Free Jokerman by Tim Stevens

developed in human beings than in any other organism, and with good reason: they were involved in judgement, impulse control, the inhibition of aggression, as well as attentional mechanisms.
    Purkiss understood. He’d seen people with frontal lobe lesions who’d become apathetic shells, and others who’d turned into uncontrollably violent forces of nature. He’d asked the doctor a few more questions, then thanked him and gone in to see Kendrick himself, nodding to the two policeman who sat nearby.
    Seated in an armchair next to the bed, lulled by the ventilator’s hypnotic rhythm, his thoughts drifted back towards Al-Bayati and the ITF group.
    Yes, if Abby were there, he’d gain access without too much bother. She’d hack the ITF databases somehow, or locate Al-Bayati’s home address, or both.
    Abby Holt had been another of Purkiss’s freelance employees, a computer and general electronics geek who’d provided finesse where Kendrick offered muscle and firepower. Together they’d made a formidable team. But Abby was gone now, shot to pieces in Tallinn at the age of twenty-seven, because Purkiss had made a mistake.
    The bed was in a large open area rather than in a side room, with plastic curtains half-drawn around it. Purkiss saw one of the curtains twitch aside, and immediately tensed.
    You’re too jumpy , he told himself.
    A woman stepped in. Looking to be in her mid-thirties but probably younger than that, she had a faded, hard-faced prettiness which even the heavy makeup she wore didn’t conceal.
    ‘Who’re you?’ she said bluntly.
    ‘John. A friend of Tony’s,’ he said, rising and offering her the chair. She ignored it, staring at him.
    ‘You don’t look like no friend of his.’ Her voice was tobacco-roughened and bitter. She looked Purkiss up and down, then turned her attention to Kendrick, prone on the bed.
    Purkiss searched his memory. Christine? Kirsty , that was it.
    ‘You’re Kirsty. Sean’s mother.’
    Her glance snapped back to him, full of suspicion and malice. ‘He been talking to you about me?’
    ‘He’s mentioned you, yes.’ Kendrick had more than just mentioned her. He’d turned the air blue discussing Kirsty’s failings as a partner and mother. They’d been together a couple of years, had produced Sean, now seven, whom Purkiss had never met, and had split acrimoniously. Kendrick paid the child support and in return got to see his son fortnightly. He spoke of the boy with real fondness, and Purkiss had long suspected that Kendrick had a sneaking respect, liking even, for Kirsty, despite his surface griping about her.
    She gripped the rail alongside the bed with long-taloned fingers and muttered, ‘Jesus, Kendrick. What did you go and do this for?’
    ‘It wasn’t his fault,’ said Purkiss.
    She appeared to consider for a moment; then she said, flatly: ‘He was at your house, wasn’t he? You’re the one they’re saying was supposed to get shot.’
    ‘Yes.’
    He braced himself, expecting a flurry of accusations, a barrage of slaps and scratches. But she said, simply, ‘Who did this?’
    ‘I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find out.’
    ‘Yeah,’ she murmured. ‘You do that.’
    They watched Kendrick’s motionless, shrouded form for a few minutes.
    Kirsty said, ‘They say he might be a vegetable afterwards.’
    Purkiss said nothing.
    ‘Or that he might be aggressive and rude, with no consideration for other people’s feelings.’
    ‘Yes,’ Purkiss said.
    ‘If it’s that, how will we know the difference from normal?’
    It wasn’t so much what she said, but rather the way she said it – she wasn’t making a joke, but asking a genuine question – that tore a laugh from Purkiss’s chest. He fought to stifle it, glanced at her in apology. But Kirsty was grinning too, and they let rip for a few guilty seconds, hysteria breaking free through the carapace of numbness.
    ‘Shut up,’ she spluttered, swiping at his arm. He saw the tears on her cheeks,