“What do you mean?” Henry’s head raised up suddenly, his heart jolted with a pang of hope.
“I know people.”
“I need to think,” said Henry, nodding slowly.
He froze as a police car screamed past them. Charlie kept his composure. He must have seen them coming way before they sounded their siren. Charlie was indeed the business.
“Let’s have that drink. I know a good place in Hackney. You will be fine there, for a while.”
Henry remained silent, the siren still echoing in his ears. He recalled the earlier vision of The Apocalypse by John Martin. He clenched his fists so hard his fingernails cut into the palms of his hands. He thought about the mangled bodies, he saw Liam and Bobby’s faces, he saw The Raft of the Medusa waiting for him in his apartment.
“Don’t do this to yourself. It won’t solve anything.”
Charlie’s voice saved him from the abyss. Henry sat back, surrendering to the moment. He looked at the streets around him. He had lost track of where he was.
* * *
The distant noise startled Nancy. It was unfamiliar and yet not unknown. She looked at the large clock hanging on the wall of her conservatory. It indicated half past six exactly, evening rush hour at its peak and she knew a bomb had gone off.
She threw away her gardening gloves in an angry gesture and ran across the length of the room. She climbed down her stairs, nearly tripped, grabbed the banister. She swore as she found her balance again and rushed to the nearest phone.
Nancy dialled Inspector’s Pole number from memory.
“Pole,” he answered.
“Inspector Pole, where are you?”
“Good afternoon Ms Wu,” replied Pole in an amused tone. “I thought I was the one who—”
“No time, Inspector,” interrupted Nancy. “I think a bomb has just gone off in Central London. I can’t quite be sure but if I can hazard a guess. I’d say west of me, possibly Hyde Park, Marble Arch – that sort of way.”
“Do not hang up, my other phone is ringing.”
Pole voice lost some of its clarity but Nancy could still hear his side of the conversation.
“Where exactly? I see. I am on my way.”
Nancy could hear him fumbling with both phones.
“The bomb exploded at Paddington.” Pole hesitated. “It caught the van in which Henry was being transported. It’s chaos over there.”
“Is he dead?” asked Nancy.
“I don’t know. I am going, right now,” replied Pole.
“I’ll meet you at Paddington,” she would not be told otherwise.
“Fine, ask for me.”
Nancy sat down. The news nearly overwhelmed her. She thought of Pole and drew some comfort knowing he would be there. She had to find Henry. Nancy stood up, grabbed her coat, checked again that she had put her mobile in her bag and left the safety of her flat without hesitation.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tube and buses had stopped. Nancy managed to convince a cabbie to take her as close as he could to Paddington. She could hear the distant howling of ambulances. Her left hand started to shake uncontrollably and she grabbed it with her right to make it stop. An image was slowly forming in her mind, people running and screaming, the smell of tear gas, but the cabbie’s voice dispelled it.
“It’s as far as I can go, love.”
Nancy gave the driver a £20 note and rushed out without asking for change. The acrid smell of smoke and melted plastic assaulted her. People were walking in all directions, some still fleeing the scene, others frantically moving towards it. She could make out a number of police vans in the middle of the road. She saw officers stopping people. She needed to find Pole. Nancy grabbed her mobile and, still walking, pressed the redial button. The number was busy. The engaged tone played with her nerves. She gritted her teeth and tried again. She was about to terminate the call when Pole’s name appeared on the screen. She switched line.
“Where are you,” asked Pole.
“At the corner of Paddington and Westbourne Grove.”
“I am coming for you.”
Nancy stood still in a sea of people, injured, helpers, relatives in search of their loved ones. A strong grip on her arm made her turn around. Pole was standing in front of her. His pale face stood out against the darkness of night. He had seen the bomb site. She did not know how to ask the question.
“Henry is alive,” Pole managed.
Nancy simply shook her head. Words meant very little and she could not find the right ones. They faced each other speechless. Pole was still holding Nancy’s arm, the way a drowning man may cling to his rescuer. He realised it and reluctantly let go. She managed a quick smile.
“Is it very bad?”
“Atrocious,” replied Pole, his eyes now avoiding hers. “I need to go back – and you need to find Henry.”
Pole did not move and Nancy knew he would not until she did. She shook her head and put her hand on Pole’s square shoulder, pressing it gently. She was finding it hard to move away too but a yell of despair in the distance jolted her into action.
She took a step back, still facing Pole and finally turned around. She moved faster and faster, her chest pounding. She felt nauseous. She stopped abruptly but the moment passed.
She must indeed find Henry.
* * *
The Vortex Jazz Club was a busy place, an intimate setting for the jazz aficionados who came to listen. Henry followed Charlie into the club and noticed his driver giving a quick gang style handshake to the bouncer at the door. They found a free table at the back of the room. The redheaded woman on stage had just started her first song.
“She is Irish,” said Charlie, “the best Jazz fusion in town at the moment. Beer?”
“Guinness.”
Charlie simply nodded and disappeared.
Her song had the broken, intellectual rhythm of original jazz and yet there were some melodious, melancholic undertones. Henry drifted into the music. Jazz had never been his favourite but somehow he felt carried by the tune or maybe the words. It was familiar. Henry realised she was singing in Gaelic, the wheel of time spinning in reverse.
He was seated at a similar table in Belfast. Bobby had brought a wad of papers to the pub and Liam had gone mad at him for it. It was a partisan pub but still. It had been agreed that they should not discuss their latest plan in public. Bobby had disappeared into the crowd and not reappeared until the following evening. Henry could see the papers but the pages were blank. He did not want to look at them, to turn those pages and remember.
“Good stuff!”
Charlie’s voice startled Henry. His pint was sitting in front of him. Charlie raised his own pint of lager and Henry rasied his drink, hitting Charlie’s glass softly. He took a sip. He liked the gentle sensation of the froth hitting his lips before the bitter taste engulfed his tongue. He took another sip. The wad of papers reappeared in front of his eyes.
Liam was talking to him about the airport. He had gathered good quality intelligence. The airport was small and therefore ideal. A lot of high ranking civil servants and even royalty flew from it. The perfect target.
The song ended and Henry noticed that his glass was nearly empty. He was about to offer to pay for a round but remembered he had no money. A sensation of helplessness he had never known choked him. A plump waitress dressed in black and wearing the requisite piercings brought some chips. Charlie signalled for another two drinks. He had said nothing, content to be listening to his favourite music. Henry finished his pint and regained some composure.
“We can talk if you’d like,” said Charlie looking at the stage, “but it may not be what you want, that’s fine by me. No pressure.”
Henry nodded. He knew he had to make the effort soon, but maybe not just yet. He let himself drift into the redhead’s next song.
* * *
Nancy walked all the way home. She felt she was losing valuable time but there was no other option. She wondered how she could find Henry �
� no BlackBerry, penniless. Who would he turn to? She did not know his friends although she suspected his City pals would never be his first port of call. Who?
Henry had been betrayed but was it not of his own doing. A harsh situation thought Nancy but one she knew only too well. The core of Henry’s belief was unravelling. He was at a crossroads but would he recognise it? Nancy remembered the events that had tested her in much the same way. Pole had been right when he had asked about early 2008. Jacques Vergès had offered to defend Tariq Aziz, Saddam Hussein’s close adviser and after all these years contacted Nancy. She knew full well why. Vergès was getting old without losing his appetite for controversy. Nancy had just won a spectacular case against the extradition of a world-renowned hacker. Her name had been in the papers for days and coming out of the Old Bailey, she had addressed the journalists with the mixture of tact, humour and defiance that so characterised her. She knew Vergès’ decision was a media stunt, she saw straight through it and yet the temptation was too great.
She had arranged to meet him in Paris. A good shopping trip along the Rive Gauche would not go amiss if she decided not to work with Jacques. She was about to board the Eurostar when an old friend spotted her. They had both gone to The Sorbonne and corresponded for a long time until Nancy’s professional life took over, consuming all hours of day and night. They were sitting in the same carriage, a strange turn of fate which Nancy would reluctantly interpret as destiny. They sat together and talked the way old friends can sometimes do, with candour. Nancy heard her own voice describing what she did and it sounded alien, false. She was not lying of course when she was recounting her successes at the bar. But doubt was slowly creping in. Her friend nodded and smiled. Nancy could see on her face a mixture of admiration and regret. When the train arrived at Gare du Nord, Nancy’s friend embraced her warmly with only a few parting words: “I am glad you enjoy this all-consuming job so much, take a little time for what else also matters will you?” There was some sorrow in her voice that did not betray envy but gentle disappointment. Nancy took the cab that was waiting for her but never saw Vergès. She instead walked the streets of Paris the way she had done so many years ago. She took time again to look at life unfolding around her. At the pinnacle of her career Nancy had started the process of self-transformation. She knew now why but it would take her time to see clearly the root of it all.
The rain surprised her with its intensity. She shivered. She yearned for the tranquillity of her home. She wanted to get rid of the acrid smell of smoke and death. Her mind would not settle until she had reached her destination. She accelerated her pace. She would be there very soon. Then the answer would present itself.
* * *
The music had banished his anxieties for a while. Jazz had been the perfect music and he thanked Charlie for it. The first part of the show had finished, a young saxophonist was now filling the room with a doleful solo.
“Have you ever been betrayed, badly?”
Henry’s question came as a surprise, its frankness almost unbearable.
“Don’t you mean to say, have I ever grassed on someone, in a way that is unforgivable ever for best friends?”
Charlie’s rephrasing of the question felt brutal. His voice had lost its manicured tone but not its precision. Charlie looked at Henry as he replied. In the darkness of the club, Henry felt his eyes on him.
“I have paid my dues. I decided it was enough, my slate is clean. It’s hard to acknowledge who you are.”
“Was it worth it?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
“I am not so sure anymore. It’s easy to think about it when all is good but today …” Henry’s voice trailed off.
Charlie’s phone buzzed. He looked at it with distant interest. He looked at Henry again and decided it was time to leave.
“I’ve got to go. You can stay here for the rest of the night. Marco at the door will help and … I’ll be back here before the club closes. I will make some enquiries. If you want to leave the UK, I’ll come back with a contact.”
“Why?” said Henry almost childish.
“If you truly want to make a choice, you need to have a choice.”
Charlie stood up, so did Henry. He extended his arm and shook his driver’s hand. Something he had never done before.
* * *
The redhead was back on stage. Charlie had vanished. Memories of Ireland stormed back into Henry’s mind. The papers were now scattered before Liam and him. They shared the same house and had gathered in Henry’s small room. Bobby had not been invited. He would be told when the plan had been fully hatched. Bobby’s impatience had become far worse since they had moved out of Belfast, his restlessness a constant concern.
The papers had finally come to life, a shorthand written description of how to wire a detonator, the list of items required for the construction of a bomb. Henry had been amazed at the simplicity of its ingredients. He saw the map of the small airport with yellow highlights in a couple of places, the points at which security was at its weakest. A page with columns and ticks with their three names flashed in front of Henry’s eyes, airport staff schedules, unscheduled flights. He could hear the sound of his own voice declaring sanctimoniously, “It works. We can do this anytime.”
Henry raised his pint to his lips, he had nearly finished his drink. He looked at the small amount of dark liquid at the bottom of his glass. Who had decided not to go ahead and why? Had it been an intellectual exercise, a way to prove to himself and his friends how clever he was? A way to belong?
The pain of realisation savaged him. He had wanted to look after his friends as if they were family. He wanted to be part of them, just the way he was when kids had taunted him at school “English boy, Mummy’s boy, Little shit we’ll get your toys.” Liam had grabbed the kid who spat at him by the throat and Bobby had sworn he would kill anyone who touched Henry. No one messed with the O’Connors clan. And Henry was one of them. But Henry Crowne would never be a killer. The well-rehearsed plan was a mock exercise, a sham to attempt to put his mind at rest. He could not bring himself to act upon it but Bobby had. To Bobby it was no mere intellectual conjecture, it was a call to arms. The seed had been sown no matter how long it would take to mature.
Henry sat back in his chair. The Vortex Club reappeared. The agony of self-doubt assaulted him. He was a nobody.
“No,” said Henry aloud.
No, he would not accept this. He stood up quickly and knocked the table. A few heads turned but the music covered the noise for the rest of the room. The waitress had approached the table more concerned by an unpaid bill than a drunken man. Charlie had left a £50 note in the tray. Henry pocketed the change, uneasily. He looked at the room around him. There was nothing left for him here.
He walked out of the club and stepped onto the pavement. It was damp and cold. He zipped up the fleece that Charlie had lent him and started walking through the crowded streets of Hackney.
* * *
Nancy had taken the time to have a shower. She had checked her mobile several times. Pole had not called and she knew better than to call herself. She was confident he would let her know as soon as he had news.
The TV was on and she flicked channels. Identical pictures and comments were being repeated without giving her much to go on. She found the reporting distasteful.
Nancy pressed the TV mute button and closed her eyes. She knew there was a connection somewhere that she was missing. A way to reach Henry she had not yet thought about. She decided to go through her case notes. She opened the file that had been abandoned on her sofa and started reading through them, methodically.
* * *
Despite the plummeting temperature, Hackney Central was bristling with activity, young people moving from club to club, huddled together and speaking at the tops of their voices, cars cruising with open windows, blasting rap or techno. Henry was walking slowly, observing the sea of faces. He had been so remote from this crowd only a few hours ago and now here
he was, immersed in it with so little in his pocket that he understood once more the vulnerability of the destitute. A brightly lit shop attracted his attention. He crossed the road and stood in front of an electrical goods shop where three ultra large TV screens were relaying different news programmes. The bomb blast dominated all channels.
Henry recognised the police van that had carried him a few hours ago. He couldn’t move. A passer-by bumped into him. The man was drunk, mumbling some insult. He moved on, preferring another pint to a fight. The sound of a police siren caused Henry to jerk round to see the police car rush past him. The scenes at Paddington remained so vivid, he started walking again. The noise of the street mingled with the screams surrounding the bomb site, he turned left into another street then right and found himself in a small alleyway. The activity had subsided to give way to a seediness he had not witnessed for years. Henry spotted a wine bar at the far end of the street. He walked in and sat at the bar. He fingered the £20 note he had in his pocket and ordered a large glass of red, any red would do; he had stopped being fussy. The barman stuck a menu in front of him with a choice of tapas, an indication that Henry was expected to do more than just drink. He wasn’t hungry but he placed an order, anyway.
The place looked unexpectedly welcoming in contrast to its neighbourhood. On the stool next to him a man shuffled. He pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his eyes. His friend had just come back to his seat and, extending a large hand, grabbed the other man’s shoulder. Both stayed silent for a while.
“Have you heard anything?”
“I have not checked again. They said they would call as soon as they had found him.”
“Yes, well. Do you trust them?”
The man next to Henry shrugged his shoulders.
“I tried to get close but there are coppers everywhere.”
His friend nodded.
“I supposed they have to get to the people injured and to the …”
The friend’s voice trailed. He could not bring himself to speaking about death.
Collapse Page 24