Knife Edge : A Novel (2020)

by Mayo, Simon

  The television lit the room, sound off, subtitles on. The local news carried a brief item about the university’s precautions for Thursday’s demonstrations. The vice-chancellor said he had confidence in the police and the good reputation of his students. Three men in hoods promised a day to remember.

  Hardin kissed his daughter’s head and, eyes still on the screen, muttered a blessing he remembered from college.

  ‘May the nourishment of the earth be yours, may the clarity of light be yours, may the fluency of the ocean be yours, may the protection of the ancestors be yours.’

  His daughter stirred. Soon she would be keening for a bottle. He held her a little tighter.

  65

  11.30 p.m.

  FAMIE AND CHARLIE took the bed in 204, Sophie and Sam the bed in 203. Sam offered to sleep on the floor, Sophie told him not to be stupid. They lay with as much space between them as the barely-double mattress allowed. Sam gave a rueful laugh.

  ‘What?’ said Sophie, eyes closed already, hands over her stomach.

  ‘If Jo knew I was in bed with Sophie Arnold,’ he said, ‘she’d melt the walls.’

  Sophie turned, propped herself up on one elbow. Pushed hair from her eyes. ‘Me in particular or just someone from work in general?’

  Sam smiled. ‘Oh, you in particular,’ he said.

  Sophie frowned. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘I’m a threat?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Sophie. ‘Anyway, I think we’re actually “sharing a bed” which is not technically the same as “in bed with”.’

  ‘I’ll let you explain the difference to Jo,’ Sam said. ‘Assuming she hasn’t walked out.’

  The connecting door between 203 and 204 was shut, but it was made from the cheapest, thinnest plywood and in the silence they could occasionally hear Famie and Charlie’s muted conversation. Only Sam had his bedside light on, its bulb struggling to illuminate anything other than its own shade. Underneath the curtained window, two new burner phones were plugged in and charging, their flashing green lights distractingly bright in the near-darkness.

  ‘You don’t really think Jo’s gone, do you?’ said Sophie, quieter now.

  ‘She was pretty mad when I left,’ said Sam. ‘But I guess probably not. We should be OK.’

  He switched the light off. The two phones blinked more brightly, in sequence like an aeroplane’s wing. Sophie watched them for a while, swallowed twice, then spoke into the darkness.

  ‘There’s something you should probably know,’ she said. ‘Before whatever is going to kick off, kicks off.’

  Sam turned over, the sheets tightening between them. Sophie’s tone was serious, scared even. He waited.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she whispered. ‘And Seth is the father. Was the father.’

  Sam sat up, snapped the light back on. Mouth open, eyes wide. Sophie didn’t move. She lay sarcophagus-style, hands folded above the sheet, eyes squeezed shut.

  ‘The dark was fine,’ she muttered.

  Sam snapped the light off again. Lay back down. ‘I don’t know what to say, Sophie,’ he said. ‘Help me out here.’ He stared at the ceiling. Floundering.

  ‘You don’t need to say anything,’ she said. ‘I just wanted you to know.’

  ‘OK,’ said Sam. ‘Cos if the lights were on and there were other people here, I’d give you a hug. But under the circumstances …’

  ‘A sympathy hug or congratulatory hug?’

  ‘That’s what I need help with.’

  A long silence. A muffled Famie next door. Traffic on the ring road. Sam reached out, took one of Sophie’s hands. She took it in both of hers. Three hands on her stomach. They were still there when Sophie fell asleep.

  66

  FAMIE HADN’T SHARED a bed with her daughter since Charlie was eight. A nearly empty bottle of supermarket Rioja sat on Famie’s bedside table, half a portion of cold pad thai on Charlie’s. A small plastic fan was perched on the windowsill, set to maximum. Propped up against the bedstead, Famie’s head was turned to face the ineffectual breeze. In her hands she had the recharged tablet, Charlie had their two new burner phones. One in each hand.

  ‘I’m putting our numbers in,’ she said. ‘It’s failsafe. Three numbers only. Even you can use it, Mum.’

  Famie missed the jibe, her eyes shut, sleep closing in fast. She knew Charlie was talking, just had no idea what she was saying. Famie made some sounds which she hoped were reassuring. Then she caught something about ‘dad’ and was hauled back to consciousness in an instant.

  ‘What about him?’ she said, surfacing quickly.

  ‘I should add him to mine,’ said Charlie. ‘His phone number. To this.’

  She waved the black flip phone in front of Famie, who sat up, wiped her face with her hands and returned her daughter’s gaze.

  ‘Yes, you should,’ she said. ‘You certainly should.’ She paused for a beat. ‘He won’t answer of course. Or call you back. But go for it. Why not.’

  ‘Seriously?’ said Charlie. ‘Even now? Even here?’ She was clearly exasperated. ‘It’s a security thing, for Christ’s sake, Mum. Someone tried to kill me, someone did kill Tommi, then they tried to break into your flat. In case it all goes tits up tomorrow and Hari Roy turns out to be a mafia hitman, I thought I should put my father’s number in my phone.’

  ‘And I’m agreeing.’

  ‘Sure you are.’

  Famie closed her eyes again. Her husband had walked out two years ago, disappearing from her life for six months. When he had resurfaced, in New York, he had a publisher girlfriend and a son aged eighteen months. Famie was happiest either insulting him or forgetting him altogether. She knew she shouldn’t begrudge her daughter contacting her father but she did anyway, and it hurt like hell.

  ‘Just remember he’s a prick,’ she said. ‘Tell him I said hi.’

  Charlie stored her father’s number, labelling it ‘Emergency Dad’.

  67

  11.45 p.m.

  ANDREW LEWIS ALLOWED himself the smallest extra whisky he had ever poured. Barely an inch, with an ice cube. He swirled the contents, inhaled the peat and spices, relished the clinking of ice on glass.

  He had a deadline. He had promised the relatives of the victims of the 22 May attack that IPS would honour their memory and sacrifice in an appropriate way. He was due to meet them in a week’s time and he needed a shortlist of suggestions. He also needed to go home. He checked his taxi app, watched a dozen or so tiny cars hovering nearby. They were all waiting for his custom. He gave himself five minutes.

  He surveyed the ideas from staff, supporters, customers and the public. His PA had reduced them to one page of ‘deliverable and desirable’ outcomes. There was a plan for an annual award for investigative journalism – a cash prize for the most courageous reporting as judged by a panel of experts. Lewis gave it a tick. Swirled the whisky. There was a suggestion to build a peace garden in the square outside, an enclosed green space with a plaque to commemorate the dead. Lewis’s pencil hovered for a second, then put down a cross.

  He swirled the whisky again. He checked the app. Still the cars circled.

  Two more suggestions. A travelling exhibition devoted to the art and practice of modern journalism. Lewis snorted. Another cross of the pencil, another swirl of the glass. And finally a proposal for a bursary to fund a reporter. A fund devoted to training one student a year. A placement with a local paper or website followed by a job at IPS. He smiled and raised his glass.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  The whisky disappeared in one swallow. He called the cab.

  68

  11.50 p.m.

  THE WAREHOUSE WAS finally quiet. Gregor, Hussain and Binici sat on three chairs near the door, gesticulating, whispering. Binici rocked on his chair – it was his turn to talk. Hussain and Gregor folded their arms – their turn to listen.

  Hari had decided he wouldn’t sleep.
He sat, shirtless, his chest still stinging, against the wall, legs pulled up in front of him. One leg bounced rapidly. Collins lay next to him, face into his side, her uncut arm flung across his waist. She was breathing deeply. He assumed she was asleep. He could smell her now. It was sharp and earthy. Sweat and sex. And maybe shampoo, or rose water. Maybe some of Binici after all. He didn’t care. He looked straight ahead and up, through the warehouse window. The only light came from whatever size moon was behind the clouds and the seeping glow reflected from the streets of Coventry. The darkest hour. The quietest hour.

  He had no prayers to offer, no meditations on Krishna he could recall. His mother would have had some but he had never listened to her or them. His father had left. Whatever strength he had was his own. Maybe his grandmother’s. Whatever inspiration he needed came from his sisters and now, because of him, Millie and Amara would be there tomorrow. In his attempts to keep them safe he had only succeeded in putting them in the front line. Just in front of Amal Hussain. Just in front of his Böhler N690. And if the twins were there, then their grandmother would be there also.

  Well done, Hari. A full house.

  He thought of the IPS women. The last images. Mary Lawson, sprawled, bloodied, lifeless. Famie Madden, puzzled, elegant, in charge. Lawson had got him into this nightmare and he had hoped Madden would get him out. She had taken the bait certainly. He was convinced the police presence in Boxer Street had been down to her. But that seemed like weeks ago. He had told Madden that the attack was planned for Thursday but why would she take any notice of a student writing messages in lemon juice? Like he was a five-year-old playing at spies?

  He adjusted his position, removed Collins’ arm from his waist. He felt his wounds crack open. Felt the blood run again. He made no attempt to staunch the flow. The adrenalin had long gone and the pain was intense but the cutting had saved his life. He had no doubt about that. The longer his chest stayed a bloodied mess, the longer he stayed alive. It was a badge of honour. An insignia. The knife had been his saviour and in every possible future scenario that he could imagine, it would have to be again.

  Under the window, Hussain, Binici and Gregor broke up their meeting. Hari saw Gregor glance at him, or maybe Collins, and walk over. He closed his eyes, his body tensed. He felt the knife under his thigh. Collins slept on. He heard heavy footfall, then felt the soft give of the wall as Gregor settled against it.

  ‘Still bleeding,’ said Gregor.

  Hari opened his eyes. He had sat to Hari’s left, propped up against the wall, legs straight in front, ankles crossed. He too was still shirtless. His bloodied torso was covered in tattoos.

  ‘We both are,’ said Hari, indicating Gregor’s own cuts. His lettering looked like angry slashes in his chest, the blood running in stripes down his stomach.

  ‘Strength. Discipline. Ferocity,’ said Gregor. ‘War is work, not mystery.’

  Butcher and philosopher. What’s not to love?

  Where Gregor’s skin was blood-free, Hari saw painted saints, angels, skulls, sailing ships and a black flag. All competing for space.

  ‘Nice art,’ Hari said.

  Gregor smiled. ‘They are stories, Hari Roy.’

  ‘Your stories?’

  ‘Of course. Travelling thief, murderer, anarchist.’ He spoke without drama, pointing to the angels, skulls and the flag like an indifferent gallery guide. ‘And now this!’ He peered down at his chest. The newly cut, and still bleeding, left pectoral muscle. ‘ETB! This will be my favourite because I did it myself.’ He waved his arms in a circle. ‘We all did it together.’ Gregor turned to Hari. A twitch of a smile. ‘But still Hussain isn’t sure about you,’ he said. ‘I told him you were good but …’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Gregor shrugged. ‘It’s nothing. The men will fight with you, I said.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  A beat of a pause.

  ‘Hussain wants your girlfriend.’ He nodded at Collins.

  So she was right after all.

  ‘She’s not available.’

  ‘Everything is available.’

  Hari stared through the window. There would be no daylight for several hours, but the butcher was in the wings, waiting for his cue. It wouldn’t be long now.

  ‘I’m not her keeper,’ said Hari eventually. ‘I don’t own her. If she wants to go with Hussain, she will. If she doesn’t, she won’t.’

  ‘You should be careful,’ said Gregor.

  ‘Too late for that,’ said Hari. ‘We fight in nine hours. We are ready. Why would you upset that?’

  Gregor nodded. ‘I have said this.’

  ‘Say it again if you need to.’

  ‘I will. You speak well, Hari. We will be friends, you and me. After everything. After it all.’

  That seemed unlikely, but Hari nodded, offered his hand. They shook, Gregor left.

  It was two minutes before Hari noticed the small dark shape on the floor, half a metre to his left. Gregor’s phone. Screen down, no lights. Switched off. A rush of blood rang in his ears. A rush of adrenalin killed the pain.

  The thing I want more than anything has been gifted to me. And it’s all too easy.

  This was a trap sprung by Hussain, he was sure of it. Hussain was the doubter and Gregor was the tempter. Hari forced his eyes to close, his leg to calm. Collins stirred, her arm stretching back over his waist.

  Make the call, Hari. Make a call. Make any call.

  Tell someone.

  69

  Thursday, 14 June, 7.20 a.m.

  FAMIE WOKE WHEN the fan died with a small pop. Breakfast in room 204 was instant coffee and painkillers. She woke Charlie, hauled on her jeans, knocked on the interconnecting door. Sophie was dressed, Sam was showering. The air in both rooms was fetid and unyielding. Famie opened the doors to the corridor. What passed for fresher air drifted in, a barely perceptible change.

  She stood in the doorway for a moment, cradling a steaming mug. The coffee smelt sharp and chemical but it was freshly made, and its acidity was familiar and reassuring. She inhaled deeply. As she exhaled she noticed her tremor was back.

  Famie leant her head against the door jamb. If she was right, somewhere nearby some men were in the final stages of planning an atrocity. The university, the synagogue, the cathedral, the theatre. One of them, all of them. Maybe none of them, maybe something else she hadn’t thought of. And involved somewhere, and certainly more scared than she was right now, Hari Roy. A man she’d never met, never spoken to. A man who had got himself involved in something he couldn’t control, couldn’t escape from. The man in the stripy top, beer raised to the camera. Round face, spiky hair.

  ‘Hey Famie.’ Sam had emerged from the bathroom fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Clean and not clean. Soapscented steam billowed in behind him.

  ‘Hey Sam,’ she said, turning back into the room. ‘We need to split up,’ she said. ‘Two and two. We can’t cover everything.’

  ‘Already?’ he said. ‘It’s just gone seven, Fames. Where would we go?’

  ‘Breakfast, please,’ said Sophie. ‘Anywhere with bacon rolls.’

  ‘Not hungry,’ said Famie.

  ‘You’re not pregnant,’ said Sophie.

  Famie, eyes wide, glanced at Sam, still rubbing his hair with a towel.

  ‘She told me,’ he said. ‘Last night.’

  ‘Seemed the right time,’ said Sophie. ‘Doesn’t change anything.’

  Famie didn’t argue, what was the point? It did change everything and they all knew it.

  She walked back into 204. Charlie was showering, the clattering of the pump uncomfortably loud in the cramped room. It was only when the water stopped and the shower pump was silenced that she realized there was another sound. What sounded like a glockenspiel played a ludicrously fast, urgent tune. Over and over.

  A ring tone. Beneath the melody, a low, insistent vibrating sound. From somewhere close. The direction was not obvious, it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once.

  ‘Wh
oever that is, I can’t find the phone!’ she called, loud enough for Charlie to hear. Loud enough for Sam and Sophie. ‘Bloody stupid ring tone too,’ she added. Famie reached the burner phones. Switched on. Charged. Silent. ‘Huh?’ she said.

  The shower-room door burst open. ‘It’s the fucking tablet! Mum, it’s the tablet!’ Wrapping the towel as she ran, hair dripping, Charlie found it under the bedclothes, held it up. It was pulsing, the screen lit up. The calling number was displayed in a rectangular green box. It started with 07, Famie didn’t recognize the rest. A mobile was calling the tablet. Below the numbers, a green phone icon and a red phone icon were offered. Accept or reject.

  Sam and Sophie crashed in from 203.

  ‘Is that the tablet? Is that him?’ Sophie said.

  Charlie held up the vibrating tablet.

  ‘Shit, it is,’ said Sophie. ‘Well answer it then!’

  Charlie handed it to Famie. Famie, hands shaking again, took three attempts to hit the green icon. For a moment she thought she should hold it to her ear, like a phone. Then she held it in front of her. She stared at the screen as though she was expecting visuals. It stayed black.

  ‘Hello?’ she said.

  There was silence, a digital squelch, then the acoustic of an enclosed space. The noise from the tablet sounded indoors. Muffled. She heard movement, clothes brushing against a microphone. A satellite delay. Maybe the caller had missed her answer.

  ‘Hello?’ she said again, now closer to the tablet.