turned back into the room. The door closed. More screams from outside. Rebus grabbed the dishtowels from Houston and ran. The bleeder was on his feet again, weaving like a boxer in defeat.
`Take your hands down for a sec.’
The man lifted both hands from his matted hair, and Rebus saw a section of scalp rise with them, like it was attached to the skull by a hinge. A thin jet of blood hit Rebus in the face. He turned away and felt it against his ear, his neck. Blindly he stuck the towel on to the man's head.
`Hold this.’
Rebus grabbing the hands, forcing them on to the towel. Headlights: the unmarked police car. Claverhouse had his window down.
`Lost them in Causewayside. Stolen car, I'll bet. They'll be hoofing it.’
`We need to get this one to Emergency.’
Rebus pulled open the back door. Clarke had found a box of paper hankies and was pulling out a wad.
`I think he's beyond Kleenex,' Rebus said as she handed them over.
`They're for you,' she said.
2
It was a three-minute drive to the Royal Infirmary. Accident amp; Emergency was gearing up for firework casualties. Rebus went to the toilets, stripped, and rinsed himself off as best he could. His shirt was damp and cold to the touch. A line of blood had dried down the front of his chest. He turned to look in the mirror, saw more blood on his back. He had wet a clump of blue paper towels. There was a change of clothes in his car, but his car was back near Flint Street. The door of the toilets opened and Claverhouse came in.
`Best I could do,' he said, holding out a black t-shirt. There was a garish print on the front, a zombie with demon's eyes, wielding a scythe. `Belongs to one of the junior doctors, made me promise to get it back to him.’
Rebus dried himself off with another wad of towels. He asked Claverhouse how he looked.
`There's still some on your brow.’
Claverhouse wiped the bits Rebus had missed.
`How is he?’ Rebus asked.
`They reckon he'll be okay, if he doesn't get an infection on the brain.’
`What do you think?’
`Message to Tommy from Big Ger. ’
`Is he one of Tommy's men?’
`He's not saying.’
`So what's his story?’
`Fell down a flight of steps, cracked his head at the bottom.’
`And the drop-off?’
`Says he can't remember.’
Claverhouse paused. `Eh, John…?’
`What?’
`One of the nurses wanted me to ask you something.’
His tone told Rebus all he needed to know. `AIDS test?’
`They just wondered.’
Rebus thought about it. Blood in his eyes, his ears, running down his neck. He looked himself over: no scratches or cuts. `Let's wait and see,' he said.
`Maybe we should pull the surveillance,' Claverhouse said, `leave them to get on with it.’
`And have a fleet of ambulances standing by to pick up the bodies?’
Claverhouse snorted. `Is this sort of thing Big Ger's style?’
`Very much so,' Rebus said, reaching for his jacket.
`But not that nightclub stabbing?’
`No.’
Claverhouse started laughing, but there was no humour to the sound. He rubbed his eyes. `Never got those chips, did we? Christ, I could use a drink.’
Rebus reached into his jacket for the quarter-bottle of Bell 's.
Claverhouse didn't seem surprised as he broke the seal. He took a gulp, chased it down with another, and handed the bottle back. `Just what the doctor ordered.’
Rebus started screwing the top back on.
`Not having one?’
`I'm on the wagon.’ Rebus rubbed a thumb over the label.
`Since when?’
`The summer.’
`So why carry a bottle around?’
Rebus looked at it. `Because that's not what it is.’
Claverhouse looked puzzled. `Then what is it?’
`A bomb.’
Rebus tucked the bottle back into his pocket. `A little suicide bomb.’
They walked back to A amp;E. Siobhan Clarke was waiting for them outside a closed door.
`They've had to sedate him,' she said. `He was up on his feet again, reeling all over the place.’
She pointed to marks on the floor airbrushed blood, smudged by footprints.
`Do we have a name?’
`He's not offered one. Nothing in his pockets to identify him. Over two hundred in cash, so we can rule out a mugging. What do you reckon for a weapon? Hammer?’
Rebus shrugged. `A hammer would dent the skull. That flap looked too neat. I think they went for him with a cleaver.’
`Or a machete,' Claverhouse added. `Something like that.’
Clarke stared at him. `I smell whisky.’
Claverhouse put a finger to his lips.
`Anything else?’ Rebus asked. It was Clarke's turn to shrug.
`Just one observation.’
`What's that?’
`I like the t-shirt.’
Claverhouse put money in the machine, got out three coffees. He'd called his office, told them the surveillance was suspended. Orders now were to stay at the hospital, see if the victim would say anything. The very least they wanted was an ID. Claverhouse handed a coffee to Rebus.
`White, no sugar.’
Rebus took the coffee with one hand. In the other he held a polythene laundry-bag, inside which was his shirt. He'd have a go at cleaning it. It was a good shirt.
`You know, John,' Claverhouse said, `there's no point you hanging around.’
Rebus knew. His flat was a short walk away across The Meadows. His large, empty flat. There were students through the wall. They played music a lot, stuff he didn't recognise.
`You know Telford 's gang,' Rebus said. `Didn't you recognise the face?’
Claverhouse shrugged. `I thought he looked a bit like Danny Simpson.’
`But you're not sure?’
`If it's Danny, a name's about all we can hope to get out of him. Telford picks his boys with care.’
Clarke came towards them along the corridor. She took the coffee from Claverhouse.
`It's Danny Simpson,' she confirmed. `I just got another look, now the blood's been cleaned off.’
She took a swallow of coffee, frowned. `Where's the sugar?’
