by Karla Forbes
“Of course you are. We all are. That’s what life is all about.”
“Wait a minute. Let me get this clear: I’m not actually dying of radiation sickness?”
The doctor shook her head. “As I said, I can’t be sure until I’ve had the results of the tests, but I doubt it. The exposure appears to have been limited. The plutonium in your pocket was comparatively harmless. It can’t even penetrate paper, let alone a matchbox.”
Nick hardly dared to hope. “But I cut my finger and touched the plutonium,” he reminded her, feeling the need to hear the truth, however bad it was.
“Not necessarily,” she pointed out “you can only state with certainty that you touched the bowl.”
“So why have I got such a painful finger?” Nick asked, holding up the offending digit as though proof was needed.
The doctor gave a pained expression. “If I remember you correctly, you cut your finger and then proceeded to dig around in someone’s back garden with your bare hands. Mind you, thinking about it, it might be preferable to have plutonium in your blood stream than soil from Croydon.” At his startled look, she appeared to relent. “As long as your tetanus jabs are up to date, it’ll probably be a simple infection which can be sorted out with antibiotics. Playing around with radioactive material certainly hasn’t helped your present problem, but you’re not going to immediately drop dead as a result. But I do strongly recommend you have regular check-ups for the next few years.”
“For cancer?”
She nodded. “You’ve got a slightly higher chance of getting cancer in later life, but it’s not worth worrying about that now. Cancer is a lottery; some people get it and others don’t. All that any of us can do is eat and drink sensibly and enjoy life to the full.”
“Hang on,” Nick said, the penny suddenly dropping. “What do you mean, ‘my present problem’?”
“Flu, young man. And because you’ve totally neglected yourself over the last few days, it’s gone on to your chest and given you bronchitis. And what were you thinking of, throwing yourself into that filthy cold water? Have you got a death wish?”
“Flu?” Nick repeated, dazed.
“And bronchitis,” the doctor confirmed. “We’ll need to admit you for a couple of days. It’s quite likely that going for a swim in November is the last straw, and it could develop into pneumonia.”
“No hospitals,” Nick said with determination.
The doctor took one look at his face and sighed. “In that case, you’d better go home and stay in bed. If you start to feel worse you must see your own GP.”
For the first time in several days, Nick allowed his thoughts to turn towards home. Could it really be that simple, that he was no longer on the run and he could return home any time he liked?
The doctor spoke again. “You’ve had a nasty bout of flu and bronchitis, plus a blow to the face that nearly cracked your jaw. I meant what I said: you must go straight home and rest.”
Nick came to attention. “What? Oh yes, of course.”
“I want your promise on that. You won’t be doing yourself any favours if you spend the evening in the pub.”
Nick put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I solemnly promise not to go to the pub.”
“Well I certainly hope not. It won’t do your chest any good at all.”
Nick gave her a grin. “Believe me, the last place I want to be right now is a pu…”
The doctor frowned as Nick’s voice trailed away. “What is it?” She asked sharply.
Nick sprang from the couch. “Shit! I didn’t tell them about the pub.”
She pursed her lips with disapproval. “What did I just say to you? Go home and go to bed. I specifically said no pub.”
Nick turned on her, his eyes wild. “Where are my clothes?”
“No idea,” she said sniffily. “They were taken away by Forensics.”
Nick spun on his heel. “A phone… Where’s a phone?”
The doctor’s frown deepened. “There isn’t one here. If you want to organise your social life you’ll have to use the public phone in the corridor.”
Nick threw up his hands in despair and ran from the room, ignoring the affronted looks from other patients and staff in his path. He skidded to a standstill and stood for a moment, undecided, wondering which direction to take. Then he heard his name being called, and looked up to see Rowland striding towards him.
“Mr Sullivan…” Rowland began.
“The pub!” Nick shouted. “They went to a pub. I’ve got to warn someone.”
“A pub?” Rowland repeated, unsure. “Since when has it been an offence to go for a drink?”
“That’s the point,” Nick said. “They didn’t go for a drink. Fox waited outside and Wilson went in alone. He was only gone for a couple of minutes.”
Rowland shrugged his shoulders. “So? He probably went for a leak.”
Nick shook his head in frustration. “No, listen to me. They’d already stopped off at the motorway services, and then they went out of their way to go to the pub. Why would they do that? When they got there, Fox waited in the car and Wilson went in alone… carrying a box.”
“Bloody hell,” Rowland said in dismay. “I think you’re right. Quick, what’s the name of this pub?”
Nick shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Rowland repeated in disbelief.
“I’d been driving around all day,” Nick said, feeling the need to defend himself. “By that stage I was having trouble remembering my own name, let alone the name of the pub.”
“Where was it, then? Tell me where you went and we’ll find it.”
“I don’t think I can,” Nick admitted unhappily. “You know what it’s like when you’re following someone around? You don’t take much notice of where you’re going. You’re concentrating too much on the car in front.”
“Would you recognise it again?”
Nick was on firmer ground. “I’m sure of it,” he said with conviction. “But I’d need to start out at the Chatham turnoff from the M2 and retrace my steps.”
Rowland turned on his heel. “Hurry up then. We’ll take my car, and I’ll call for reinforcements on the way,” He stopped suddenly, eyeing Nick dubiously. “You can’t go dressed like that. Where are your clothes?”
“You lot have got them.”
“Ah, yes,” Rowland said nodding. “Don’t worry. I’ll sort something out for you.”
Minutes later, with blue light flashing and siren wailing, Rowland was flooring the accelerator whilst Nick was tugging on a pair of white scene-of-crime overalls. They weren’t the best fit in the world, but were a vast improvement on the backless gown he had been wearing.
“Was I right about the fireworks?” he asked, zipping himself into them with relief.
“We don’t know yet,” Rowland admitted. “Police were dispatched to the various locations in time to stop the public displays going ahead. The nuclear techs are there now, checking for radiation.”
“What if I’m wrong?” Nick said, suddenly filled with doubt.
“If you are, it won’t be your fault,” Rowland assured him.
Nick wasn’t convinced. “But what if I wasted valuable time sending everyone on a false trail…?”
“Listen to me,” Rowland said firmly. “You gave us the only lead we had. Even if you’re wrong, you haven’t made things worse than they already were – and if you’re right, you’ve averted a major disaster. “
“When will you know for sure?” Nick asked.
“The deadline was up a couple of hours ago,” Rowland said, “and so far there have been no reports of suspicious explosions anywhere in the UK.”
“I’ll be glued to the television watching the news,” Nick said with a tired yawn.
“Don’t expect to hear the real version,” Rowland told him. “It will be played down.”
“Played down?” Nick repeated incredulously. “How are they going to explain away the fact that the London
suburbs are crawling with police, the fire brigade, and people dressed like astronauts carrying Geiger counters?”
“The authorities were responding to a threat that turned out to be a false alarm,” Rowland stated, his tone defying Nick to argue. “The government will be praised for its vigilance, and people will sleep easier at night knowing that the safety of the nation is in good hands.”
Nick shook his head with disbelief. “And what will the story be if I’m wrong, and the bombs start going off?”
“The government will point the finger at whichever terrorist group is currently the most politically expedient to blame.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Better than having grieving relatives find out that their loved ones could have been saved if the government had been prepared to do a deal.”
“So why not do a deal?”
Rowland gave Nick a sideways glance. “You know the answer to that as well as I do.”
Nick lapsed into thoughtful silence. “I’ve just remembered the name of the pub,” he said after a moment.
Rowland caught his breath. “Thank God. What is it?”
“The Artful Dodger.”
“I know the place,” Rowland said with a grin. “It’s ten minutes from here. Hold onto your seat, Nick… Can I call you Nick? I was the best police driver in the force until I got booted upstairs to a desk job. We’re going to get there in five.”
***
Cathy Roberts surveyed the feast laid out before her. There were baked potatoes nestling in foil, sausages, chicken drumsticks, vegetarian burgers and bowls of salads and dips. More than enough to feed the hordes that were already congregating in the pub and spilling out into the garden. She turned to her sister in sudden panic.
“Jane, I can’t see the pickled onions. Where are they?”
“Oliver is fetching them,” Jane said shaking her head in mock despair. “Stop fretting, will you. Everything is going to be fine. It always is. Look, here he comes now.”
Cathy turned to see her son tottering unsteadily towards her, balancing several jars of pickled onions in each hand. She rushed over to rescue them before they tumbled to the ground. “For goodness sake, Oliver,” she yelled, “you can’t carry them all at once. One at a time, please.”
“Oh mum,” her son protested, for the hundredth time that evening. “Uncle Keith’s nearly ready with the fireworks. You don’t need me anymore do you?”
Cathy looked over to where her brother-in-law was advancing on a Roman Candle with a lighted taper. “Oh, all right then,” she said relenting, “but stay well back and…”
She found herself addressing an empty space as the youngster hurried away to be where the action was. At that moment the giant firework fizzed into life, and was closely followed by several rockets that filled the air with smoke and sparkle. Everyone in the garden turned their gaze skywards, and no one noticed the wail of an approaching police siren.
Rowland screeched to a halt with shingle spitting from his tyres. “It looks as though we’re the first to arrive,” he said, looking dubiously around him. The noise of several rockets going off simultaneously had both men reaching for the door handles.
“Shit!” Rowland growled. “It’s kicking off already.” They abandoned the car with the doors hanging open and sprinted down the side of the pub towards the sound of fireworks and noisy chatter.
“Listen to me, everyone,” he yelled. “This is the Police.”
His voice was drowned out by an ear-splitting volley that hammered into their ribs and seemed to go on for ever.
“I said, this is the Police!” he bellowed at the top of his voice.
Several more rockets detonated above the crowd, obliterating his words.
***
Nick took in the scene with one horrified glance. He looked around him and saw a hosepipe that was lying uncurled and ready for action should the bonfire get out of control. Lunging at it, he turned on the outside tap with a couple of sharp twists and dragged the hosepipe, spouting water, towards the boxes of fireworks that were piled up alongside the shed. As the jet of water began its destructive work, the onlookers fell silent one by one and turned to stare at him with outrage. He kept the hosepipe trained on the pile of fireworks until they were drenched through, and then turned it on the bonfire that was disgorging heavy black smoke and preventing the air from dissipating into the atmosphere. By the time he was satisfied that the danger was past, the ground beneath him had become a dirty black lake and he had the full attention of the angry crowd. He stood back to admire his handiwork, wiping smuts from his eyes with the back of his hand, and didn’t notice an irate woman striding his way.
“Who are you, and what the hell do you think you’re doing?” she yelled at the top of her voice.
Nick looked up and became aware, for the first time, of the murderous expressions around him.
“Sorry about the fireworks,” he said giving the lynch mob an ingratiating smile, “Some of the food will probably be salvageable.”
“Quick,” the woman said, to no one in particular. “Someone call the police.”
“Already here,” Rowland said stepping forward and brandishing his ID before him like a white flag. “And you are?”
She folded her arms belligerently across her chest. “Cathy Roberts. I’m the licensee of the pub. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“I’m not sure myself yet,” Rowland admitted. “Mrs Roberts… Do the names David Wilson, Gerhard Hubner or Malcolm Fox mean anything to you?”
Cathy visibly blanched, and Rowland reached out to steady her. “What is it?” he asked quickly.
“Did you say Malcolm Fox?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I know him all right,” she said bitterly, “but I hoped I’d never hear his name again. What’s this got to do with him?” She pointed to where Nick was rolling up the fire hose. “And who the hell is that?”
Rowland steered her to one side. “That’s Nick Sullivan. He might have just saved you from a great deal of grief. We need to talk. Can we go inside?”
Cathy looked around her with dismay. “What about the party?”
The wail of distant sirens grew louder as Mr Roberts came hurrying out of the pub, his face etched with concern.
“The party’s off,” Rowland said, “and I need to know exactly what connection you two have with Malcolm Fox.”
“Connection?” Roberts repeated wildly. “If I ever ‘connect’ with that bastard again it will be to kill him. Does that answer your question?”
Cathy hushed her husband and turned to Rowland her face serious. “We’ll tell you everything we can, but before we do you have to promise me one thing.”
“If I can,” Rowland assured her.
“Promise me that I won’t have to see Fox again.”
“That’s easy,” Rowland said bluntly. “He’s dead.”
Roberts wrapped an arm protectively around his wife. “Who needs a party? You’ve just made us the happiest people alive.”
***
It was nearly midnight before the police had finally taken their leave, and Cathy and her husband had climbed wearily to bed. The fireworks had been carefully packaged and removed under special escort, statements had been given, and officials and the crowd alike had finally dispersed. Roberts had pumped Nick’s hand up and down several times with the promise that anytime he was passing and felt like dropping in, the drinks would be on the house. Nick had modestly denied that he had done anything special, but had happily accepted the offer anyway.
Now, at last, Cathy and her husband were alone. She reached out for his hand under the duvet.
“Hold me, please,” she whispered. “I can’t stop thinking about what would have happened if we’d started the party earlier, or if that man Nick hadn’t remembered what he’d seen, or if—”
“Stop it, Cathy,” her husband ordered. “Carry on like that and you’ll make yourself ill.”
“But I just can’
t get my head around what Fox tried to do.”
Roberts rolled onto his side and pulled her into his arms, cuddling her tightly.
“Don’t think about it,” he told her. “Put it out of your mind and try to go to sleep.”
“You’re right,” she said. “But I can’t help wondering: would Fox have done what he did if he had known about—?”
“That,” Roberts said, shaking his head in the darkness, “is something we’ll never know.”
She snuggled up to him. “Do you think that one day we should tell Oliver?”
“Tell him what?” her husband asked. “That his father was a vicious rapist who nearly managed to kill the son he never knew he had? I don’t think so, do you?”
Chapter Twenty
Nick brought two mugs of coffee in from the kitchen, handed one to Annelies and settled back in the armchair with the other.
“So ends the bloody business of the day,” he reflected as he took a satisfying gulp.
“Ah, I know that one,” Annelies said proudly. “It’s Shakespeare isn’t it?”
“Not quite. It was Homer.”
“What do you mean, ‘not quite’?” Annelies bristled “Shakespeare and Homer are nothing like each other.”
“Of course they are,” Nick said, sensing danger and trying to retrieve the situation.
“Now you’re being patronising.”
“No I’m not.”
“Then explain how, exactly, Homer is so similar to Shakespeare that they can be described as ‘not quite’ the same?”
“Well…um…they’re both poets for a start.”
“No,” Annelies argued. “One was a Roman poet and the other was an English playwright.” Nick tried, unsuccessfully, to mask a grin. “What have I said now?”
“Homer was actually Greek,” he said, failing in his bid to keep a straight face. “And Shakespeare was a poet as well as a playwright.”
Annelies didn’t seem to enjoy being the cause of Nick’s mirth. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a pain-in-the-arse know-all?”
“Frequently,” he admitted, trying and failing to bring his laughter under control. Annelies’s indignation also evaporated, and within minutes they were both laughing. He looked at her with affection.