Knife Edge : A Novel (2020)

by Mayo, Simon

  ‘You’re not radioactive,’ he said, ‘but you were, you must have heard it.’

  The student nodded. ‘I did.’

  ‘Must have been on your clothes.’

  ‘Must have.’ Or the smoke alarm core just fell out of my pocket, he thought. Either way, no clicks now. He chanced some more detail. ‘Maybe it was a spray. Maybe I inhaled enough to make me sick but not enough to show up now.’

  The leader nodded. ‘The closer we get, the closer they get. This attack is proof.’

  If this is what he wants to believe, thought the student, I’ll see if I can help some more.

  ‘Maybe it’s a fascist group,’ he said. ‘Maybe they got a tip-off.’

  The leader’s head snapped back to the student. ‘From within our cell?’

  The student said nothing. Shrugged. Let the new poison take effect.

  Eventually the leader muttered, ‘We’re too close to stop now.’

  ‘How close?’

  ‘Too close.’

  Now was the moment to push. ‘I’m a liability,’ said the student. ‘They know my face.’

  ‘You’re a hero.’

  ‘I’m a liability. You should leave me behind.’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘Not if I’m a liability. Not if I damage the operation.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘I will if the fash know me.’

  The leader considered that. ‘We can disguise you.’

  Enough pushing for now. ‘I just hope I’m out of here in time.’

  ‘You will be. You’re not safe here. We’re going to take you out early. Then we have just over sixty hours.’

  It’s Monday afternoon. So it must be happening on Thursday now.

  The student fought the tremble in his voice. ‘How much filth?’ he whispered.

  The leader pushed his Browline glasses back up his nose. He smiled. Stood up. ‘So much filth,’ he said, and left.

  The woman appeared then. One in, one out. She glanced around the room, hawklike, unsmiling.

  ‘Where are your clothes?’ she asked.

  The student shrugged.

  ‘I’ll find some,’ she said, and ducked out again.

  He heard her shout at someone, then silence.

  The student lay as still as his racing mind and heart would allow. Thursday. The leader had said just over sixty hours. Whatever they’d been recruited for, it was happening in three days’ time.

  A doctor came in and told him what he already knew: his sickness had probably been caused by a poison and they were waiting for toxicology reports.

  Alone again in his room, he fought the urge to unplug the drip and run. The doctors wanted him to stay where he was. The leader wanted him out.

  He sat up in bed, arranging the meagre pillows behind him. The smells of food mingled with floor disinfectant. The door to his room was ajar and he could see two beds in the main ward, one empty, the other occupied. An elderly man with a tube in his mouth slept heavily.

  The woman wouldn’t be long, all she had to do was find some clothes, but when she arrived he would be guarded again. She wasn’t as twitchy as the leader, but she shared his obsessive, messianic determination. She had been his first link to Boxer Street. She had been the first to threaten his sisters. He found himself gripping his thin blue blanket with both hands and screwed his eyes shut. A headstart on his debt and a job after university had sounded like everything he’d ever wanted. He’d have made it. Made it in spite of his absentee father, in spite of his as-good-as-absent mother and in spite of his doubting friends. Then the killing started and his options vanished. The final throw of the dice – his plan to get the leader to leave him behind – had failed.

  A woman with a green nylon uniform, pens in her breast pocket and a badge that said ‘Gyongyi’ brought him a tray. On it was a dinner plate with a metal cover on top, and a small bowl of ice cream. She smiled at him as she held it out, and for the briefest moment he wanted to tell her everything. It was a genuine smile. She seemed happy to bring him his food, and he wanted to talk. But ‘Thanks’ was all he said.

  She lifted the lid. Some kind of fish, broccoli, potatoes.

  ‘Would you like it now?’ she said. ‘I know you haven’t eaten. It’s what we have left.’

  He wasn’t hungry but he nodded. ‘Sure, why not,’ he said.

  She placed the tray on the table over his bed. Metal cutlery, salt and pepper in paper sachets, a toothpick, a glass of water, a quarter lemon. The student stared.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he called out.

  The woman with the Gyongyi name tag stepped back into the room.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the student, ‘I don’t mean to be difficult, I’m sure you’re busy and everything, but might I have some more lemon?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Wait a minute.’

  She ducked back out of the room and he heard the clatter of metal covers being lifted and dropped. She emerged with two more quarters.

  ‘These were left over. Most people don’t like them. You want both?’

  He smiled his thanks. ‘I’ve heard they’re good for you,’ he said. ‘Vitamin C and all that. Thank you …’

  He attempted her name, and she laughed.

  ‘It’s pronounced “Jon Gee”,’ she said.

  He tried again and she smiled again.

  ‘That was your friend just now?’ She nodded her head towards the door.

  He shrugged. ‘Yeah, kind of.’

  ‘She shouts a lot,’ she said.

  He nodded his agreement. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. She’s kind of on edge.’

  Gyongyi turned, then hesitated, uncertain, caught between two thoughts.

  ‘Does she treat you bad?’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘Oh it’s not like that.’

  She stared at him, unconvinced. ‘OK,’ she said, and left.

  Thursday. Three days. He had to try something. When she had gone, he pushed the table away and swung his legs out. Carefully manoeuvring the IV bag, he retied his hospital gown, cursing his lack of clothing. He closed the door to the room then quickly drank his glass of water, wiping it dry on the sheet. Kneeling on the bed, and with as much precision as time and nerves allowed, he squeezed each quarter lemon into the glass. Breathing heavily, he caught the sharp, acid smell as he pressed the skin between his fingers. He kept pressing until he was sure there was nothing left. He removed the pips, then held up the glass and peered at what he had. A few millimetres of juice at best. It wouldn’t be enough, he was sure of it. He would use small letters, few words. He had to try.

  He pushed the plate, lid and cutlery off the tray and on to the blanket, replacing them with the glass and the toothpick. There were two ‘hospital comments’ cards on his bedside table. He reached for the first one, placed it on the tray. He dipped the red plastic toothpick in the lemon juice, then twisted it slowly between his fingers. He tapped the pick on the glass rim, then hovered above the card. It left spaces for name, address and a comment. He stroked a letter on the card, dipped again, stroked again. The letters shone briefly on the card before disappearing. He wrote in capitals.

  The leader had given many talks. He loved to recall his revolutionary heroism in Turkey, Syria or wherever he had pitched up. He had reminded them that the old ways can be the best ways. That the dark web is patrolled by the security services, that computers are inherently vulnerable, and that if they couldn’t afford encryption, to stay analogue. Stay dark. No website, no emails, no texts. Instead, letters, typewriters and invisible ink would keep them hidden. And it had worked.

  It was, he said, the Russians who had brought back invisible ink. For at least the last ten years they had been using paper impregnated with chemicals to transfer secret messages on to real letters. The student’s method was, of necessity, more primitive. He dipped and scraped more letters. Small, capitalized, as few as possible. They shone, they disappeared, absorbed by the paper. He wasn’t sure whether any of it wo
uld be readable.

  He was close to finishing when the door opened. With a start he grabbed the dinner plate, pulling it back on to the tray and over the card. He started to retch.

  ‘I can see your arse. And I’d rather not.’ The woman flung some clothes at him. ‘What are you doing anyway?’

  ‘Trying not to be sick,’ he said, heart hammering in his chest.

  The wrong thing to say. She grabbed the tray.

  ‘You just ate what they brought you? Are you fucking mental? You’ve just been poisoned, remember? Who knows who could have got this to you.’

  There was a crash as she dropped the tray by the door.

  He shook his head. ‘No, no. It’s just the smell. I didn’t eat any of it.’ He looked at her, red-faced, then looked for the tray. The plate was still covering the card, the glass with the lemon juice was on its side, empty.

  He slid back into bed. She paced the room.

  ‘I can’t believe you even thought of eating their food,’ she said.

  He closed his eyes. Wished Gyongyi had come back.

  ‘Well I’ve taken their medicine,’ he said. ‘If they were going to get rid of me they’d have done it by now.’

  The woman, clearly anxious, continued to pace. ‘You need to get dressed.’

  ‘I haven’t been discharged,’ he said.

  ‘He wants you out. So you’re discharged.’

  ‘He’s discharging me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ he said. ‘The toxicology tests aren’t through yet.’

  She stood at the head of his bed. ‘We know what happened. You were poisoned. You were compromised. We need to get you out. Get dressed.’ Before he knew it, she’d removed the drip from his arm and motioned at the assortment of clothes she had flung at him. Jeans, shirt and shoes.

  ‘Where did you get them?’ he asked.

  ‘Someone died.’

  He stared at the jumbled clothing. ‘You stole them? From a dead guy?’

  She sat awkwardly on the far corner of his bed. Her face was fixed. Her voice was raised. ‘You need to get dressed. You need to be ready. It doesn’t matter where the clothes come from.’

  He held up the trousers and shirt. They looked too big for him but not by much.

  ‘Underwear? Socks?’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘You’ll cope. Get dressed.’

  He thought he would try one last time. ‘You should really leave me here. I told the leader. If I’m compromised, I’ll ruin everything. I’ll be fine.’

  She slid up the bed. ‘Yes, you’re compromised. No, you’re not staying here. It’s not safe.’ She glanced at the jeans. ‘I’ll step outside if you’re suddenly feeling modest.’

  He nodded and she left, clicking the door shut behind her. He had just swung out of bed when the door opened again.

  ‘Woman here to collect the poison shit she brought you. Decent?’

  His heart kicked up a notch. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Gyongyi appeared, face like stone.

  He reasoned he had thirty seconds, maximum. As she bent to retrieve the tray, he rescued the comments card from under the plate. Placing a finger over his lips, he took a biro from her breast pocket. He scribbled furiously on the card and handed it to her. He leant in close and whispered fast. ‘I’m in big trouble with her. She’s not a good person. Please post this to the address I’ve written here. Please. Please.’ He slid the card back under the plate.

  She held the tray and stared back at him. Startled. Frightened.

  He placed his hands over hers. ‘Please, Gyongyi. Last post.’

  She nodded, and left the room.

  35

  4.35 p.m.

  THE MINICAB DROPPED the leader two blocks from 26 Boxer Street. He paid cash and said nothing to the driver. He didn’t tip. A three-minute walk to the house. He paused on the doorstep, key in the door. Late afternoon, a heavy heat, the street was quiet. The house was quiet too. The woman had taken the next shift in the hospital. He had the space to do what he had to do.

  He turned the key slowly and slipped inside. Standing still, head cocked, he felt a breeze from the backyard blow through the house. It brought with it the shuffling, slapping sound of a man in sandals. He felt the smoothness of the wooden-handled knife in his trouser pocket. His thumb traced the spine of the folded blade all the way to the butt. He rolled it around his fingers.

  From the kitchen he could see him pacing the courtyard. The table had two half-drunk cups of black coffee on it and a used, unwashed plate. A dirty knife and fork had been discarded nearby.

  The leader picked up both mugs, the plate and the cutlery, and put them in the sink. He wiped the table with a cloth, then rinsed, folded and placed it over the mixer tap.

  ‘Oh hi,’ said the sweating man, pushing sunglasses back on to his forehead as he entered. ‘Thought I heard you back. How is he?’ He wore a Clash T-shirt, cargo shorts, sandals. A large plaster covered his right ear.

  It was clear the sweating man hadn’t given a thought to his appearance.

  ‘Dressed for the revolution, citizen?’ said the leader.

  He glanced down at his outfit as if seeing it for the first time. ‘It’s hot.’ He shrugged. ‘What should I be wearing?’

  The leader stood with his arms folded. ‘You know we’re close to operations, yet you dress for the beach. It’s a mindset. A lazy mindset. A counter-revolutionary mindset.’

  The sweating man was uncomfortable now, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. In a glance he noticed the now-clean table.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t mean anything, honest.’ He retied his ponytail. ‘I’m ready for anything, you know that.’ He looked imploringly at the leader. ‘Is there something you’d like me to do?’

  The leader didn’t move. ‘Sit down,’ he said. He pointed at the nearest kitchen chair, then drew out a second chair to sit opposite. He leant forward, elbows on his knees.

  The sweating man sat down, eyes suddenly wide. ‘We’ve done this before,’ he muttered.

  The leader ignored him. ‘Our friend has been poisoned. You asked how he is. Well, he is poisoned. With radiation of some sort. He should recover. The dose he received was small, too small to cause permanent harm.’

  ‘Well that’s a relief—’

  ‘Not a relief, no. He was betrayed. Someone knew where he’d be, someone gave him away. A traitor.’ A sheen had appeared on the leader’s face, neck and scalp. ‘Who do you think it might have been, citizen?’

  Eyes still wide, hands gripping the sides of the chair, the sweating man’s words deserted him. ‘What? Well … you said … but that …’

  ‘Who betrayed him?’

  ‘I have no idea. Are you sure—’

  ‘Of course we are sure.’ The leader’s hand was back in his pocket. His fingers slowly traced the metal rivets of the knife handle. ‘You heard and saw the evidence. The dead drop was compromised. We have to look for someone who might be collaborating.’ His glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose; he pushed them back. ‘Someone who has a history of contact with fascists.’ His voice was getting quieter. ‘Where would you start, citizen?’

  The sweating man was silent. His eyes darted around the room, his head moving left and right. Appraising his options.

  The leader knew it. ‘Thinking of running?’

  The sweating man shook his head. ‘Thinking this is madness.’

  ‘How so?’ Almost a whisper. His left hand palmed the knife.

  Finally, the sweating man had had enough. ‘Because you’re fucking deranged, that’s why. You were raised to see conspiracy, so you always see bloody conspiracy. Well get this, smartass. There isn’t one! There really isn’t! There are no traitors here, just revolutionaries waiting to be told what to do.’

  He stood abruptly, knocking the chair over. The leader stood too, arms at his side. His chair didn’t move. The sweating man was eight inches taller than the leader, who look
ed surprised by the advantage.

  The sweating man leant in, their faces just a few centimetres apart. ‘But you never tell us anything,’ he said. ‘All we get is secrets and silence. You think I’m a collaborator, or a traitor or something ridiculous. You have no evidence, you just have your bullshit theories. So I’ll take my chances, thank you very much.’ He strode to the door, reached the foot of the stairs in two strides. He turned. ‘I know you’ll remind me about how you have my parents’ address, how you know where they live, blah blah blah.’ He wiped his face with his T-shirt. ‘More bullshit.’ He leapt up the stairs.

  The leader stood still, listening to the sounds of a man packing, fast. The fingers of his left hand felt for the blade again, tugging it free. He tucked it in his waistband, covering the handle with his shirt. He wiped a handkerchief over his face, then moved to the foot of the stairs and waited.

  The breeze had gone, the house was airless.

  The packing didn’t take long. The sweating man appeared with a rucksack inside two minutes. The sight of the leader leaning against the balustrade caused him to pause briefly on the top step.

  ‘You know, this could have worked,’ he said, climbing down. ‘When you talked about how we had learnt from jihadists. How they had shown that small groups, organized, working together, could change history. We were listening to that.’ He had one hand on the banister, one on his rucksack strap. ‘How revolution could start with just a truck and a few knives. We got that. But nothing happened. We failed. It was all fucking noise and posturing.’

  There was no eye contact. The leader had kicked off his shoes and was staring at the floor. The sweating man passed him and walked the four metres of the hall, not hearing the leader fall into step behind him. He reached for the latch. As the sweating man pulled at the door, the leader reached for his ponytail and yanked hard. There was a brief, strangled shout of alarm as his head snapped back. The point of the knife entered with the blade flat, cutting edge to the right. With one left-to-right jerk he severed the larynx and most of the muscle groups. The leader stepped sideways, the man fell to the floor.