He slid back into bed. She paced the room.
‘I can’t believe you even thought of eating their food,’ she said.
He closed his eyes. Wished Gyongyi had come back.
‘Well I’ve taken their medicine,’ he said. ‘If they were going to get rid of me they’d have done it by now.’
The woman, clearly anxious, continued to pace. ‘You need to get dressed.’
‘I haven’t been discharged,’ he said.
‘He wants you out. So you’re discharged.’
‘He’s discharging me?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s the hurry?’ he said. ‘The toxicology tests aren’t through yet.’
She stood at the head of his bed. ‘We know what happened. You were poisoned. You were compromised. We need to get you out. Get dressed.’ Before he knew it, she’d removed the drip from his arm and motioned at the assortment of clothes she had flung at him. Jeans, shirt and shoes.
‘Where did you get them?’ he asked.
‘Someone died.’
He stared at the jumbled clothing. ‘You stole them? From a dead guy?’
She sat awkwardly on the far corner of his bed. Her face was fixed. Her voice was raised. ‘You need to get dressed. You need to be ready. It doesn’t matter where the clothes come from.’
He held up the trousers and shirt. They looked too big for him but not by much.
‘Underwear? Socks?’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘You’ll cope. Get dressed.’
He thought he would try one last time. ‘You should really leave me here. I told the leader. If I’m compromised, I’ll ruin everything. I’ll be fine.’
She slid up the bed. ‘Yes, you’re compromised. No, you’re not staying here. It’s not safe.’ She glanced at the jeans. ‘I’ll step outside if you’re suddenly feeling modest.’
He nodded and she left, clicking the door shut behind her. He had just swung out of bed when the door opened again.
‘Woman here to collect the poison shit she brought you. Decent?’
His heart kicked up a notch. ‘Yes, of course.’
Gyongyi appeared, face like stone.
He reasoned he had thirty seconds, maximum. As she bent to retrieve the tray, he rescued the comments card from under the plate. Placing a finger over his lips, he took a biro from her breast pocket. He scribbled furiously on the card and handed it to her. He leant in close and whispered fast. ‘I’m in big trouble with her. She’s not a good person. Please post this to the address I’ve written here. Please. Please.’ He slid the card back under the plate.
She held the tray and stared back at him. Startled. Frightened.
He placed his hands over hers. ‘Please, Gyongyi. Last post.’
She nodded, and left the room.
35
4.35 p.m.
THE MINICAB DROPPED the leader two blocks from 26 Boxer Street. He paid cash and said nothing to the driver. He didn’t tip. A three-minute walk to the house. He paused on the doorstep, key in the door. Late afternoon, a heavy heat, the street was quiet. The house was quiet too. The woman had taken the next shift in the hospital. He had the space to do what he had to do.
He turned the key slowly and slipped inside. Standing still, head cocked, he felt a breeze from the backyard blow through the house. It brought with it the shuffling, slapping sound of a man in sandals. He felt the smoothness of the wooden-handled knife in his trouser pocket. His thumb traced the spine of the folded blade all the way to the butt. He rolled it around his fingers.
From the kitchen he could see him pacing the courtyard. The table had two half-drunk cups of black coffee on it and a used, unwashed plate. A dirty knife and fork had been discarded nearby.
The leader picked up both mugs, the plate and the cutlery, and put them in the sink. He wiped the table with a cloth, then rinsed, folded and placed it over the mixer tap.
‘Oh hi,’ said the sweating man, pushing sunglasses back on to his forehead as he entered. ‘Thought I heard you back. How is he?’ He wore a Clash T-shirt, cargo shorts, sandals. A large plaster covered his right ear.
It was clear the sweating man hadn’t given a thought to his appearance.
‘Dressed for the revolution, citizen?’ said the leader.
He glanced down at his outfit as if seeing it for the first time. ‘It’s hot.’ He shrugged. ‘What should I be wearing?’
The leader stood with his arms folded. ‘You know we’re close to operations, yet you dress for the beach. It’s a mindset. A lazy mindset. A counter-revolutionary mindset.’
The sweating man was uncomfortable now, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. In a glance he noticed the now-clean table.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t mean anything, honest.’ He retied his ponytail. ‘I’m ready for anything, you know that.’ He looked imploringly at the leader. ‘Is there something you’d like me to do?’
The leader didn’t move. ‘Sit down,’ he said. He pointed at the nearest kitchen chair, then drew out a second chair to sit opposite. He leant forward, elbows on his knees.
The sweating man sat down, eyes suddenly wide. ‘We’ve done this before,’ he muttered.
The leader ignored him. ‘Our friend has been poisoned. You asked how he is. Well, he is poisoned. With radiation of some sort. He should recover. The dose he received was small, too small to cause permanent harm.’
‘Well that’s a relief—’
‘Not a relief, no. He was betrayed. Someone knew where he’d be, someone gave him away. A traitor.’ A sheen had appeared on the leader’s face, neck and scalp. ‘Who do you think it might have been, citizen?’
Eyes still wide, hands gripping the sides of the chair, the sweating man’s words deserted him. ‘What? Well … you said … but that …’
‘Who betrayed him?’
‘I have no idea. Are you sure—’
‘Of course we are sure.’ The leader’s hand was back in his pocket. His fingers slowly traced the metal rivets of the knife handle. ‘You heard and saw the evidence.
