After a minute or so a nurse put her head around the door. And smiled warmly.

‘About time too. We were starting to wonder if you were going to sleep all morning. Want a drink?’

Mickey nodded, sucking gratefully at the tube she offered. Cool water. His mouth lubricated, he managed to croak a word. ‘Hurts.’

‘Really hurts, or just uncomfortable?’

‘Bit of both.’

She nodded, passing him another control. ‘Press this button once to get a small dose of the good stuff. Press it every five minutes until you feel OK. After that don’t press it again until it starts to hurt again. You came back from surgery about an hour ago, and you’ll be pleased to know that the bullet that hit you went straight through without hitting anything too important. Nicked your bowel, which has been sewn up and carpet-bombed with antibiotics. Hungry?’

Mickey shook his head, pressed the button, lay back and went back to sleep. Woke again with the same discomfort. Pressed the button again and waited for the pain to ease. Felt the soft pleasure of opiates caress his body and smiled.

‘Well I’m glad you can find something funny in this fucking awful mess.’

He opened his eyes to find Roz by the bed. The clock telling him it was 08.39. Her expression somewhere between concern and exasperation. He pointed to the water bottle on the bedside cabinet. ‘Drink?’

The water was warmer this time, but no less welcome. Mickey would have happily gone back to sleep, but Roz had other ideas.

‘Apparently you’ve got a fucking great big hole in you, and everyone thinks you’re lucky to be alive.’

Mickey nodded tiredly. ‘Assassination attempt.’

‘Well duh! It’s all over the news channels. Cars blown up, police dead. Civilians too. There were suicide bombers!’

‘Yeah. I remember something like that.’

Roz stared at him for a moment. And all Mickey could do was smile wanly back at her, his mind too frazzled for anything better.

‘And there’s you. Almost the only survivor, apart from Kev Smalls and some army bloke. And that politician prick, obviously. Smiling like it’s a fucking great big joke! What about all those dead coppers? What about their families?’

‘They will be looked after, Mrs Bale. The Met always cares for its own.’

They both looked over to the door. Jasmine Chen, in full uniform. Career hard woman incarnate. She looked tired and, to put no gloss on it, pissed off.

‘If you could see your way to allowing me a minute or two with your husband, Mrs Bale? I promise to get out of your hair as quickly as possible.’

Roz snorted derisively, turning for the door.

‘Have him for as long as you like. I’m done with him.’