She glanced at the locker at the side of the bed, then shook her head.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I do believe you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And I’m sorry about your guy, Jones. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I wouldn’t have, if I’d known who he was. How’s he doing, anyway? Will he be OK?”
“Don’t worry. He’ll be fine in a little while. He’ll recover, and he’ll have learned a useful lesson.”
“And I’m sorry for throwing a spanner into whatever you’re working on.”
“Thanks. I’m trying to keep the lid on a powder keg here, and flying spanners are the last things I need. Plus I’ve been stuck with mentoring Tim. That’s another reason I was a little crabby last night. I hate baby-sitting. Specially when the baby ends up in Intensive Care.”
There was a sharp knock at the door before I could reply.
“Come in,” I said, reluctantly. I was enjoying the conversation, and I wanted to find out more about what she was doing at the hospital. Hints about powder kegs with loose lids can have that effect.
The agent broke eye contact as the door swung open and a nurse I’d not seen before stepped into the room.
“It’s me, Suzanne,” the nurse said. “And you have a visitor, I see.”
“Don’t mind me,” the agent said. “I can’t hang around, anyway. Just one more question for you, though, David, before I go. Your boots. If you got them back, would you hang around?”
“Are you joking?” I said. “You wouldn’t see me for dust.”
Chapter Six
The new nurse held the door for the agent until she’d negotiated her way back into the corridor, then strode over to the bed and started her routine mauling. She was alarmingly enthusiastic.
“Your temperature’s OK,” she said, making a note on my chart. “Blood pressure’s a little low, but nothing to worry about. Same for heart rate. Now let’s talk about what really matters. Your head. How is it? Have you had any pain?”
“I had a pretty bad headache last night,” I said, thinking back to the conversation I’d had with my control once Nurse Smith had left me alone. They appreciated the heads-up, I suppose, but that didn’t outweigh their irritation at having to mend fences with MI5. “It’s a little better now, but it hasn’t quite gone away completely.”
“That’s understandable. And what about nausea? Have you been feeling sick at all?”
“I had one pretty bad episode,” I said, picturing myself surrounded by Jackson’s display of management-speak posters.
“And did you actually throw up?”
“Not quite. I managed to restrain myself.”
“You shouldn’t do that, you know. If you feel like vomiting, your body’s telling you something. You shouldn’t hold back. If there’s something bad in there, it needs to come out.”
“I’ll remember that, next time,” I said, suppressing a smile as I pictured how that would go down with Jackson’s prim secretary.
“Any memory loss, while you’ve been here?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“That’s a difficult question to answer, isn’t it? How do you know you’ve forgotten something, until you’ve remembered it again? Or someone reminds you? But still, it’s important, so anything like that, we need to know. Now, concentration. How are you finding that?”
“Sorry, what was the question?”
“Concentration. Have you - oh. I see. Never mind. So, what’s next? Your sight. Any problems with focussing, field of vision, anything like that?”
“I feel like I’ve maybe had a bit of tunnel vision since I’ve been here,” I said, thinking about my missing boots. Then the MI5 agent’s intense, worried face floated into my mind. “Although, that might be easing a little, now.”
“Good. Now, one last thing. And don’t take offence at this, but you’re a man, so I want you to take a moment and think before you answer. I want you to be honest. It’s about your emotions. Don’t deny having any. I know you do. So just think, and tell me if you’ve had any mood swings in the last twenty-four hours. Or if you’ve felt angry. Or frustrated. Or even just a little bit cranky.”
The truth was I had been pretty irritable since I’d got there - with the betrayal over my boots, and having to deal with the unhelpful Jackson and obstructive Lydia. And the way I felt had suddenly changed, as well - since this morning’s encounter with the MI5 agent. So this time when I answered, I wasn’t just angling to be kept in the hospital.
“Yes,” I said, after a suitable delay. “I think so. All of the above.”
Suzanne scribbled deliberately on the chart for another couple of minutes, then hung the clipboard back in its place. But instead of leaving like the other nurses had done at that stage, she crossed to the window and gazed out across the square. Thirty seconds passed in silence, then she started talking. About the storm, and the damage it had caused. About her children. Her husband. Their neighbourhood. The TV shows she liked. Where she’d been on holiday. On and on, until a quarter of an hour had dragged by. I was beginning to wonder if it was some kind of technique to assess my mental state - seeing how long I could stand her babble before strangling her and hiding the body in a laundry cart - when someone tapped on the door, breaking her off mid sentence.
“Who is it?” I said, before she could get back into her stride.
The door opened and a man stepped into the room. I’d guess he was probably in his late sixties. He was tall - around six foot three - with immaculately combed silver hair, an elegant, plain grey three piece suit, and black Oxford shoes that were polished like crystal. If someone had told me he was an ex-Guards officer I wouldn’t have been surprised. He paused to gently close the door, and when he turned back to face me I saw he was holding a green plastic bag in his right hand, low down by his side.
“Would you by any chance be Lieutenant-Commander Trevellyan, sir?” he said, looking straight ahead.
“I would,” I said, glancing at Suzanne to see if she reacted to the way he’d addressed me.
“In that case, I have a delivery for you,” he said, handing me the bag.
“Thank you,” I said, relieved that she was just staring out of the window again, not paying much attention. “Who’s it from?”
“I have no idea, sir. Perhaps there’s a note inside the package? Such an arrangement is customary, I believe.”
“Very kind of you to point that out. That’s the first place I’ll check.”
“Very good, sir,” he said, reaching back for the door handle. “Now if there’s nothing else, I really must excuse myself.”
“What are you waiting for?” Suzanne said, the moment the door had shut behind him. I guess she had been listening after all, but if she was more interested in the parcel than me, then I was happy. “Open it. Open it. What’s inside? Let me see.”
The bag contained a white cardboard box, five inches by eleven by fourteen. Three quarters of the lid was covered by a logo - a stylised Tudor rose with a capital ‘G’ in the centre - and on both long sides the words ‘Grenson, England 1866’ were printed in bold red ink. I opened it and unfolded a double layer of tissue paper. There was a brand new pair of boots nestling beneath it. They were black leather. Lace up. With a classic brogue pattern.