sidled through the bushes and collapsed among the trees.
There, he went online and left a message. Emergency. Collect me from The Copse, Hoo. Armed thugs not far away, looking for me.
He rested against a tree trunk and examined his right-hand side. His shirtsleeve was dissolving and small holes had appeared in his trousers. Underneath, his leg tingled. The artificial skin
stretched over his arm had turned orangey-brown and, as he watched, it was still darkening. He hoped the paint stripper wouldn’t go right through.
“More damage to government property,” he muttered to himself.
As his heart slowed and breathing became easier, he wished for Winter to come early.
In the underground medical room of the Highgate Village house, Jordan sat in the chair that looked like a dentist’s. With trays of tools at hand, a technician was peeling
back the blackened skin from his arm. “It’s called de-gloving,” she told him.
He knew why. It was like removing a very tight and stretchy glove. “Is the metal underneath okay?”
“It’s fine. It’ll cope with a lot worse than caustic solutions.”
Interrupting, Angel said, “But don’t try it. A bullet and paint stripper’s quite enough.” He sat down opposite his youngest agent. “So, you think Melissa Pink could
be out of the picture. And she thinks it was peace protesters, but she didn’t have any evidence.”
“Yes.”
Even when Angel was sitting down, his stature was striking. Jordan would’ve liked to see him next to Melissa Pink. They would have made a comical mismatch. Opposites in height, opposites
in law.
Winter chipped in, “And you didn’t get anything more on Salam Bool?”
“No.”
“You won’t give up, though,” said Angel.
Jordan never did. For one thing, he was alive. Even when ten thugs had been on the verge of pushing him into a pool of corrosive fluid at gunpoint, Jordan hadn’t surrendered.
The technician looked like a nurse as she attended to Jordan’s arm, but really she was an engineer. She could have been repairing a dented car left at her service centre. Finishing the
de-gloving, she cast the damaged silicone sleeve aside.
Looking at it, Jordan imagined his fake arm was a snake that had just shed its skin.
“Okay,” she said. “A wash of the casing, then I’m going to put the spare on.”
Angel gave her a slight nod before announcing to Jordan, “And I’m going to send you to prison tomorrow.”
Jordan stared at him. “What?”
“Well, a Young Offender Institution attached to Chelmsford Prison.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s a prisoner I want you to meet. An arms trade protester who’s inside for trying to set fire to a missile base. Name of Gideon Riley. Apparently, everyone calls
him Giddy. He’s high profile in the anti-war movement. He’ll know if that’s what the estuary explosion was all about. To pass the time, he’s formed a group – he plays
guitar – but he’s about to lose his drummer.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m getting him moved to a different prison. You can help Riley with the gap in his band.”
“You know about me and drums?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing my job properly.”
Jordan wasn’t surprised, but he was dismayed. He knew very little about Angel, but Angel knew everything about him. To Jordan, that felt wrong. And creepy. He wanted to have secrets.
Without them, he wasn’t his own person. He might as well belong to Unit Red. He promised himself he’d keep some secrets from Angel and Winter. Including Amy Goss.
“You’ve gone quiet,” said Angel. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” Jordan replied. “I was just wondering what I’m supposed to do with Gideon Riley – apart from join his band.”
Angel shrugged. “Make friends. Gain his trust. Let him talk. You just have to listen.”
“And hope he mentions blowing up the Richard Montgomery ?”
“Or convinces you he didn’t. As soon as you find out, you’ll
There, he went online and left a message. Emergency. Collect me from The Copse, Hoo. Armed thugs not far away, looking for me.
He rested against a tree trunk and examined his right-hand side. His shirtsleeve was dissolving and small holes had appeared in his trousers. Underneath, his leg tingled. The artificial skin
stretched over his arm had turned orangey-brown and, as he watched, it was still darkening. He hoped the paint stripper wouldn’t go right through.
“More damage to government property,” he muttered to himself.
As his heart slowed and breathing became easier, he wished for Winter to come early.
In the underground medical room of the Highgate Village house, Jordan sat in the chair that looked like a dentist’s. With trays of tools at hand, a technician was peeling
back the blackened skin from his arm. “It’s called de-gloving,” she told him.
He knew why. It was like removing a very tight and stretchy glove. “Is the metal underneath okay?”
“It’s fine. It’ll cope with a lot worse than caustic solutions.”
Interrupting, Angel said, “But don’t try it. A bullet and paint stripper’s quite enough.” He sat down opposite his youngest agent. “So, you think Melissa Pink could
be out of the picture. And she thinks it was peace protesters, but she didn’t have any evidence.”
“Yes.”
Even when Angel was sitting down, his stature was striking. Jordan would’ve liked to see him next to Melissa Pink. They would have made a comical mismatch. Opposites in height, opposites
in law.
Winter chipped in, “And you didn’t get anything more on Salam Bool?”
“No.”
“You won’t give up, though,” said Angel.
Jordan never did. For one thing, he was alive. Even when ten thugs had been on the verge of pushing him into a pool of corrosive fluid at gunpoint, Jordan hadn’t surrendered.
The technician looked like a nurse as she attended to Jordan’s arm, but really she was an engineer. She could have been repairing a dented car left at her service centre. Finishing the
de-gloving, she cast the damaged silicone sleeve aside.
Looking at it, Jordan imagined his fake arm was a snake that had just shed its skin.
“Okay,” she said. “A wash of the casing, then I’m going to put the spare on.”
Angel gave her a slight nod before announcing to Jordan, “And I’m going to send you to prison tomorrow.”
Jordan stared at him. “What?”
“Well, a Young Offender Institution attached to Chelmsford Prison.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s a prisoner I want you to meet. An arms trade protester who’s inside for trying to set fire to a missile base. Name of Gideon Riley. Apparently, everyone calls
him Giddy. He’s high profile in the anti-war movement. He’ll know if that’s what the estuary explosion was all about. To pass the time, he’s formed a group – he plays
guitar – but he’s about to lose his drummer.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m getting him moved to a different prison. You can help Riley with the gap in his band.”
“You know about me and drums?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing my job properly.”
Jordan wasn’t surprised, but he was dismayed. He knew very little about Angel, but Angel knew everything about him. To Jordan, that felt wrong. And creepy. He wanted to have secrets.
Without them, he wasn’t his own person. He might as well belong to Unit Red. He promised himself he’d keep some secrets from Angel and Winter. Including Amy Goss.
“You’ve gone quiet,” said Angel. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” Jordan replied. “I was just wondering what I’m supposed to do with Gideon Riley – apart from join his band.”
Angel shrugged. “Make friends. Gain his trust. Let him talk. You just have to listen.”
“And hope he mentions blowing up the Richard Montgomery ?”
“Or convinces you he didn’t. As soon as you find out, you’ll
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