The next morning, Doctor Hamilton spent a long time pushing and prodding Gary's ribs, and listening to his breathing.
Gary yelped and gasped. "Jesus, you're supposed to stop pain."
"Sorry, can't be helped. You know, your condition's very interesting: I don't see many bomb victims. It's just too bad you weren't closer to the epicentre of the explosion."
"Sorry. Next time I'll stand right on the bomb."
The doctor looked ready to nod and then smiled. "Hah. That won't be necessary."
"What's my prognosis?"
"You can leave here in a couple of days."
Gary shook his head. "No, like I said before, I'm leaving this morning."
"I strongly advise against that. You're not ready to go."
"Maybe. But sometimes you've gotta play hurt. Don't worry, I'll be OK."
The doctor sighed. "Alright, I'll get the nurse to change your bandages. Then you can be on your way. But take things easy for a while."
The nurse changed his bandages and he painfully put on the clothes Ray bought for him. After fishing his wallet and keys out of the bedside cabinet, he shuffled out, surprising the two cops on guard duty. The senior one, an overweight sergeant, battled gravity to rise from his chair. How on earth did he pass his annual physical? He made his bullet-proof vest look tiny. Too bad Gary couldn't borrow it.
The Sergeant said: "Where the hell are you going?"
"Out for a stroll."
"You coming back?"
"No."
"You're not supposed to leave."
"Well, unless you're going to arrest me for something, you can't stop me."
"How'll we contact you?"
"I'll give Marks a call as soon as I find somewhere to stay - promise."
That seemed to mollify the cop, who stood back and wished him good luck.
Gary slipped out through the delivery bay and hit the pavement feeling incredibly vulnerable. Someone was trying to kill him - though he didn't know who or why - he had busted ribs and no weapon. He was a big bullseye any fool could hit. So he jumped at sudden movements and kept looking around for a tail.
Only one thing would lift his spirits: a pistol. However, if he bought one legally it would take at least a month to cut through the red tape; and if he bought one illegally from a US dealer, using the internet, it would take at least a week to arrive, if it got through customs.
So he drained his ATM account and visited a gun shop in Redfern. The owner, Victor Dragovic, once belonged to the same pistol club as Gary.
Gary found him standing behind the counter, showing a customer a Remington shotgun. After the guy left, without buying, Gary approached.
The Serb was in his early fifties, bald and heavyset. Whenever there was an ethnic conflict in the Balkans, he went back to visit his family in Serbia. However, when he returned, he looked even more haunted than usual and never showed any holiday snaps. Gary reckoned any photos he took would show him in fatigues next to freshly-dug graves.
He smiled. "Hi, Gary. What you want?"
"A pistol. But I've got a problem."
Dragovic's face clouded. "What?"
"I don't have time to get a permit."
Dragovic shook his head. "Sorry Gary, can't help."
"Victor, I'm desperate. Someone tried to kill me, and my life means a lot to me."
"Even more reason not to give you a pistol. You shoot someone and I'm in deep shit."
"Come on Victor, you can trust me. I won't involve you."
Dragovic hesitated and sighed. "OK. Come out the back. I've got something you'll like."
They went into Dragovic's office, where he opened the safe and took out an object wrapped in an oily cloth. He pulled back the cloth and spoke reverentially. "Tokarev, nine mill. Twelve shot. No licence number. Untraceable. Has two clips. You know, these were very popular with Stalin's secret police. They use them for the coup de grace." Dragovic demonstrated how an NKVD officer would aim at a captive's head. "Bang."
"How much?"
"$1,200."
Very pricey, but his life was worth more. "OK, I'll take it."
Gary also bought a shoulder holster and two boxes of bullets. He left the store with the Tokarev under his arm, feeling ten feet tall and bulletproof. He pushed back his shoulders and walked down the middle of the pavement, heart-rate and breathing normal. Time to make other people jumpy.
That evening, he checked into a backpackers' hostel in Kings Cross and got a tiny room near the communal bathroom. Sleep came fast.