‘You’re pregnant?’
‘Yes… impregnated by your gallant sperm.’
‘When? How?’
‘About a month ago, I guess. How — I’ll draw you a diagram this afternoon, then tonight we can do a re-enactment if you like? But more to the point, how do you feel about it?’
Donaldson caught a sob in his throat. ‘Fantastic,’ he said, his eyes moistening. ‘Utterly, utterly, fantastic. What about you?’
‘Great — sick, but great. Just more icing on our cake.’
‘I love you, babe.’
‘Love you too.’
The conversation degenerated into several minutes of cooing and lovey-dovey words designed to make any eavesdropper poorly, before they hung up, desperate to see each other later in the day.
In the blink of an eye, Karl Donaldson’s world had a renewal of perspective. Suddenly, he was no longer bothered about Don Barber and what he had to say to him. He could wait for the answers now. They would come as he and Henry investigated the man. The two other men would be identified in time — and no doubt turn out to be FBI operatives with military backgrounds who both knew Shark. And as for the hit man known as the American, so what? He was still out there, plying his dirty trade, but again, so what? One day, Donaldson, or someone like him, would take the bastard down, but for the moment, he could stay out there. His time would come, probably in a hail of bullets.
Donaldson could not wipe the stupid grin off his face. He did an about turn, trotted across the promenade to the seafront and gazed at the horizon, his chest bursting with pride, almost unable to breathe, swallowing back his tears. This is what real life is all about, he thought. Sperm and babies.