Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [125]
“Where is he?”
“Room nine on the second floor.”
“That’s the same room as last time.”
“Maybe we should name it after him.”
Jack shook her head. “I wouldn’t bother. He won’t be coming back.”
The two women stood facing each other, each one waiting for the other to speak.
Mrs. Jones could see the accusation in Jack’s eyes. “This really wasn’t our fault,” she said. “Alex met McCain quite by accident. That business in Scotland had nothing to do with us.”
“But that didn’t stop you from sending him to Greenfields.”
“We had no idea that McCain was involved.”
“And if you had—would that have stopped you?”
Mrs. Jones shrugged. She had no need to answer.
There was a plastic bag resting on a chair. Mrs. Jones picked it up and handed it to Jack. “You might like to give this to Alex. It’s from Smithers. Some chocolates . . .”
“Oh yes? And what do they do? Explode when he puts them into his mouth?”
“They’re soft centers. Smithers thought he might enjoy them.”
Jack took the bag. She glanced toward the elevator, then back at Mrs. Jones. “Promise me that this will be the end of it,” she said. “From what you’ve told me, this time it was worse than ever. It’s a miracle he’s still alive. Do you have any idea what this must be doing to him . . . inside his head, I mean?”
“Actually, I have a very good idea,” Mrs. Jones countered. “I asked our psychiatrists to run a few tests on him.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you. But I mean it, Mrs. Jones. Alex has done enough. I want you out of his life.”
Mrs. Jones sighed. “I can’t promise you that, I’m afraid. First of all, it’s not my decision. And anyway, as I said, this didn’t begin with us. Alex has a knack for finding trouble without any help.”
“I’m not going to let it happen again.”
“Believe me, Jack. I’ll be very happy if you can prevent it.” Mrs. Jones pulled up her collar and tightened her belt. “Anyway,” she said, “Alex is waiting for you. You’d better go up.”
“I’m going. Please thank Mr. Smithers for the chocolates.”
Jack took the elevator to the second floor. She didn’t need to ask for directions. The layout of the hospital was all too familiar. As she approached the door of Alex’s room, a woman came out carrying a breakfast tray, and Jack recognized Diana Meacher, the attractive fair-haired nurse from New Zealand who had looked after Alex once before.
“Go right in,” the nurse said. “He’s been looking forward to seeing you. He’ll be so glad you’re here.”
Jack hesitated, composing herself. Then she went into the room.
Alex was sitting up in bed, reading a magazine. His pajama top was open and she could see that, once again, he was heavily wrapped in bandages, this time around his neck and shoulders. His eyes were bright and he was smiling, but he looked bad. Pain had stamped its memory all over him. He was thin. The haircut that Beckett had given him when he was smuggled out of the country didn’t help.
“Hello, Jack.”
“Hi, Alex.”
She went over to him and kissed him very gently, afraid that she would hurt him. Then she sat down beside the bed.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Terrible.”
“As terrible as you look?”
“Probably.” Alex put down the magazine, and Jack saw that even this movement made him wince. “They’ve taken me off painkillers,” he explained. “They say they don’t want me to get addicted to them.”
“Oh, Alex . . .” Jack’s voice caught in her throat. She had been determined not to cry in front of him, but she couldn’t keep the tears from her eyes.
“I’m fine,” Alex said. “I’m already much better than I was a week ago.” In fact, Alex had spent ten days in the hospital in Nairobi before MI6 had flown him home.
“I wanted to come out and see you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
Jack understood. If he looked this bad now, she could hardly imagine what he must have looked like then. He wouldn’t have wanted her to see him