Chapter Two

Crossed Paths

Alex sat up in bed. He was in hospital, but he didn't recognise anything. The walls were bare, the bright blue of a private children's ward. The bed was also a chequered blue effect. He felt as if they were trying to intimidate him. When he had last stayed in hospital, excluding his unfortunate encounter with a train, he had been in France. Perhaps the same hospital? Not likely. It had been very much the same. He rubbed his chest, where the bandages covered. He wasn't bleeding, but it felt strange to think that there was a hole in his chest.

Alex stood up out of bed, and walked over to the window. He was wearing loose fitting pyjama bottoms, his top-half bare, to assist his wounds in healing.

Alex remembered back to his meeting with MI6. He had left the building, but remembered nothing after that. He had been told he was in France somewhere, but he didn't know exactly why. Usually, MI6's own nurses cared for him.

He walked over to a large, oak wardrobe and peered inside. There wasn't much in there – just some old clothes he had never seen before, most of which he wished he still hadn't. Most of it even needed washing, and some wasn't fit for the bin. There was, however, one set of his own clothes. A hooded, grey sweatshirt, and baggy jeans. The grey shirt had a small brown stain on the front. He had been wearing it when he left MI6 headquarters, on Liverpool Street. He had been wearing it when he was shot. Still, it was the nicest thing there. So he quickly dressed, wearing an old white Nike t-shirt he found underneath the jumper.

He peered out of the window. He saw rolling hills, with a small town that looked like it was falling over itself. It was halfway down, so that most of the place was slanted, only curving straight when it reached a gap between two hills. He wondered what it would be like for people living at the bottom. It must have been awful trying to get to the top.

There was a knock at the door. He stepped backwards, then turned away from the tiny community and opened the door. There stood a man, wearing a woollen hat and scarf, with a long brown coat and thin grey stubble around his chin. He wore glasses, and was holding a wad of paper in his hand, kept together in an elastic band. He looked very intoxicated, as if just back from a big celebration where whiskey was the only drink available.

Surprisingly, he was perfectly sober. In fact, he was Alex's doctor.

"Don't know what they think they're doing," he muttered to himself, as Alex opened the door. "Good trick though, I must say."

"Excuse me?"

"Ah, Alex! I've brought your mail."

He had a strange accent, and together with his looks he reminded Alex very much of a mad scientist.

"What, I have mail?"

"Yes – lot's of it!"

He held up the wad of paper, which Alex saw now to be envelopes.

"Mostly from your school friends – someone called Tom, and lot's from someone named Jack. Are they people from school?"

"Yes, well, Jack isn't, she's my guardian."

"Oh, right." He said knowingly, then handed over the wad of envelopes, and left.

Alex turned them over in his hand. Five from Jack, one from his school, one from Tom, one from Mr. Grey, and one from Smithers. He was glad to know someone at MI6 realised how seriously injured he could be.

But there was one that stood out more than the rest. It looked like all the others, but when he looked closely at the small, neat handwriting, he saw the name, and was finally happy.

Dear Alex,

I can't believe it! Dad's new book is rocketing off the shelves, and you are the first person I thought I should tell. You know it costs quite a bit to travel from England to California? Well, it's even more expensive to travel from California to London, but with the Damian Cray book, we'll easily have enough money! Dad says we should visit the whole country – Cornwall, Yorkshire, Liverpool, and London! I don't know if you'll be able to, but dad say's it's fine if you come back to our place for a month. All in all, if you travel with us around England, that'll be two months together. Also, dad will pay for your flight back to England, since he's going back for a book signing anyway! Call my cell phone – wait, sorry I'm turning American – to tell me. If you can, meet us at Trafalgar Square at 9:00 am on 1st December. If not, we'll meet up some other time.

Love,

Sabina

Alex smiled, then looked round for some paper. There was none. He didn't know what else to write on, so he turned over the letter, and began on the back.

Dear Sabina,

I'd love to come – it would be great. I'm in the middle of something at the moment, and I don't know if I'll be able to, but presume I'll be there anyway.

He paused for a moment. He wondered exactly what he was going to say. Telling someone that you've been shot isn't something you do everyday. He decided what to write, then continued.

Sabina – there is something you may want to know. I don't want you to worry, it's all over now, and everything is fine, but...

He paused again, and proceeded to recount his entire story, before explaining he'd been shot in the heart. He even told her that only a small rib above his heart ricocheted the bullet away and saved his life. He ended with...

I am currently in a hospital somewhere, but I should be back in time for your visit.

Love,

Alex.

But suddenly, he noticed the calendar on the wall beside him. It said the date was 27th November. He had only three days to get back to London.