by David Laws
Erika gazed wistfully at the shadowy outlines of this quiet place in the Suffolk countryside. On a nice day the pristine lawns and the shrubs’ shades of brown and green were a delight. The leaves on the trees had sung to a small breeze that very afternoon. A tree, that was the spark of her recall. Utterly ridiculous how it all began – she a mere teenager, a prankster in the park.
The girls had been whooping with laughter, calling to her, yelling words of encouragement, daring her to climb higher. After a while she became aware everything had gone quiet, and when she looked down from the upper branches of the old oak there was no one staring up at her, no one yelling to fix the banner a little higher, no one giggling at her climbing antics. No one, that is, save for the man in the grey peaked cap with double-stripe collar runics on his tunic jacket. Erika swallowed. This, she supposed, must be trouble.
As soon as her feet touched the ground there were two of them – hostile, swearing and rough; grabbing her, bundling her along to a little grey van parked on the road. Odd, that! Why would policemen use a van advertising laundry services? She soon discovered why. Inside were several tiny cells. She was locked in one, hardly big enough even for a young girl. Her head was bowed by the low ceiling, the seat so narrow that the walls of the cell compressed her body. No windows, no air, no light, no explanation. When they blindfolded and bound her feet, she demanded, “Where are you taking me?”
“Silence! No talking.”
The journey was rough, constricting and endless. It went on for hours. She fought back nausea, willed herself not to panic, held claustrophobia at bay. For all she knew, they could have crossed the frontier into another country. Kidnapped by foreigners?
Finally the vehicle stopped, the cell door released and the outer door opened, the blindfold ripped away. She wanted to shield her eyes from a harsh spotlight, but the handcuffs made it impossible.
“Jump!”
She was aware of a line of figures outside the vehicle yelling at her, but she could only glimpse their feet.
“Jump, move, get going, do it now!”
Erika launched herself from the van – and tripped. Something caught at her feet and she fell head first into a rough courtyard, smashing her nose, bruising her face. Rough hands hauled her up. Stark voices yelled to keep moving. Not a shred of sympathy as she was bundled, limping, half blinded, up a flight of steps, through a door, down a corridor, down steps, then more steps, then the clang of a metal door.
It was dark, and finally she could open her eyes. Blood trickled down her face as she realised where she was. In a cell.
After what seemed like days – but perhaps it had only been hours – Erika was sitting on a tiny stool in the corner of an interrogation room in the new prison block at Berlin’s Hohenschönhausen. Of course, she didn’t know it then – she only discovered the location much later. Her hands were placed under her bottom, palms down for maximum discomfort while her interrogator, a massive lump of a man with pallid flesh and double chins, lounged in a leather armchair behind a wide, shiny desk. She could see gadgets there; doubtless a button to summon help should she leap up and deliver the smack to his face he so clearly deserved.
“So… you know why you’re here?” The tone was mocking, dismissive, contemptuous.
“You tell me.”
“Insolence! How dare you address an officer of the Ministry in such a way? We’re going to have to teach you some manners, young woman.”
“So, why am I here?”
“You don’t know?” The lounging figure jerked upright, red in the face. “You mean to tell me, you have no idea? You have no idea that you have insulted the republic – or how?”
Erika shrugged, stuck out her chin. “It’s an insult to climb a tree?”
“More insolence!” He was on his feet, banging the desk. “You will pay a heavy price for this attitude.”
“What attitude?”
“That you think I’m a fool, that this is just about a tree.”
“Then what?”
“That slogan, that banner you tied to your tree. You know what it said.”
“I didn’t look.”
“You insult my intelligence again! You didn’t look? Of course you looked! You knew, you knew all along about the negative, hostile attitude you were showing to the state, insulting our leaders, insulting the citizens, attempting to create disharmony and dismay among the people.”
“Oh, so what did it say?”
“You know what it said, of course you do, and why you went to all that trouble to climb a tree and tie this disgusting, insulting, traitorous notice in a public place where it could be seen by all. Perhaps this was your idea all along, yes?”
“Look—” Erika said, pulling out a hand and waving it at him.
“Stop! Hands below your body. Keep your position, as instructed, or I will call the guard and you will return to your cell.”
Erika made a face and resumed the required position. “I don’t know what the damned thing said. I only agreed to tie it to the tree because some people asked me. I didn’t look at their banner. They only asked me ’cause everyone knows I’m good at climbing.”
“Who? Who were these people? Give me their names.”
“Just some girls. It was a giggle. A laugh. A dare.”
“Give me their names.”
“I don’t know their names.”
“Enough. Your negative attitude and your disrespectful manner do you no credit. Young as you are, we will have to teach you respect.”
He pressed something on his desk, and before she had time to think of something to say to delay the inevitable, a guard burst into the room.
“Take her away.” The interrogator was on his feet, pointing at her. “You will regret this. Punishment block. Special measures.”
Chapter 13
24 days to go
Harry circled the space behind the hedge where he’d left the bike, looking in the ditch, in adjacent bushes, out in the lane. No trace of the Triumph. He clenched a fist, but there was no enemy to strike. The watchers would soon be closing in, but just at that moment what grieved him most was the loss of his treasure, the machine that had taken him across Europe, the envy of all his friends, his great release from stress.
He examined the ground for fresh tyre marks but could find none. The commotion he had left behind at the cottage seemed to have died away. Straightening up, he listened to the quiet of the night, alert for sounds of the searchers, wondering if he should give up on the Triumph – accept that it had gone. He turned around, trying to remember the location of the nearest footpath back to town.
Instead, he decided to stand motionless, straining to detect any approach. No distant aircraft, no rustling wildlife, no approaching footfall. It was in this period of indecision that the merest flicker of sound came to him, faint and far-off. He was instantly alert, like a dog sniffing in the undergrowth. Was it…? Could it be…? Then he was sure. The familiar bark of the Triumph. Someone – be he thief, tormentor or teenage joyrider – was coming his way.
The sound grew louder, and Harry moved into the centre of the lane, heedless of the danger of exposing his location to the searchers. The noise was drawing closer. He was quite sure now, then bike and rider rounded the bend. Harry switched on his torch, flashing it from side to side in a manner he imagined the police would use at a roadblock. With his left arm he windmilled great circles of warning.
The bike came nearer. Harry stood his ground.
Panic! The rider throttled back, leaned heavily to one side, lost control and dropped into the road. The bike, screeching and bleeding a trail of red paint, careened on its side, hit the verge, stalled and ricocheted back into the lane.
Harry shouted in anger and leapt forward, but he was too late. The rider regained his feet and fled into a tangle of bracken and weed. Gone! No chance to catch him.
Instead, Harry righted the bike, feeling with his hand down the right-hand fairing and swearing at the buckles and dents he found there. Then he sat astride her and kick-started the motor back to life.
The noise of the crash would be like a magnet to the searchers. This was no time for damage assessment. His means of escape was now at hand.
The watchers would have access to cars and the sound of the bike would be an immediate draw. He looked in his rear-view mirror as he sped down the main road back into Bury, but so far there were no trailing lights. His heart rate soared and his sense of excitement was at a peak. Then doubts: what had he got himself into?
Before tonight he had entertained an element of scepticism about the reality of Erika’s tormentors. He had simply been carried along by the idea of reigniting his relationship with her while at the same time pursuing a great story, but now, confronting the man with the bobble hat and gapped teeth, he was convinced. He was sure. Very sure.
At the big roundabout on the outskirts of town he didn’t expect to slow. No traffic at this time of night… but he was wrong. A black Wolseley approached from his right, flashing toward him, exercising its right of way.
Harry jammed on the back brake. Nothing. He tried again, without result.
He did his best. He weaved low in front of the Wolseley and then executed a most dexterous swerve back in the opposite direction to clear the roundabout. He thought he’d got away with it, but had forgotten the heightened kerb on the far side.
The bike hit hard and cartwheeled over his head into the exit lane. Harry was thrust forward and lost the comforting feeling of being astride the familiar saddle. He was conscious for a fraction of a second – and it seemed rather a long fraction – of being airborne, of twisting in space, then the breath was knocked out of him as he landed in a heap on something smooth and giving.
He sat up, nauseous, thought he might be sick, then blinked and wondered how he’d managed to survive without injury. At least, he could feel no pain. His saviour turned out to be a pile of roadside sand, dumped for the winter months, but he was more concerned that the bike had suffered a double calamity.
A face appeared in his line of vision. No hat, but a number in shiny brass figures visible on a high blue collar.
“Rehearsing for the circus, were we?”
This, Harry decided, was no time to get shirty. Trouble with the police – riding a machine whose brakes had failed and carrying a large amount of money in his shirt pocket – was going to destroy any hope of leading Erika to safety.
“So sorry, Constable, that was a truly awful piece of riding.” He grimaced. “Very poor judgement from me. What can I say? My sincere apologies. I trust you weren’t inconvenienced?”
“Don’t I know you?”
“Probably.”
“You’re Harry Topp!”
Harry nodded.
“The scribbler!”
“Guilty again.”
The constable, whom Harry now recognised as Smythe, one of the more amenable of Suffolk’s finest, said, “You’re going to look pretty stupid down at the courthouse when you appear in the dock instead of the press box.”
“How true! How very true. Is there any way…?”
“OK, just this once, I’ll look the other way. This time…”
Harry sighed with relief. He must have given Smythe a good write-up at some previous magistrates’ court hearing. Probably in one of his many freelance reports to The Anglian. Smythe was definitely one of the more humane of the busies over at Raingate Street, but there was still the problem of how to keep this latest misfortune from the attention of Harry’s bête noire at Bury police HQ. He needed to retain a tolerable working relationship at his daily briefings.
“I’m very grateful,” Harry said, “but could I ask another favour?”
“Another?”
“Not to tell Sergeant Rudd about this one?”
Chapter 14
Wednesday 6th March 2019; 23 days to go
Erika was still jumpy. Harry had returned right enough with some, if not all, of her treasures – a wad of twenties kept for just this sort of rainy day, her diary, passports, Stefan’s homework book and an unexpected bonus: her jogging shoes.
But she still worried. Harry’s motorbike had been damaged and was in a garage for repair. Their location might be traced through this. There were so many threats to their security: would Stefan be followed home from school; would the taxi driver talk?
She continued to check all the locks and windows during the day and the night. She worried about escaping through the back door, kept a constant vigil from her upper-storey window and created a new hidey-hole with blankets and boxes at the back of the loft. Then she laid a trail of weapons secreted strategically around the house: a hammer in the corner of the bedroom, a large stick on the first-floor landing, an old cricket bat she found in the garage behind the kitchen door, a lump of lead pipe under the cooker. She’d be ready for any intruder.
At night she leapt from the bed in alarm at the tiniest sound: a distant car door, a rustle of leaves or any of the unfathomable cries of the neighbourhood wildlife. She liked Harry and trusted him, but the strain was making her irritable. She began to carp; all those domestic imperfections contingent on the live-in male that caused her to flare up. She insisted on proper hygiene: toothbrushes freshly cleaned and set upright in their container each day, pyjamas folded neatly at the bottom of the bed, towels kept in stacks according to colour and size, no washing-up left on the draining board, and shoes freshly polished to glint in the early-morning light.
“I’m not a damned shoeshine boy,” Harry objected, and that only made her more edgy.
Teacups and spoons had to be washed, dried and put away immediately after use; all surfaces and floors constantly to sparkle.
He grumbled.
She made night-time forays into the kitchen to check on his midnight snacks “to make sure you haven’t ruined everything”.
“You haven’t got enough to occupy yourself,” Harry complained, which was true enough since she’d taken a leave of absence from her job at the day nursery. She hadn’t given them any notice, simply talked about a family crisis.
Harry did his best to calm her. Long conversations designed to induce relaxation became ever more personal, inevitably delving once more into her bruised and battered past. But even in this she found no comfort.
“To be called a sewer rat by your own father, a useless mouth to feed – what do you think that does to a person?”
“But it’s good to talk about it,” he said, “to get it out in the open, out of your system.”
So she did. “I dream about delivering vengeance and justice to my awful family,” she said. “Perhaps one day it might happen. But not only to them… to all those other people who deserve retribution.”
Harry snorted. “That’s a very dark dream.”
“Every time I see a transgressor, some real shit, some businessman who’s evicted his tenants or sacked his workers while rolling around in a big Mercedes, I dream of getting him down in a mud pile and rubbing his nose in it. Showing him what it feels like to be at the bottom of the heap instead of the top.”
Wrinkle lines showed on Harry’s forehead. He looked as if he regretted the direction of this conversation, but he could hardly object to the idea of searching for justice. It was, after all, what he did. But vengeance?
She persisted. “I dream of serving up justice to those who deserve it. I imagine myself as the dispenser of vengeance on behalf of all the little people.”
He looked at her. The words were pretentious, absurd even, as if she were reading from a script. Perhaps it was something she had read. She was a receptacle for strange ideas, mostly clichés. Would she tell him the source? No, she wouldn’t.
Harry sighed and scratched his head.
“Maybe one day I’ll do it,�
�� she said. A pause, then: “Maybe I already have.”
“What?” he exclaimed, then shook himself. “Erika, for goodness’ sake, you’re beginning to talk a lot of drivel. We should discuss something else. Tell me about Stefan and the school.”
It was then she broke the spell and laughed. “Just a joke, Harry, just a joke… don’t worry about it.”
Yesterday it had been Swedish meatballs in redcurrant sauce; today’s fare at Blackthorpe Grange was baked beans. Erika’s cooking was as varied as her moods. They were both distracted as they sat in Scobie’s classy dining room, a double-page spread of The Globe laid out beside Harry – he momentarily forgetful of her distaste for reading at the dinner table – with Radio 4 burbling quietly away in the corner. His dark mood, stemming from the bike crash and a lack of progress on the Tresham story, was made even deeper by what he read in the political columns of his old paper. Christopher Tresham’s star was on the up. Speculation at Westminster was rife that the Prime Minister could not last much longer, labelled a lame duck with ten junior ministers threatening to quit. The Home Secretary was being touted as the one best placed to supplant her.
Harry viewed the prospect of this man achieving the highest office in the land as the ultimate disaster. Already an extraordinarily powerful and dangerous opponent, Tresham’s true nature and intentions would be impossible to expose once he was installed in Number 10. All the levers of state power would be at his command. The security forces would be in his pocket. Instead of investigating him, they’d be defending him. The bleakness of this scenario didn’t make Harry simply frightened, it made him angry. He might be off the payroll at The Globe, but he still had a direct line to the inside story through his friend Lufkin.