The view from Westminster Bridge was anything but fair, it was black... jet black.
Steven regained consciousness, but not in a slow, sleepy way. His mind was suddenly full of twisted, broken limbs, scarlet fountains of blood and men in black pointing guns at him. He tried sitting up in alarm but pain in his head suggested that was not a good idea. He was lowered back down by caring hands and a female voice soothed him as he gazed up at a white hospital ceiling.
‘Welcome back,’ said the voice and Steven looked up at a young nurse who was quickly joined by another.
‘I’m alive,’ said Steven, sounding puzzled. ‘The police shot me, but I’m alive.’
‘One policeman shot you,’ said one of the nurses. ‘He was a bit hyped when he saw you pick up a gun. The armed police commander had heard what you had said and had decided against shooting you. When he saw one of the younger officers, fuelled by nerves, tighten his trigger finger he nudged the man’s weapon upwards with the barrel of his own, but a bullet creased the area near your temple.’
‘Jane!’ exclaimed Steven as everything came flooding back. ‘What happened to Jane?’
‘She’s in theatre as we speak. If it was you who applied the tourniquet to her leg, you saved her life.’
‘Her leg...’ said Steven, remembering the dreadful damage.
‘Too early to say.’
‘God, it was a mess.’
The nurse nodded.
The other nurse said, ‘There are lots of people waiting to talk to you when you wake up, but we won’t tell them if you don’t want to see anyone just yet.’
Steven said, ‘Thanks, but I think I should.’
The nurses left the room, leaving the door slightly open, which allowed a variety of hospital sounds to reach him as he relaxed on the pillow looking for any blemish in the smooth white of the ceiling. The musical background sounds of some radio or television programme was interrupted by a dramatic announcement of, ‘yet another terrorist outrage in central London.’
Steven strained to hear more but John Macmillan came into the room and closed the door behind him.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Just a scratch as they used to say in Western movies,’ Steven replied.
‘A bit more than that I understand,’ said Macmillan, ‘anther half inch and...’
‘I knew someone was bound to point out just how lucky I’d been,’ said Steven. ‘They tell me Jane is in theatre?’
Macmillan nodded. ‘No news as yet.’
‘And the guy who did it?’
‘Dead.’
‘Just the one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ said Steven bitterly. ‘Terror related or lone wolf as they tend to call nutters these days?’
‘He was Russian.’
‘Ouch,’ said Steven after a short silence. ‘You know, that was the last though I had before the bastard went for us. The car wasn’t weaving; the driver wasn’t interested in killing anyone else, he headed straight for Jane and I. We were his targets.’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Looks like the Prime Minister was right when she suggested enough money will get you a mole in any organisation.’
‘I hope you’re not including Sci-Med in that assertion.’
‘No,’ said Steven. ‘Mind you, if Jean turns up next week driving a Maserati Ghibli and wearing a rock the size of Gibraltar...’
‘Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour,’ said Macmillan. ‘Let’s hope she keeps hers when I tell her what you said...’
‘Jean and I are okay,’ said Steven attempting a smile which hurt his head, causing him to gasp and Macmillan to get to his feet. ‘Take it easy,’ he said.
‘Who else is out there?’ Steven asked.
‘Various senior policemen from a number of different groups, but I and the head of MI6 will head them off: we have the Home Secretary’s approval. I also took the liberty of saying that you would not be making a complaint to the Police Complaints Commission about being shot.’
Steven nodded and said, ‘But maybe they shouldn’t wire them to the mains before sending them out on the streets with automatic weapons.’
‘It’s difficult,’ said Macmillan, ‘They have to believe they’re on the edge of disaster every time they’re called out.’
‘How about the car and the dead Russian?’
‘All gone, never happened, all a misunderstanding blown up by rumours, witnesses are famed for exaggeration; there will be no police or any kind of official confirmation to support what they think they saw happen.’
‘Fake news,’ said Steven.
‘Fake news,’ agreed Macmillan. ‘Time to rest your furrowed brow — no pun intended.’
Every time a nurse came in to check his pulse and blood pressure Steven would ask for news of Jane Sherman, only to be told that she was still in surgery. This went on until early evening when he noticed a certain reluctance in the nurse who came in to change his bandage. Sensing bad news, he didn’t ask immediately; he gave the nurse time to prepare her delivery.
‘Your colleague is out of theatre and she is stable...’
‘But?’
‘They couldn’t save her leg, I’m sorry.’
Steven nodded. He had the seen the awful mess her leg had been in, but felt there was no harm in wishing for a miracle.
‘Thanks,’ Steven murmured, ‘when do you think I’ll be able to see her?’
‘Mr Naismith — her surgeon — thinks it would be better to wait until the morning.’
Steven nodded again. ‘Okay.’
Next morning, Steven went through the hospital discharge routines before being allowed to get dressed, wishing that Macmillan might have cut through that red tape as well, but he hadn’t. Forms had to be completed in duplicate and signed by people who weren’t there at the moment but should be around soon. A request to the pharmacy for a supply of painkillers for his headache was being delayed due to lack of staff and his suggestion that he could deal with that himself was met with a rules is rules reply and a bit of tongue biting on his part.
The first thing Steven saw when he opened the door of the room the room was an armed policeman and it gave him a bad moment: he had overlooked the fact that there might be a police guard put on himself and Jane after what had happened. He had come so close to becoming a corpse riddled by ‘friendly fire’. He didn’t react outwardly, nor did he smile at the officer when the man held out his shoulder holster with the Glock in place. ‘Sir John asked that this be returned to you, sir.’
‘Is it loaded?’
‘No, sir, but it’s been cleaned and oiled.’ The officer handed a separate supply of 9mm ammunition. ‘People usually like to do that themselves.’
Steven nodded his agreement and backed into the room to do just that, looking out the window when he’d finished to consider the past twenty-four hours. He had just reloaded the gun that he’d used to kill someone yesterday, a day on which he himself had come so close to dying and, now... it was a brand-new day... and he was about to go see a colleague who had lost one of her legs. What would he say?
He let out a slight involuntary sound when he suddenly thought about the Today programme that he and Tally listened to in the morning. There came a point in the proceedings — Thought for The Day — when someone, usually of a religious persuasion, was invited to contribute their wisdom. ‘Well, sunshine,’ he thought, ‘what would you make of that one?’
As he left the room, the officer said, ‘Harry Thomson.’
Steven gave him an enquiring look.
‘The officer who shot you, he said to say sorry... he’s having counselling.’
Steven thought for a moment before saying, ‘Tell him... these things happen.’