Free Twenty Twelve by Helen Black

checks her watch. There are dark circles under her eyes. She’s probably been on her feet the whole night and needs all this like a smack on the arse.
    At last she moves aside. ‘Go on then.’ She motions down the corridor with her head. ‘But for God’s sake, put your coat on.’
    I nod and struggle into it. Shazia Rashid must be a size zero because the sleeves finish at my forearms and the stitching groans at the seams. ‘Put on a bit recently.’ I pat my stomach.
    She gives me another withering look, so I duck past her before I can commit any further acts of extreme stupidity.
    As I approach the policemen standing guard, I realise I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do next. All I do know is that I am impersonating a doctor in order to obtain access to a terrorist. And that can’t be good.
    When I’m at the door they look at me expectantly.
    ‘Doctor Kenco.’ I flash Shazia Rashid’s badge at them.
    ‘Right,’ says the one on the left, swallowing a yawn.
    I wait a moment before I understand that there’s nothing else they want from me. No complicated procedure for me to prove I am who I say I am.
    I push open the door and put one foot inside the room when a voice comes from behind.
    ‘You know who you remind me of?’
    I turn. The policeman on the left is wagging a slow finger at me.
    ‘That politician,’ he says.
    ‘Oh yeah.’ The other copper looks up now. ‘The one they put in charge of the Olympics.’
    I’m about to point out that I’m not a politician, that in fact, I’m independent of politics, which I think is quite an important distinction, when I remember I’m trying to pass myself off as a doctor to gain access to a terrorist. I smile politely.
    ‘Not a bad thing now she’s saved that kid, eh?’ the second one laughs. ‘You’ll get plenty of drinks bought for you down the pub.’ He lets out a chuckle and I join in.
    ‘Make the most of it,’ adds the first. ‘It’ll all be forgotten by next month and everyone will be back to wondering who the fuck she is.’
    I leave them laughing in the corridor and shut the door behind me. Inside, the room is darkened, only a lamp is on next to a bed where a man is lying, his head swathed in bandages. Wires snake between his chest and arms to a monitor, which lets out a melancholy, rhythmic beep.
    There’s no sign of Clem.
    I take a deep breath. Is this one of the men who tried to blow me up? He looks so small. Pathetic even.
    I take a step closer. His face is pale, sprinkled with reddish stubble breaking the surface of the skin. His arms lie lifeless by his sides, covered from knuckle to shoulder in tattoos. I peer at the intricate designs of hawks, guns and swastikas.
    Suddenly his eyelids begin to flicker and I’m shocked to find myself looking into his eyes. He blinks three times, as if trying to focus.
    ‘Is tha’ you, Ronnie?’ his words slur, solidifying around his accent.
    I’m not sure what I should tell him, but before I can make a decision, he grabs my arm.
    ‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ he says. ‘Too dangerous.’ His unseeing eyes fill with water. ‘I told ’em I didn’t know anything about no bombing,’ he hisses. ‘I told ’em I didn’t know where you were.’
    Still gripping my arm, he tries to lift himself towards me, but can only manage to raise his head an inch or so from the pillow.
    ‘I won’t give you up, Ronnie. I’d rather die.’
    His chest begins to convulse and he is wracked by a coughing fit. Struggling to catch his breath, he lets himself flop back and releases my arm.
    ‘Remember the orchard, Ronnie? You changed my life – no, you saved it. Now it’s my turn to do the same.’
    His chest heaves and his throat rattles, and a single tear runs down his cheekbone. Then the alarm on the monitor sounds and the doors crash open.

 
Chapter Six
    Isaac is sweating like a mule as he shuts the door behind him. The girls look up at him, their eyes as wide and their skin as white as a full