“Shock-trauma, University of Maryland,” the cop answered. The cop walked back to his chair and sat down. Joker realised he wasn’t there to question him, which meant that the heavyweights were on their way. He was surprised that homicide detectives weren’t waiting at his bedside. Joker ran through his options, and they were few and far between. There were two corpses at the house, one with a crushed skull, the other with two bullets in its chest. A search of the house would show up his wallet and ID and a forensic test would show that he’d fired the gun which had killed the MI5 agent. His cover story as an itinerant barman would last about thirty seconds under any half-competent interrogation, and that was before he was asked to explain his wounds. He turned his head and saw that his shoulder was bandaged and he felt two dressings on his chest.
He remembered what the dying MI5 agent had said. The Colonel had sent him to America as bait, to lure Hennessy and Bailey out into the open so that the Five agents could capture or kill them. Hard arrests. The Colonel had never intended that Joker should succeed, and probably didn’t even expect him to come out of it alive. The Five agents had seen him taken prisoner, and they must have known what was happening to him inside the house. They did nothing, and Joker ground his teeth as he realised that they had probably been sitting in their car, swapping jokes and stories, as Hennessy ripped the flesh from his body. It was the betrayal that hurt Joker most, more than the cuts in his back, the bruised and battered wrists and the wounds in his chest. He’d been set up, right from the start, by a man he’d trusted. Trusted and damn near worshipped. And that meant that Joker couldn’t rely on the Colonel standing up for him now that he was blown.
The door to his room opened and a nurse walked in. She was a pretty black girl with short hair and eyes that were so green Joker assumed she must have been wearing coloured contact lenses. She was wearing blue-green scrubs and had a stethoscope hanging around her neck. She picked up a clipboard from the bottom of the bed and she read through his charts. “So you’re awake, Mr O’Brien?” she said.
“Water,” he gasped.
She went over to a small sink in the corner of the room and filled a glass. Joker tried to sit up but he was still weak. The nurse held the back of his head while he drank. “Okay?” she said when he’d finished.
“Thanks,” said Joker.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Sore. And weak.”
“You’ve lost some blood, but we haven’t given you a transfusion,” she said. “It was the smoke that did most of the damage. A few days’ rest and you’ll be okay.” She grinned. “Your injuries look worse than they are. Honest.”
Joker smiled thinly. “That’s good news,” he said.
“Except for that old wound across your stomach. The doctors were wondering how you got that one.” When Joker didn’t enlighten her, she clipped the board to the foot of his bed again.
The cop winked at her. “Any chance of getting a TV in here? For the Bird’s game?”
“Sure, hon,” said the nurse.
“Bird’s game?” repeated Joker.
The nurse nodded. “The Orioles, our baseball team. They’ve won their last eight games. Your Prime Minister is throwing out the first pitch.”
“Maybe I’ll make the game,” he said.
“Don’t bank on it, Mr O’Brien,” she said, “you’ll need some bed rest for a while. The TV is the nearest you’ll get.”
“Yeah,” agreed the cop. “He ain’t going nowhere, hon.”
The nurse left. Joker tested himself to see how hurt he actually was. His shoulder was his only real problem, but that only hurt when he moved it. His arms and legs were sore and his wrists felt as if they were still cut to the bone. The wounds in his chest would take some time to heal, and he was still a little weak, but he could tell that he was quite capable of walking out of the hospital. The only thing stopping him was the chain around his waist and the six feet tall black guy in the cop’s uniform.
Mary Hennessy watched the minute hand of her wrist watch crawl around as she lay with her back to Matthew Bailey. He was snoring noisily, his backside thrust out so that he slept in a V shape which deprived her of most of the bed. His love-making had been rushed and nervous and, Mary thought as she slipped her hand between her thighs, it had been painful. She hadn’t let Bailey know how much he was hurting her. In fact, she’d made all the right noises, encouraging, urging him on, calling out his name. It had been an act, the same sort of performance she’d given for her husband during the last years of her marriage, and she didn’t feel any less ashamed with Bailey. It had been almost five years since Mary Hennessy had been with a man, and she’d tried to make Bailey slow down, to arouse her before penetrating her, but he was too eager and he’d mistaken her gasp of pain for a moan of pleasure. She shuddered under the bedclothes as she recalled his bitter-smelling breath and bad teeth and the way he continually pushed his probing tongue into her mouth. She’d waited until he was asleep before slipping into the bathroom and showering. She had a bottle of Listerine mouthwash in her washing kit and she’d gargled with it for more than a minute, trying to rid herself of his taste. Later she’d climbed into the other bed but Bailey had woken up and asked why she wasn’t sleeping with him. Reluctantly she’d crawled back into his bed, hoping that he wouldn’t try to touch her again, and she’d thanked her lucky stars that he fell asleep almost immediately.
Mary drifted in and out of sleep, but she was never really relaxed. It was partly because she was apprehensive about what was due to happen later that day, but she was also worried that Bailey would wake up and want to make love to her again. It seemed an eternity before the sky lightened outside and birds began to sing. The hour hand of her watch reached seven o’clock and she rolled slowly out of bed so as not to disturb Bailey and dressed quietly. Only when she’d brushed her hair and put on lipstick and mascara did she draw the drapes and wake up Bailey.
He rubbed his eyes sleepily. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Just after seven,” she said. “You’ll have to move the plane to Bay Bridge.”
“God, yes,” he said. “I’d forgotten.” He threw back the bedclothes and Mary turned away, not wanting to see him naked. He came up behind her and grabbed her, and she could feel him getting aroused. She twisted around and put her hands on his shoulders. “We don’t have time,” she said.
He pouted. “Later?”
Mary nodded. “Later,” she promised.
He nodded and began to dress, pulling on the same shirt and jeans he’d worn the previous day. Mary noticed that Bailey no longer stammered in her presence. He seemed more confident, and she hoped that her sacrifice had paid off. “Which car shall I take?” he asked.
“Schoelen’s,” she said, tossing him a set of keys. “Have you got a baseball cap or something you can wear?”
He ran his hand through his red curls. “Hide the hair, you mean? Yeah, good idea.” He sorted through his bag and came out with an Orioles cap and waved it. “Pretty apt, yeah?”
As he dashed out of the room he tried to kiss Mary on the lips, but she moved her head at the last minute so it landed on her cheek. “Later,” she said, fighting the revulsion in her stomach.
The black nurse brought Joker a breakfast tray at eight o’clock in the morning: a clear plastic cup of orange juice, scrambled eggs, toast with a smear of margarine, and a pot of cherry yoghurt. And a white plastic spoon to eat it with. Joker didn’t know whether it was to ensure that he couldn’t hurt himself or to make sure that he wouldn’t be a danger to anyone else, but he felt like a baby as he ate. The cop watched him. “You want some?” Joker asked, holding out the spoon, dripping with eggs. The cop scowled. A large revolver was holstered on his right side and on his left was hanging a large black nightstick.
After breakfast, a doctor in a white coat came in and took his blood pressure and withdrew a small blood sample from his left arm. The doctor, who didn’t introduce himself, asked Joker how he felt. Joker shrugged. “Sore, and tired. I’ll mend.”
“I’m sure you will,” said the doctor. “We haven’t given you any blood, we try not to these days unless absolutely necessary. All you need is time.” He pointed to Joker’s stomach. “Who did that for you?”
Joker smiled. “You mean who stabbed me, or who fixed it?”
“The surgery,” said the doctor.
“Northern Ireland,” said Joker. The man’s interest seemed professional and he saw no reason not to enlighten him.
The doctor sat on the edge of Joker’s bed, careful not to touch his legs. He was a small man with a neatly
