hotel room…I think? I'd left my digs… was cohabiting with my boyfriend, ex-boyfriend now …. he's a two timing arsehole and got the girlfriend, who I'm not meant to know about, pregnant. So, Jamie's a nice normal heterosexual, who forgot to tell me that he was confused or some such shit about the last two years."

"Are you on any medication or have you taken anything?"

"I binned my meds last month. Guess what nobody fucking noticed?" Alex squeezed his eyes shut trying to force the tears away and failing. "I want to go home" was then murmured in Russian.

"Bloodwork, CT scan to make sure nothing was broken. You're severe dehydration will need you to be under observation for at least 24 hours." The the burning question "What meds did you stop taking and do you have a medical alert card or bracelet?"

…

Back in the bay after the scan, Alex was compus mentis enough to remember the repercussions of this blip affected other people, people he cared about and who'd want to know why he was in hospital. "Errr, I think I need to call home. My iPhone will be flat as a pancake, so I can Skype if you can hand me my laptop." His phone was also set to Cyrillic. He had presented his dad a mobile phone before leaving Moscow, the phone was always in Ivan's possession when he was at the banya. This was going to be mortifyingly embarrassing. He was hardly on top form to deflect, deny and lie his way out of this considering he was strapped down with his head immobilised between blocks.

If the patient was lucky it would not connect. Only it did, after the first ring, which meant he'd missed a call or twenty. Then image said everything as Ivan questioned " Sasha, which hospital is that?"

"Ummm Morning Ivan, errr UCL emergency department. Right, so I need to disturb papa?" The video link blurred and doors were opened and closed, hurried steps echoed in the tiled halls. He then heard the hushed whispers as the bodyguard/minder/chauffeur and close friend explained the Boris' son was in hospital, injured.

Alex was then watching Boris put on his reading glasses and the young man blurted out in fast Russian "its not as bad as it looks, I promise Papa. I have full feeling and I just took a tumble in the shower, probably…. Could have fainted I don't know. It's fine, I'm fine. No need to worry."

"So, you don't phone for two weeks then you're in hospital, suspected head or spinal injuries and I should not worry. I need to talk to the doctor." The laptop moved to include the consultant in the Skype. Boris then barked across the baths to request a translator. A clearly naked officer sat and the three way conversation took place. Boris' adopted son not trusted to act as translator.

The young officer, in accented English, started with Boris' full official title. "His excellency the former Premier of the Russian Federation requests to know the full details of his son's condition."

The whole emergency department seemed to still and listen in. The three way conversation going into every detail while Alex was praying under his breath, please don't come… but that was not doing to happen. With an ex-head of state of a major global power, it was going to descend into being a circus. All because he was a control freak of the first order. He'd told the doctors here enough to know, he'd not been well for a long time. You did not just stop taking mood stabilisers and antidepressants suddenly, especially during a traumatic personal breakup.

Boris then spoke again "I will be on this afternoons flight to London. … what caused all this? Without the medication, you must have been having nightmares, flashbacks, insomnia and maybe controlling your eating? I can see from your expression, this is true. Did you think we'd abandon you. You are most loved, my precious son. I… how could you keep this to yourself. What about your new therapist, Mrs Turner?"

"She can't tell the difference between Sasha and Alex.. Terence could just by how I walked in the room." Alex sighed and relaxed, no fight or flight left. "I'd prefer to come home rather than you come here. London kind of sucks big time." It had been three months since Terence Prichard his psychiatrist had retired. He never mentioned the past, Jamie or anything overtly personal to his current therapist, just spun a ton of bullshit in his weekly sessions. What Alex really wanted was a Time Machine, as Boris no longer lived in the Kremlin, but with Olga. He wanted his room back in the apartment now home to another family. Like Cheyne Walk, his childhood homes were in the past and the present offered no comfort or belonging. Exhausted, he fell asleep without ending the conversation.

The consultant had left, with no wish nor understanding of the conversation between father and son in Russian. Now, he was busy arranging security, informing the hospital management and getting the VIP into a private room ASAP.

…..

Within an hour, the orthopaedic and neurological consults had cleared the scans as normal and the VIP patient was being treated for dehydration, exhaustion and starvation. Clearly systematic control issues for weeks not days.

After three months on retirement, Dr Terrence Pritchard was shocked in the change in his former patient. Emaciated, obviously exhausted and verging on a breakdown, the complete opposite of the current notes from Vicky. A phone call 75 minutes ago from Boris Kiriyenko had him here to solve this mystery.

Alex smiled as his old sparing partner arrived. The doctor looked closely at the young man, he was about to say "Afternoon Alex", but this was the elusive third personality, the asset Ian and MI6 forged. "So, you stopped taking your meds. Why?"

The young man shrugged slightly, even the small gesture was an effort. "Sasha's very upset about everything at the moment and Vicky just hung on every word that liar said about how great my course was, how lovely the relationship was going and she never twigged I was in full bullshit mode. Sick of listening to Alex wining. I want my fucking life back… only that life was shit and so is the bullshit of Sasha." Alex's eyes drooped. "So fucking tired … not been sleeping. Everything smells rank."

His patient was speaking in the cockney tones of the boy at Brookland school, where his careful Received Pronunciation preferred by Ian Rider had been dropped to fit in. Alex was the teenager who had begun to chaff against his uncle's strict game plan. Taking up football and having close friends. As Tom was very cheerful and completely average academically, but connected with Alex because of his equally awful home life.

"I want to see how bad it would be if I was just Alex for a change, but I'm not, am I? So, I'll get to the point, you ask the wrong questions. Since I feel at the end of my tether, I'll just tell you." Finishing his cup of water, Alex felt sick to his stomach after being made to eat lunch. "Why don't I like being called Alexander? and why have I not been in contact with Jack Starbright."