Chapter 1

 I am a genealogist — or, if you prefer the gentler term, a family historian.

This is my story. My introduction will come later. For now, let the tale begin.

It is October.

I lie awake in a bed — not my bed — waiting for the phone alarm to sound and declare the start of my day. A branch scrapes against the window, hidden behind heavy curtains, and rain patters steadily against the glass. The room is dim, unfamiliar, and holds that unmistakable stillness of a hotel suite — pristine, impersonal, and waiting for someone who isn’t me.

The alarm rings at seven. Three custom chimes, then I turn the alarm off.

As I gather myself from the depths of sleep, a slow realisation settles over me: this is not my bedroom, not my humble abode, not anything I recognise. I rise, feeling the breadth of a king-sized mattress behind me — I’ve only occupied a sliver of it, which feels a shame, because it is extraordinarily comfortable.

My clothes are nowhere to be seen.

Instead, laid out neatly is a three‑piece suit of Italian fabric, precisely my size. The label confirms it. Was I wearing this last night? Confusion thickens.

The room is spacious, luxurious — unmistakably a hotel suite. As I move toward the ensuite, I hear the faint murmur of a woman’s voice.

“Hello… hello… can you hear me? Yes, he’s awake — the alarm sounded. Okay, see you soon.”

I step into the ensuite.

A blonde woman in her thirties stands there, average height, average build, wearing a little black dress that clearly belongs to the night before. She toys with the room key between her fingers. When she turns, her eyes widen slightly.

“You’re awake?”

“Yes,” I reply, startled. “And very confused. Where am I? How did I get here? Where are my things?”

She tilts her head. “Don’t you remember anything? You’re Dave…” Her phone rings before she can finish. “Okay… here in five minutes,” she says into it.

Five minutes? For what?

Time stretches. Then—

A heavy knock rattles the door. Cockney voices bark through the wood: “Open the door — the game’s up.”

What game?

I scramble into the trousers of the suit and open the door just as the knocking intensifies.

Two men push their way in — thuggish, forties, rough around the edges, the sort who look carved from alleyway shadows.

“Come on,” one growls. “The game’s up. Time to come with us. Everyone’s waiting for you — and your sob story.”

I step back. They follow, shutting the door behind them. Their agitation fills the room like smoke.

The woman emerges from the ensuite.

“There you are, Susie,” the first man snaps. “You’re coming with us as well. Come on — let’s go.”

Susie folds her arms. “He says he’s not Dave.”

I stare at them, bewildered. Who do they think I am?

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but there’s been a terrible mistake. I’m not Dave. I don’t know who he is, and I don’t—”

The thug cuts me off. “We don’t care what you’re saying. You’re coming with us. Mr. Anderson is waiting — and he wants his stuff. Show us the stuff.”

“I don’t know what ‘stuff’ you’re talking about,” I insist. “I don’t know Dave, and I don’t—”

“I’ve had enough,” the thug snarls. “Roger — check his clothes.”

Roger, the second thug, moves toward the suit. Susie steps forward.

“I checked his things,” she says. “There’s nothing.”

“Stop right there, Susie,” the first thug snaps. “We’ve heard enough about you — what you’re like, what you’ll do to satisfy your own means. Stop.”

Roger rummages through the pockets. Susie edges closer, ignoring the warning.

“STOP, Susie,” Roger barks.

She moves closer still. Roger flinches — then slaps her hard across the face.

I lunge forward to stop him.

“Stop, Dave,” the first thug shouts. “Before it’s too late. Just st—”

A blow crashes against my skull.

Darkness swallows everything.