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BEING SHOT ISN’T LUCKY. But there were elements of luck involved in the shooting of Regan. He was taken to Aberystwyth hospital where a surgeon performed a six-hour procedure that probably saved his life. The luck was the surgeon had learned his skills with gunshot wounds in Northern Ireland before transferring to his native Wales. It was also lucky that the .38 calibre bullet had pierced his side but owing to the angle of entry it had exited almost as soon as it had entered. It was a messy wound but could have been far worse. If Bill’s aim had been true it would have penetrated and the bullet remained in Regan’s torso, damaging either the liver, kidney or intestines. Instead, once the bullet exited it ricocheted off the granite floor and embedded itself in a wooden kitchen door below the sink. Owing to the surgeon’s skill, he had stemmed the bleeding and sewn Regan’s side back together. Infection was now the major concern.
Regan had one single visitor following surgery. He appeared to be a priest. Regan had no recollection of the visit or what the priest looked like or said. When he recovered consciousness, the nurse in attendance handed him a light brown envelope. She simply said, “A priest left this for you.” Regan opened it and found a mass card inside. He thought it was from his mother. But inside the envelope, tucked inside the card, was a typed note:
Bill will kill the barrister Caroline Sewell soon. Keys are for the white Bonnie on the main car park. Good luck!
Regan’s mind raced - Soon? Caroline Sewell is in London. I must get out of this place.
The pain seared through his side as he pulled himself up in bed. A lacerated gunshot wound is no fun. Regan had been three days in hospital since he was shot. He only became aware of his situation during the previous twenty-four hours because before then he had been recovering from the general anaesthetic and the strong painkillers. Regan pulled open his hospital gown and saw the dressing on far left of his midriff. As the wound was on the edge of his torso the dressing was affixed to the front side and back of his waist. He raised both arms. Good, they work, Regan thought and repeated the action with success by moving his legs, one at a time.
Need to get out of here, was Regan’s main thought. He looked at the hospital bedside cabinet. On top was a plastic jug of water and a plastic cup. Regan had placed the mass card next to the jug. Underneath the cabinet top Regan saw the open doors and the contents inside. They were his clothes and shoes minus the shirt and denim jacket he had been wearing when shot. Regan got a move on and dressed. He tucked the hospital gown inside his jeans, stuffed his wallet in his back pocket then grabbed the medications on the table top. He thrust them down into his side pockets along with the mass card envelope with the motorcycle keys inside it. I have no idea if I’m fit enough to ride a Triumph Bonneville, was a thought he soon abandoned. I must ... somehow.
Regan walked out of the ward and into the corridor unchallenged. He saw the lift and pushed the call button. Once inside he pressed the button for Ground Floor and Exit. The lift deposited Regan about fifty yards from the glass exit doors. There was a sign pointing in its direction. Regan turned right towards the exit, attracting some curious glances on the way. He saw an open office door on his right but spotted something else of interest. He saw a leather pilot’s flying jacket hung over the back of a chair near to the door and a navy blue woollen sweater strewn over the jacket. Regan scooped up both and carried them across his arm to the car park.
Regan blinked in the autumn sunlight, shielding his eyes to scan the car park for the motorcycle. He loved Triumphs and the Bonneville in particular. Regan had always wanted one as a teenager but had to make do with borrowing a friend’s for a ride out. There it is! Regan exclaimed in silence. He was taken with its beauty just like he had been years ago. It was a T140 model and Regan knew it was only about one year old as it had the gear lever on the left, a move made to comply with new regulations. It also had the newer 750 cc engine mounted in the oil filled frame with another new additional feature – a front disc brake. Wounded or not, Regan was determined to enjoy his new ride. He knew the marque’s history right back to the days this machine’s predecessors had competed in world speed record attempts at Bonneville Salt Flats, Utah.
Now for the practicalities, Regan thought. A helmet was slung over one of the handlebars by the accommodating owner whoever he may have been. Regan didn’t much care at that moment who had left it there for him. He pulled on the woollen sweater over the pastel green hospital gown then put on the leather jacket. Both were a fit, a little loose, but that was no bad thing as it kept pressure off his wounded side. Regan zipped up the jacket high and placed the helmet on his head, fiddling with the buckle until the strap was firmly in place under his chin. He noticed a pair of sunglasses in the top pocket of the leather flying jacket. Wow! Aviators, Regan thought as he placed them under the helmet until they rested in comfort on his nose and ears. He could not resist the glance of admiration in the mirror fixed to the right hand handlebar. Fuel tap on, ignition on ... this is going to hurt, he thought as he kicked the kickstart. The Bonnie roared into life. The throaty roar made Regan forget all his troubles and pain.
Regan set off from the hospital car park and knew he had to head to London. That’s where I’ll find Caroline Sewell and Bill, he surmised as he recollected all Bill had told him before the shooting. Regan was soon on the motorway heading out of Wales towards England and London. He glanced at the speedo and saw the ton fast approach. Ninety, ninety-five, ninety-nine then the magic hundred miles per hour mark. The trouble was the wind in his face and torso was too strong at that speed. It felt as if his arms were being ripped off the handle bars but worse, far worse, was the pressure on his wound. He slowed down to a cruising speed of eighty m.p.h. It was fast enough. It also gave him valuable thinking time. By Regan’s reckoning he would reach London in a little over an hour once he crossed the Severn Bridge and back into England.
