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Joker’s mind whirled. He had to work out what she knew and what she didn’t, give her only the information she already had and spin the rest out until he could find some way of escaping. She knew he was in the SAS, she knew his real name, there was a reasonable chance that the men in New York had told her that he’d been asking questions about Bailey in Filbin’s. All of this she probably knew, so what secrets was she after? What did she want to know? The fingers squeezed, suddenly and viciously, and he screamed. His testicles felt like eggs being clamped in a vice and he was sure that one more turn and the shells would crack and splinter. Hennessy’s hands relaxed but the pain didn’t decrease, it seemed to spread up his spine and into his stomach. He drew one of his legs up as far as he could and that seemed to ease it somewhat, but it was still excruciating. Hennessy’s hand slid back to his groin and hovered inches from his aching reproductive organs. “Don’t play dumb with me, Cramer. I haven’t even started with you yet. Remember Newmarch? That’s nothing compared with what I have in store for you if you don’t talk.”

“New York,” said Joker slowly. “I heard Bailey was in New York.”

“Heard?” she repeated. “How did you hear that?”

“Pete Manyon,” replied Joker.

“Ah, yes,” said Hennessy, removing her hand. She picked up something from the workbench and held it in front of his face. It was his wallet. “Damien O’Brien,” she said. “Good Irish name, that, Cramer.” She took out the UK driving licence. “Looks genuine,” she said, and dropped it on the floor. She held out the Visa card. “This is definitely the real thing,” she said, throwing it down. “In fact, all your paperwork seems first class, Cramer. I suppose that makes it an official operation, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. He closed his eyes. Hennessy threw the wallet at his face.

“So how come you look like shit, Cramer? How come the SAS sends a wreck like you after Bailey?”

Joker said nothing, because it wasn’t a question he could answer. Hennessy went back to the workbench and picked up the pruning shears. Joker’s hands clenched as he recalled what she’d done to Newmarch’s fingers. His wrists rubbed against the chain and he felt blood run down his arms.

“It doesn’t make sense, Cramer. There are plenty of Sass-men they could have sent, guys like Pete Manyon. Young, fit, smart. Why would they send you?”

Joker swallowed and felt the metallic taste of blood at the back of his throat. He tried to talk but no words came. He swallowed again. “Water,” he managed to croak.

Hennessy smiled. “You want water?” she said. She picked up the beaker and held it to his lips. He felt the liquid against his cracked and bleeding lips and he swallowed greedily, realising too late that it was salty. He coughed and choked and spat it out, his throat on fire.

Hennessy laughed and dropped the tumbler back into the bucket. “Let me give you the questions first,” she said. “I want to know what you were told Bailey was doing here. And I want to know why they sent you.” She held up the pruning shears. Joker moaned and raised his head, the movement sending stabs of pain through his neck and shoulders, and focused on his wrists. The chains had rubbed deep into the flesh and there was fresh wet blood on the shiny metal.

Hennessy grabbed his hair and wrenched his head back. “So, are you ready to tell me why you were following Bailey?” she hissed.

Joker swallowed. What could he tell her? That he was tracking Bailey to find her. And why was he looking for her? To kill her. Joker didn’t want to think what she’d do to him if he told her that. “Orders,” he said.

Hennessy let go of his hair and tapped the blades of the shears against her cheek. “When did you leave the SAS, Cramer?” she asked.

“Three years ago,” he said.

Hennessy nodded. “Why?”

Joker closed his eyes. “Medical discharge,” he said.

Hennessy waited until he opened his eyes again. “Because of that?” She nodded at the scar on his stomach and groin.

“Yes,” said Joker.

“So now whose orders are you acting on?” she asked.

“They brought me back,” he said, each word grating on his tongue.

“Why you?” she said.

Joker closed his eyes again. It didn’t hurt quite as much in the dark, as if the fluorescent lights were keeping the nerves to his brain on constant overload. In the darkness he could concentrate on the pain in his wrists and chest and try to will it away.

“Don’t pass out on me again,” said Hennessy softly. Joker felt the tip of the shears press against his left breast, circling. He opened his eyes. She held a paper cup of water to his lips. He tested it with the tip of his tongue and to his surprise it wasn’t salty. He drank, deeply, but after the third swallow she took it away. Joker licked his lips, not wanting to waste a drop.

“Why did they bring you back?” she asked.

Joker shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.

Hennessy narrowed her eyes as realisation dawned. “It was me, wasn’t it? You were after me?” She threw the paper cup away, her eyes blazing. She placed her left hand against his breast and stroked the nipple with her thumb. It stiffened involuntarily as she circled it, rubbing it slowly. Joker tried to back away, his feet shuffling along the floor, tangled in his jeans and boxer shorts, but she gripped his nipple between her thumb and first finger, a look of contempt in her eyes. “Don’t,” he said, hating himself for begging and knowing that it wouldn’t do any good. She slipped the blades of the shears either side of the nipple and grunted as she forced the handles together. Joker felt the blades bite through his flesh and click together somewhere deep inside the muscle behind the breast and then the pain lanced through his chest as if he’d been impaled on a metal spike. Joker screamed and he felt himself start to black out. He grabbed for the oblivion, welcoming it because it would put an end to the pain, but it was elusive, and the more he tried to pass out the clearer his thoughts became. Hennessy knew exactly what she was doing and she stood by his side, waiting for his breathing to steady so that she could continue.

Mary walked into the kitchen and closed the door to the basement behind her. Carlos and Bailey were sitting at the table, drinking tea and talking in low voices. They both looked up as she walked over to the fridge and took out a can of Diet Coke.

“Did he say anything?” asked Carlos. His hand was buried in a bag of chocolate chip cookies and he put one in his mouth, whole.

Mary smiled thinly. “He’s talking,” she said, popping the tab on the can. She sipped it. Bailey was looking at her with horror in his eyes and she realised there was blood on the front of her shirt, a thin dribble of red that ran down her left breast. “He’s unconscious now. I’ll leave him for a while. It’s always more effective if they have a chance to think about their options.”

She pulled out a chair and sat down at the pine table. “He says he followed you from the airfield, Matthew. And he says he heard about the airfield in New York.”

Bailey nodded, his hands tight around a white mug. “That’s what Pat Farrell said,” agreed Bailey. “Did he admit to killing the two guys?”

“We haven’t got to that yet,” said Mary.

“Who sent him here?” asked Carlos, tossing another cookie into his mouth. He chewed noisily and with relish.

“He says the SAS, and I believe him,” answered Mary. “His ID looks genuine, which means that it’s Government sanctioned.”

The two men nodded. “Where’s everyone else?” asked Mary.

Carlos gestured upwards. “Stripping their rifles,” he said.

“Do you think we should stay here?” Bailey said.

Mary shrugged. “I don’t see why not. He seems to be acting alone.”

Carlos frowned. “You think the British Government would send one man?”

“It’s possible,” replied Mary. “And this man is unusual. He left the SAS some time ago, and I think a large part of that is because of what I did to him in Ireland three years ago. I killed a friend of his, and I nearly killed him.”