Zero Option

Whinge. You'll need to collect it and take it with you.'

'No bother. I'll get it now.'

Away he went. As I looked for the last time at larrell's body, my mind took off on a fast re-run of all the aggravation he'd caused me: Kath's death, the night he'd appeared at the farm outside Belfast, my own attempts to top him, the firefight in the Colombian jungle — and now all this. My loathing for him still burned, but for the hundredth time I wondered how people like him and Marty Malone could let their whole lives be shaped — and cut short — by an irrational hatred of people they don't know, people they haven't even seen. How could anyone be so twisted by religion and history?

Tony gave a grunt, trying to sit up, but I made him lie down again, saying, 'You lost a lot of blood. Just wait for the chopper.'

'Geordie?' he murmured.

'I'm here.'

'Have you got Tim back?'

'Not yet. But he's safe.'

'Tracy?'

'Safe as well.'

'Thank God!'

Unable to speak, I gave him a gentle thump on his good shoulder. Luckily Whinger chose that moment to return with the Haskins and launch one of his rhyming summations. 'Bacon and eggs,' he said.

'Where?'

'The dregs.' He pointed at the bodies. Despite the gore around us, the mention of food had suddenly made me feel starving.

'Talking of eggs, I could eat four easily,' I said.

'Maybe six.'

The too. And a few slices of ham with them. And a few pints of Stella along with it.'

The PIRA helicopter had vanished, but I could still hear an aircraft engine, and a minute later the QtkF Puma lifted over the horizon, heading for us. As it came in to land a few yards away I crouched down beside Tony to shield him from the blast of the down-draught.

I could see several of our guys in the cabin, and they stayed put, giving thumbs-up signs, while two medics whipped out with a stretcher. The nature of Tony's wound was pretty obvious, from the tourniquet and the blood on his DPMs, so I didn't try to tell them what to do, and in a few moments they had him expertly trussed, ready to be loaded. As soon as the stretcher was safely in I gave Whinger a wave and followed aboard.

The flight lasted only fifteen minutes. I slipped into the overalls somebody handed me, and looked down at the sunlit scene below. The time as still barely 0730, and on the motorways the morning rush hour was building up. As we skimmed over thousands of houses and roads jammed with crawling cars, I thanked my stars that I wasn't in the Granada, with Farrell very much alive and kicking, on our way to a doubtful rendezvous under the flightpath out of Heathrow. One more near-miss on the M25 and I'd have gone round the twist.

The Puma was too big to land on the hospital's helipad, so it put down on a playing field, where an ambulance was waiting. I rode in the back with Tony the few yards to the casualty entrance, and suddenly there we were, back in the world of stainless steel, green gowns, starched white caps and smells of disinfectant. I found myself thinking of Pat, with all the pins sticking through his thigh. I realised I hadn't given him a thought in days, and now I resolved to check he was doing all right. Almost certainly Tony would end up alongside him in Wroughton.

They took Tony straight into theatre, and for a minute I was left alone in a waiting room. Then a nurse, a pretty blonde woman, appeared and said, 'Sergeant Sharp?'

'That's me. Where are they?'

'I'll take you up.'

She led the way up a short flight of steps and along a corridor. I followed, uncomfortably aware that in those ultra-hygiffnic surroundings I cut a peculiar figure. My boots were smeared with mud, and it was three days since I'd shaved. Thank God they couldn't see the Sig in its holster under my arm.

The nurse walked so fast that I almost had to run to keep up with her. 'Are they all right?' I asked.

'Well, they've had a pretty bad time.'

I didn't like the sound of that, but I asked no more questions.

We went through some swing-doors into what looked like a private ward, with single rooms leading off it to either side. A uniformed copper was hovering, and out of an office came a woman in a smart, dark-blue uniform. Dimly I realised that this was the matron — but one hell of a matron: young, chic, and with a dazzling smile.

'Your wife's there, in number one,' she said, pointing at the nearest door.

I ignored the mistake and said, 'Is she OK?'

Before the matron could answer, a terrible noise burst through the door — half a scream, half a hoarse roar, inarticulate, but unmistakably Tracy's voice.

I was through the door like a rocket. A doctor in a white coat was standing in the middle of the room with his back to me. Facing him, perched on the edge of the bed in white pyjamas and robe, was Tracy. Her appearance gave me a terrible jolt. Her hair had gone black — of course, no one had warned me of that — and her face was as white as her pyjamas, and screwed up with tension. She looked ten years older, the ghost of the girl I knew.

I came to a halt, rooted by shock. Then she saw me.

With another awful cry she sprang offthe bed, knocked the doctor spinning, rushed at me and flung her arms round my neck. When I hugged her to me she felt like a sackful of bones.

Hardly had we come together when she went slack in my arms and started sinking to the floor.

'She's fainted again,' said the doctor calmly. 'She's done that twice already. Put her on the bed.'

I did as he said and stood back, breathless with dismay, and with a dreadful fear that the ordeal had sent her mad.

'What's the matter with her?' I gasped.

'Delayed shock. She'll be all right, but she's having a rough ride for the moment.'

I glanced at the doctor and saw he was only about my age, ruddy and fit-looking. He gave me a sympathetic look and explained, 'When she arrived she was on a terrific high. But it only lasted about quarter of an hour.

She was laughing and joking all over the place, then suddenly she went right down. And this is the result.'

'What's the answer?'

'The best thing is to sedate her for twenty-four hours.'

'Can't I take her home?'

'Not really — it could be dangerous. She might become violent or do something crazy. She ought to remain under observation. Besides, Special Branch want to interview her as soon as she's stable.'

'You don't think her mind's impaired?'

'Oh, no. Give her time and she'll be fine.'

'Where's Tim?'

'A doctor's looking at his eye. He got a blow on it some days ago.'

'Is he as bad as this — mentally, I mean?'

'Not as bad. Of course, I don't know what he's like normally, but he seems very withdrawn. There — she's coming round now.'

Tracy stirred and opened her eyes. I dragged a chair up to the side of the bed and sat down, holding her hand, my face close to hers.

'It's OK, Trace,' I said gently. 'It's me, Geordie.'

She turned her head and looked at me, but not with any affection. On the contrary, she gave me a hard stare, then turned away again, as if she equated me with the enemy and wanted nothing to do with me. She closed her eyes tight and began to gasp and shake. A shudder coursed down her body, head to toe, so that her whole body frame began quivering on the bed. I realised that the devils were coming out of her, but the violence of it was dreadful to see. Then out burst another terrifying hoarse roar, a noise so ugly I couldn't-believe she was making it.

I held on to her hand tighter, feeling my own teals coming, until gradually she quietened. I heard the door close behind me and turned and blinked at it. The doctor had gone. I held on, letting time pass.

The doctor was right. This wasn't something that I could handle. At least Tracy's fingers were clutching mine. Perhaps some contact was getting through.

Presently her shakes subsided completely. I stroked her gaunt cheek with the back of my hand and whispered, 'Stop worrying, Trace. You're safe now. It's all over.'