boot, so that he was hidden from view, only just managing to squeeze him in.
Then, grabbing the bag that contained his few possessions, he flung it over his shoulder and walked away from the car, feeling a sense of satisfaction at a job well done, and already dreaming of sunshine and money.
Eighty-one
23.00
Mike Bolt was lying in the hospital bed with his eyes closed, a bandage round his head, when Tina walked in. She’d had to beg the officers from CTC to let her come here before they took her away to Paddington Green Station for questioning about her part in what had happened that night. So far, she wasn’t under arrest, even though she’d shot dead two men using a police-issue gun she wasn’t authorized to use. But she guessed this was only because so far no one had figured out exactly what to arrest her for, given the unprecedented nature of the night’s events. As soon as they did, she’d be facing charges of some sort.
The doctor had told her that the results of the CT scan they’d given Mike when he’d arrived at the hospital had shown no major head trauma and that it looked like the concussion he was suffering from was mild. Now he just needed to rest.
Tina approached the bed. Looking at him lying there, she felt a sudden urge to cry that she only just managed to suppress. She’d promised the doctor she wouldn’t wake him, but as she stopped by the bed, taking a deep breath to push down her emotions, his eyes opened, taking a couple of seconds to focus on her.
‘You’re OK?’ he whispered.
She put a hand on his. ‘I’m fine. Everything’s all right now.’
‘I heard shots over the phone. What happened?’ His voice was weak and he sounded exhausted.
‘They tried to break out Fox. They failed. Cecil Boorman’s dead. So’s Fox. And another gunman they think might be Cain.’
‘Did Fox talk before he died?’
‘Not enough to give us anything useful.’
He sighed. ‘Then we’ve failed.’
Tina shook her head and squeezed his hand. ‘No,’ she said, ‘we didn’t. The men behind today’s attacks are dead, the Shard’s still standing, and Jetmir Brozi’s in custody facing charges that are going to keep him in prison for the next twenty years. I’d call all that a success.’
Bolt managed a weak smile. ‘That’s what I like about you, Tina. You don’t let things drag you down.’
‘And nor should you.’ She bent down and pecked him on the cheek — a gesture that surprised both of them. ‘Go to sleep now,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back to see you tomorrow.’
‘You’re not in any trouble, are you?’ he asked as she said goodbye and turned towards the door.
She smiled. ‘Course not. You know me.’
And with that, she went back out into the corridor where the CTC officers were waiting.
Eighty-two
23.45
Alone in his spacious living room, Garth Crossman smiled.
It had been a difficult few hours watching the stories unfold on the TV screen. A huge part of him enjoyed the seemingly non-stop scenes of chaos: the Shard spouting flames; the Prime Minister pale and shaken as he addressed the nation; the burning prison surrounded by riot police; the aerial view of the police convoy that had been escorting Fox, with one of its cars on fire and the bodies of several black-clad police officers clearly visible on the ground. These scenes were the electric shock treatment that the nation needed to jolt it from its complacency, and they demonstrated Crossman’s power, because he had made them happen. But they’d also shown his vulnerability. Such was the scale of the attacks that the hunt for the perpetrators would be intense and all- consuming, and for the last two hours Crossman had had to wait to discover whether either Cain or Fox — the only two men who knew his part in all this — had been captured alive after the botched attack on the convoy.
The reason for his smile was that the news anchor had now confirmed that not only was Fox dead but so were the two as yet unidentified gunmen who’d helped him escape. Since Crossman knew that Cain had only used one other man in the attack, that meant that he too had to be one of the fatalities.
It had been, Crossman would be the first to admit, a close-run thing, but ultimately the day had been a success. It had always been a major priority to get rid of Fox. The problem was that Fox was cunning, highly intelligent, and he played by his own rules, which meant he couldn’t be trusted. Crossman had therefore decided to concoct a plan to break him out from prison before he opened his mouth to the wrong people. He’d considered having someone try to kill him inside, or indeed paying extra to the man they’d used to attack Fox to actually kill him. But in the end, he’d concluded it was best to play it straight until they had him somewhere where he could be disposed of properly and efficiently.
But now there was no longer any need for such subterfuge. The war was temporarily over, and without anyone left who could point the finger at him, Garth Crossman was, as far as the world was concerned, a victim in all this. It still made him shudder to think how close his wife had come to ruining everything. He would have to be careful that others didn’t discover the secrets he’d worked so hard to hide.
He stood up, poured himself a glass of brandy from the drinks tray, and took a long sip.
It was time to contemplate the next stage of his career.
One Month Later
Eighty-three
I used my stick for support as I walked across the park. I’d been out of hospital just over a week, but this was my first time outside on my own. If my doctor knew what I was doing, he’d blow a gasket. According to him, I had to take everything very, very slowly. It was, he claimed, a miracle I’d made it through at all. I’d lost three- quarters of my blood by the time they got me to the hospital and, apparently, had died twice on the operating table, although I don’t remember any out-of-body experiences or seeing a bright light at the end of the tunnel, or any of that kind of thing. In fact, I slept through the whole lot.
The medical people hadn’t wanted me to leave hospital. Apparently, I was only 50 per cent into my recovery and they’d wanted me to remain under observation for another week at least so they could monitor my progress. But, to be honest, I’ve never been one for hospitals, and the one I was in reminded me too much of prison, so I’d exercised my citizen’s rights and walked. Or hobbled at least.
Also, there was something I needed to do. A wrong that needed righting.
The weather was sunny and unseasonably warm, and the world had returned to normal after February’s seismic events. In fact if Cecil and Cain had still been alive, they’d have been mortified to see how little long-term effect all their actions had had. The Shard was being repaired and would soon be back to its former glory; the government might have tottered a little on the day, but it hadn’t fallen; and there’d been no race riots on the streets. In fact, people had pulled together in the face of the barbarity that had been inflicted on them. The whole bloody day had been a colossal waste of lives, including very nearly my own. If Mike Bolt hadn’t found me when he did there’s no way I would have made it, and for that I’d be forever grateful to him.
Around me, the park was bustling with activity. A group of schoolkids were playing a loud, anarchic game of football; people were walking dogs; others just sat soaking up the sun’s rays; young mothers chatted and laughed as they pushed prams; an old couple walked hand in hand. This was what it was all about. Ordinary life.
And yet, in truth, I’d never been able to settle back into it since leaving behind the army, and the two foreign
