horizontally under his left arm.
The bullet had missed his vital heart structures, but even so it had done plenty of damage, tearing through the subclavian artery, which carries blood over the top of the lung and into the arm. This was what Alex had felt when he was hit. As blood had poured out of the severed artery, filling the space between the lung and the thoracic cage, he had found himself unable to breathe. Alex could easily have died from shock or loss of blood. If he had been a man he almost certainly would have. But the body of a child is different to that of an adult. A young person’s artery will automatically shut itself down if cut—doctors can’t explain how or why—and this will limit the amount of blood lost. Alex was unconscious but he was still breathing, four minutes later, when the first ambulance arrived.
There wasn’t much the paramedics could do: IV fluids, oxygen and some gentle compression around the bullet’s point of entry. But that was enough. Alex had been rushed to St Dominic’s, where surgeons had removed the bone fragments and put a graft on the artery. He had been in the operating theatre two and a half hours.
And now he was looking almost as if nothing had happened. As the nurse came into the room, he closed the book and settled back into his pillows. Diana Meacher knew that this was his last night in hospital. He had been here for ten days and tomorrow he was going home. She also knew that she wasn’t allowed to ask too many questions. It was there in large print on his file: PATIENT 9/75958 RIDER/ALEX: SPECIAL
STATUS (MISO). NO UNAUTHORIZED VISITORS. NO PRESS. REFER ALL ENQUIRIES TO DR
HAYWARD.
It was all very strange. She had been told she would meet some interesting people at St Dominic’s, and she had been required to sign a confidentiality clause before she began work. But she’d never expected anything like this. MISO stood for Military Intelligence: Special Operations. But what was the secret service doing with a teenage boy? How had Alex managed to get himself shot? And why had there been two armed policemen sitting outside his room for the first four days of his stay? Diana tried to push these thoughts out of her mind as she put the tray down. Maybe she should have stuck with the NHS.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Looking forward to going home?”
“Yes.”
Diana realized she was staring at Alex and turned her attention to the medicines. “Are you in any pain?” she asked. “Can I get you something to help you sleep?”
“No, I’m all right.” Alex shook his head and for a moment something flickered in his eyes. The pain in his chest had slowly faded but he knew it would never leave him completely. He could feel it now, vague and distant, like a bad memory. “Would you like me to come back later?”
“No, it’s all right, thanks.” He smiled. “I don’t need anyone to tuck me in.” Diana blushed. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “But if you need me, I’ll be just down the hall. You can call me any time.”
“I might do that.”
The nurse picked up her tray and walked out of the room. She left behind the scent of her perfume—
heather and spring flowers—in the air. Alex sniffed. It seemed to him that since his injury, his senses had become more acute.
He reached for his French book, then changed his mind. To hell with it, he thought. Irregular verbs could wait. It was his own future that concerned him more.
He looked around at the neat, softly lit room that tried hard to pretend it belonged to an expensive hotel rather than a hospital. There was a TV on a table in the corner, operated by a remote control beside the bed.
A window looked out over a wide north London street lined with trees. His room was on the second floor, one of about a dozen arranged in a ring around a bright and modern reception area. In the early days after his operation, there had been flowers everywhere, but Alex had asked for them to be taken away. They’d reminded him of a funeral parlour and he had decided he preferred being alive.
But there were still cards. He had received more than twenty and he’d been surprised how many people had heard that he’d been hurt—and how many had sent a card. There had been a dozen from school: one from the head; one from Miss Bedfordshire, the school secretary; and several from his friends. Tom Harris had sent him some photos taken on their trip to Venice and a note: They told us it’s appendicitis but I bet it isn’t. Get well soon anyway.
Tom was the only person at Brookland who knew the truth about Alex.
Sabina Pleasure had somehow discovered he was in hospital and had sent him a card from San Francisco.
She was enjoying life in America but missed England, she said. She was hoping to come over for Christmas. Jack Starbright had sent him the biggest card in the room and had followed it up with chocolates, magazines and energy drinks, visiting him twice a day. There was even a card from the prime minister’s office—although it seemed the prime minister had been too busy to sign it.
And there had been cards from MI6. One from Mrs Jones, another from Alan Blunt (a printed message with a single word—BLUNT—signed in green ink as if it were a memorandum not a get well card). Alex had been surprised and pleased to receive a card from Wolf, the soldier he had met while training with the SAS.
The postmark showed it had been mailed in Baghdad. But his favourite had been sent by Smithers. On the front was a teddy bear. There was no message inside, but when Alex opened the card, the teddy bear’s eyes blinked and it began to talk.
“Alex—very sorry to hear you’ve been hurt.” The bear was speaking with Smithers’ voice. “Hope you get better soon, old chap. Just take it easy—I’m sure you deserve a rest. Oh, and by the way, this card will self-destruct in five seconds.”
Sure enough, to the horror of the nurses, the card had immediately burst into flames.
As well as cards, there had been visitors. Mrs Jones had been the first.
Alex had only just come round after surgery when she appeared. He had never seen the deputy head of Special Operations looking quite so unsure of herself. She was wearing a charcoal-grey raincoat which hung open to reveal a dark suit underneath. Her hair was wet and raindrops glistened on her shoulders.
