beating on flesh.
'Cardiac Arrest team. They're walloping his chest now, trying to beat it back into action .. . Being who he is I suggest you give the Home Office another bell. That's my lot, good night.'
The Deputy Governor followed the Doctor down the stairs.
Mr Jones was abandoned in the deserted corridor, hands folded across his stomach, skirted by passing nurses and doctors. A bloody shame for old Demyonov, he thought.
Even a bloody Russian would look forward to going home, wouldn't he, even if it meant traipsing back to Moscow?
Funny thing was that he wasn't a bad chap, and they'd miss him at the Scrubs whether he went out in a box or with a one-way airline ticket.
From his tunic pocket Mr Jones took a set of clippers and started to tidy his nails. There would be a few minutes before the storm broke.
He walked from East Acton Underground station through the estate of Council homes, where the walls were daubed with tribal soccer slogans and teenagers fumbled in the entries to the garages with their girl-friends' zippers.
Past the prison with its floodlit walls topped with barbed wire coils, past the twin towers of the gate house, past the surveillance cameras. His hands were deep in his overcoat pockets, and in the rush out of his home he had forgotten the scarf that was a month-old Christmas present. He had been lucky with his connections, had caught the trains quickly.
God alone knew how he was going to get back to Century, but Alan Millet's wife always took the car on a Saturday night to her bridge session. He'd have to go back into Century, after a thing like this it would be expected of him.
Of course, all the business could have been managed at the end of a telephone, but that wasn't the way of the Service.
Not that Alan Millet could complain. Holly was his man, and once, long ago, Holly had been his pride.
The lights of the hospital blazed down on him as he turned off the pavement and threaded his way through the car park.
The Medical Block had a certain venerable charm, and the warmth cascaded around him. He was stopped by a porter. What was his business? Coronary Care, first floor, he was expected. Alan Millet ignored the uncertain statement that visitors were not permitted this late at night. In his wallet he carried the authority of a polaroid-printed identity card that governs entry to Century House. He hesitated for a moment at the top of the stairs, looked both ways down the corridor, and saw the upright figure of a uniformed prison officer.
He nodded a courtesy greeting and pushed his way through the doors. He saw two occupied beds and, from the pillows, pairs of concerned eyes peered at him. They were the living, they could resent the circus arrival that had been summoned to the curtained laager in the far corner. There was a trolley beside the semi-concealed bed, its top stretcher surface empty. A nurse was detaching electrodes from their cables, another was writing her notes busily. Two young doctors stood close to each other, their eyes hollowed by tiredness. A pair of West Indian porters, expressionless, wheeled the trolley away across the open-plan unit and out through the door.
'Doubtfire, Home Office.' A sharp voice behind Millet.
'You're a bit late, old chap.'
'Millet. . .' he paused,'. . . Foreign and Commonwealth.
What's happened to him.'
'Just gone on the trolley. There's a box underneath the top, they put them in there, doesn't upset people that way.
About twenty minutes ago they gave up. Not a chance, everything done that could have been, he had the red carpet.'
'They said he hadn't long when they called me at home. I suppose I was sort of hoping.. . they're sometimes wrong.'
'Good riddance. What'll he get, Hero of the bloody Soviet Union?'
A nursing Sister approached the two men. The message was bright in her eyes. This was an operational area.
Doubtfire had a car and driver. Night Duty Officer for the Home Office, a travelling fire brigade. He was returning to his
'Cardiac Arrest team. They're walloping his chest now, trying to beat it back into action .. . Being who he is I suggest you give the Home Office another bell. That's my lot, good night.'
The Deputy Governor followed the Doctor down the stairs.
Mr Jones was abandoned in the deserted corridor, hands folded across his stomach, skirted by passing nurses and doctors. A bloody shame for old Demyonov, he thought.
Even a bloody Russian would look forward to going home, wouldn't he, even if it meant traipsing back to Moscow?
Funny thing was that he wasn't a bad chap, and they'd miss him at the Scrubs whether he went out in a box or with a one-way airline ticket.
From his tunic pocket Mr Jones took a set of clippers and started to tidy his nails. There would be a few minutes before the storm broke.
He walked from East Acton Underground station through the estate of Council homes, where the walls were daubed with tribal soccer slogans and teenagers fumbled in the entries to the garages with their girl-friends' zippers.
Past the prison with its floodlit walls topped with barbed wire coils, past the twin towers of the gate house, past the surveillance cameras. His hands were deep in his overcoat pockets, and in the rush out of his home he had forgotten the scarf that was a month-old Christmas present. He had been lucky with his connections, had caught the trains quickly.
God alone knew how he was going to get back to Century, but Alan Millet's wife always took the car on a Saturday night to her bridge session. He'd have to go back into Century, after a thing like this it would be expected of him.
Of course, all the business could have been managed at the end of a telephone, but that wasn't the way of the Service.
Not that Alan Millet could complain. Holly was his man, and once, long ago, Holly had been his pride.
The lights of the hospital blazed down on him as he turned off the pavement and threaded his way through the car park.
The Medical Block had a certain venerable charm, and the warmth cascaded around him. He was stopped by a porter. What was his business? Coronary Care, first floor, he was expected. Alan Millet ignored the uncertain statement that visitors were not permitted this late at night. In his wallet he carried the authority of a polaroid-printed identity card that governs entry to Century House. He hesitated for a moment at the top of the stairs, looked both ways down the corridor, and saw the upright figure of a uniformed prison officer.
He nodded a courtesy greeting and pushed his way through the doors. He saw two occupied beds and, from the pillows, pairs of concerned eyes peered at him. They were the living, they could resent the circus arrival that had been summoned to the curtained laager in the far corner. There was a trolley beside the semi-concealed bed, its top stretcher surface empty. A nurse was detaching electrodes from their cables, another was writing her notes busily. Two young doctors stood close to each other, their eyes hollowed by tiredness. A pair of West Indian porters, expressionless, wheeled the trolley away across the open-plan unit and out through the door.
'Doubtfire, Home Office.' A sharp voice behind Millet.
'You're a bit late, old chap.'
'Millet. . .' he paused,'. . . Foreign and Commonwealth.
What's happened to him.'
'Just gone on the trolley. There's a box underneath the top, they put them in there, doesn't upset people that way.
About twenty minutes ago they gave up. Not a chance, everything done that could have been, he had the red carpet.'
'They said he hadn't long when they called me at home. I suppose I was sort of hoping.. . they're sometimes wrong.'
'Good riddance. What'll he get, Hero of the bloody Soviet Union?'
A nursing Sister approached the two men. The message was bright in her eyes. This was an operational area.
Doubtfire had a car and driver. Night Duty Officer for the Home Office, a travelling fire brigade. He was returning to his
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