Nothing Sacred

by David Thorne

  I call Jack back at his office and his line rings and rings, and I am about to give up when he answers.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Jack, it’s Daniel again. You said you had addresses with the names.’

  ‘You want Strauss’s.’ A statement, not a question. Jack has been a newsman too long not to pick up on a story.

  ‘You got it?’

  He reads it to me and I thank him again and get back into my car. Strauss lives in a village twenty miles away and I can be there in a few minutes, although I do not know why I feel the need to hurry. Gabe not answering his phone is the norm rather than the exception; he is a man who is always hard to pin down. It would be better to wait, to face Strauss together. But I have a feeling of disquiet, of things not right. It may be linked to what is happening with Blake and Maria but I cannot sit and wait for Gabe to resurface. I need to do something.

  *

  Major Strauss lives in a red-brick and clapboard cottage with a thatched roof, which sits behind a low hedge on a narrow lane in the village of Gamble’s Green. When I get there it is still light, although it is fading. Strauss’s car is on his gravel drive. I pass his house and park on the road further up next to a gate giving into a field. I can see his house in my rear-view mirror and for some time I just sit and wonder what I should do. Knowing Gabe, he would want to sort this out himself, would not want somebody to act for him. But he is still not answering his mobile and I cannot be sure that Strauss hasn’t already done something to him, dramatic as that sounds to me.

  No cars pass and the village feels deserted as night falls. I spent the previous evening watching the Blakes’ home, playing out revenge fantasies in my head that I lacked the strength to carry out. I will not do the same tonight. I am about to get out of my car, walk to Strauss’s house and see how things play out, when his car’s headlights come on and he pulls out of his drive, onto the road and past me.

  I start my car and pull out to follow him. He drives fast. He knows these roads, has driven them many times, and I have trouble keeping up as he takes narrow bends at fifty, sixty miles an hour. We are heading back the way I had come and I wonder whether he is headed for Gabe’s, but he takes a small lane that climbs up under a canopy of leafless trees. At the end is a restaurant, a sign lit up saying The Black Horse. It has big glass windows and has been modernised and inside it is bright and I can see tables inside, can see people eating.

  Strauss turns a corner and enters the car park. I park on the road outside, sit and wait. Soon Strauss comes back into view on foot and walks to the entrance of the restaurant, goes inside. He speaks to a waitress who nods and leads him to a table. He passes out of view. Sitting in my car I feel anger, a rage building, for how he has misled my friend, for what he may have done to him, for his lies. I get out of my car and I feel as loose and purposeful as I would before a tennis final, almost elated by my anger; after so much helplessness I have a target and it feels good.

  I push open the glass door and the waitress smiles at me. Her smile drops when she sees the set of my face. I walk past her and over to Strauss’s table. He has his back to me and I walk around the table, which is set for two, and sit down opposite him. He is surprised to see me and for a second his face gives him away – he looks as guilty as a cheating husband.

  But he quickly recovers, smiles, says, ‘Daniel. What are you doing here?’

  I reach across the table and get my fingers inside his collar and tie, my knuckles brushing his Adam’s apple. I grip and stand up, haul him over the table. Cutlery and crockery spill onto the floor, a wine glass smashes. He is bracing himself with both hands on the table, trying to stop me from pulling him all the way over. His face is up against mine, his chin over the back of my wrist. I could bite his nose off. His eyes are not as frightened as I would like.

  ‘Where’s Gabe?’

  ‘You imbecile.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Strauss looks amused. ‘I think he needed to visit the men’s room.’

  ‘Danny?’ The voice comes from behind me and I know it well. I turn and Gabe is standing looking at me, a confused smile on his face. ‘Problem?’

  Everybody in the restaurant is watching us, although when I meet their eye they look away. I let go of Strauss and he sits back down, smoothes the front of his shirt, adjusts his tie.

  ‘What’s going on?’ says Gabe.

  ‘Your friend wants to join us for dinner,’ says Strauss, but Gabe cuts him off.

  ‘Asking Danny,’ he says. ‘Danny?’

  ‘Ask the major about the directors of Global Armour,’ I say.

  ‘Ah,’ says Strauss.

  A man who I presume is the manager of the restaurant comes over. He is short and French.

  ‘Gentlemen? Please, not in here.’

  ‘We’re leaving,’ I say.

  ‘Right,’ says Strauss. ‘Things you need to hear. Follow me.’ He has lost none of his composure, has assumed control despite what I have done to him, as if he is the one calling the shots. He gets up and walks to the exit.

  Gabe frowns at me. I nod slowly and he nods once back, and although no words have been exchanged I know that Gabe is behind me, that he is in my corner.

  We follow Major Strauss outside. He walks around the side of the restaurant, through a gate into the car park, which has three rows of cars parked on the gravel. I can see Gabe’s near the entrance.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I say.

  ‘Follow me,’ Strauss says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s in my car.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  I slow up. I do not like this. Gabe stops at my shoulder.

  ‘We’ll wait here,’ I say.

  There is a dark van next to us. Suddenly its side door slides open. I can see figures inside. As I turn to look, two men approach us from the other side of the van, one from the front, one from the back.

  ‘Shit,’ says Gabe.

  ‘In,’ says one of the men. It is the man from the tennis court. Banyan, Gabe called him. Called him a killer.

  I back up slightly, tense my arms. Gabe shakes his head at me.

  ‘In,’ says a voice from inside the van.

  For a second Gabe does nothing. I hear the sound of the rack of a gun being slid back. I don’t know whose gun it is.

  ‘Your friend,’ says Banyan to Gabe. ‘He’s nothing. We’ll shoot him now.’

  Gabe nods and steps up into the van. I cannot believe he is giving up. Then I look at the two men, their guns. Gabe is right. What choice is there? I step up as well.

  Banyan and the other man climb in after us. Major Strauss watches us from below as the door slides closed. Somebody steps onto the back of my calf and suddenly I am on my knees. The floor of the van is hard. It is very dark.

  ‘Go,’ says Banyan. I recognise his voice. The van starts and pulls forward, and I almost lose my balance on my knees. I put out a hand to steady myself and it touches somebody. Whoever it is takes my hand and bends my fingers and thumb. The pain is incredible.

  ‘Sit,’ a voice says, and I sit. My back butts up against the side of the van. I can make out Gabe next to me. Then somebody turns on a light and I can see that Gabe and I are sitting against one side of the van and three men are in with us. They are wearing jeans and boots and jackets. Banyan is standing, smiling, one hand on the ceiling of the van to steady himself. The other two, sitting, have the capable air of hard men. They watch us without interest. Gabe does not seem curious either. He is breathing evenly, relaxed. The van turns corners, slows and speeds up and we rock with it. It is quiet.

  ‘Couldn’t leave it.’ Banyan breaks the silence. Gabe shrugs, does not reply.

  ‘Fucking boy scout,’ he says. ‘Why’d you give a shit anyway?’ He sits down next to his comrades, legs stretched out.

  ‘He was under my command.’

  ‘He was a little prick.’

  Gabe just looks at Banyan. Banyan looks back at him but
I have never known anybody who could meet Gabe’s gaze for any length of time. Banyan looks away.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  ‘Shut up,’ Banyan says. He watches me in silence but he is a man who enjoys wielding his power and cannot stay quiet. ‘Taking you somewhere you won’t be found.’

  Nothing more is said and Gabe seems to have lost interest. He has his eyes closed. All four of them seem to be used to silence, to managing situations without speaking. I suspect that this is something the army teaches you. We continue driving and for a long time we are on a straight road. I can hear other vehicles coming from both directions – a two lane. Then we slow, turn to leave it and for some minutes, perhaps five, we slow, speed up, turn tight corners.

  Gabe yawns. ‘Much longer?’

  One of the men opposite laughs. ‘Come too soon for you, don’t worry about that.’

  Gabe just nods, closes his eyes again. His composure is incredible. Banyan watches him with irritation.

  We drive on a little further and stop. The engine dies and the light goes off. We wait in the dark and silence, then the door slides open and Major Strauss is there.

  ‘All right. Out.’

  We climb out and stand in what looks like a picnic area. There are wooden tables, an earth track. I can hear the sound of the sea. It is very cold. The moon is out and the sky is clear. Strauss’s shaved head is big and pale in the light.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gabe,’ he says. ‘Have to admire your tenacity. But this, it’s got to end.’

  ‘Didn’t have you figured for a traitor,’ says Gabe.

  ‘Here.’ Strauss holds up a bottle of Scotch, unscrews the top. ‘Need you to drink this.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Just drink it,’ says Banyan.

  ‘We having a party?’ says Gabe.

  ‘Something like that.’

  Strauss hands the bottle to Gabe, who takes it. ‘So it’s true? You’re part of Global Armour?’

  ‘Drink,’ says Banyan.

  Gabe shrugs, takes a drink, makes a face. ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t need to know,’ says Strauss.

  ‘No,’ says Gabe. ‘But I want to.’

  Strauss sighs, walks away from us.

  ‘Drink,’ says Banyan again.

  ‘More?’

  ‘All of it.’

  Gabe holds the bottle up, looks at it. ‘Blended. Cheap wankers.’

  I hear the sound of a car approaching. Headlight beams light us up and make our shadows swing. The car passes us and I think it is Gabe’s car. Its headlights show that beyond the picnic tables is nothing, just black sky. We are on the edge of land. I can still hear the sea. Strauss comes back.

  ‘You know what to do?’ he says to Banyan.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Leave it for half an hour. We want that alcohol in his bloodstream.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Come on,’ says Gabe. ‘You owe me an explanation.’ The way he says it, as if he knows that this is it – that we are dead men.

  Strauss sighs, looks at Gabe. ‘Nothing to do with you,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I really am.’ He rubs a hand over his shaved head. ‘You know how the army is nowadays. Rules of engagement, politics. If it’s not the US telling us what to do, who to shoot, it’s the UN. We don’t do soldiering any more.’ He stops.

  ‘And?’ says Gabe. There is an edge to his voice.

  ‘Drink,’ says Banyan.

  ‘Fuck sake.’ He drinks. He has drunk maybe a third of the bottle already.

  ‘I’d had enough. Wanted more. The private military, it’s like it used to be. You get things done. Clear missions. No politics.’

  ‘More money.’ There is contempt in Gabe’s voice.

  ‘Wasn’t about the money,’ says Strauss.

  ‘You don’t drink faster,’ says Banyan, ‘I’ll shoot your friend.’

  ‘Spare me,’ says Gabe to Strauss. He drinks.

  ‘For what it’s worth, this will live with me for the rest of my life,’ says Strauss.

  Gabe laughs, a short sound that conveys nothing but disdain. ‘Cheers,’ he says, waves his bottle at Strauss, drinks.

  Strauss shakes his head and walks away. As he passes us he stops, thinks of something. Then he changes his mind and walks on, gets to his car, starts it up. He drives off and we listen to the sound of his car fading away into the distance.

  ‘Sorry about this, Danny,’ says Gabe. His speech is imprecise and he has drunk well over half the bottle.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say.

  ‘Probably won’t be all right. You know that?’

  I feel dread in my stomach. I always imagined Gabe was invincible. ‘Fuck it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Gabe. He laughs without humour. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Keep drinking, soldier,’ says Banyan. One of the other soldiers laughs, says, ‘Fucking soldier.’

  ‘Hey, Burgess,’ says Gabe. I had not realised he knew the other men; he had treated them with such indifference. ‘I remember you, remember how you were in contact. Learned to shoot yet?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Had you for a coward back then,’ Gabe says. ‘Looks like I was right.’

  Burgess takes a step toward Gabe but Banyan gets between them. ‘Leave it,’ he says to Burgess, then turns to Gabe. ‘Just get it down you.’

  ‘Why?’ says Gabe.

  ‘D’you think?’ says Banyan. ‘So everybody’ll figure you’re just another pissed arsehole drove off a cliff.’

  Nobody says anything for some time. I watch Gabe in the moonlight silently working on the Scotch and feel a deep sadness that this is happening to him. A hero, reduced to this. Being forced to drunkenness by honourless men. By men inferior to him in every way. Rendered powerless and humiliated. I love Gabe and being witness to this is breaking my heart.

  Burgess gets into Gabe’s car and drives it to the edge of what I guess is a cliff overlooking the sea. He gets out and walks to the van. He drives the van so that it is just behind Gabe’s car, nosing the rear bumper.

  ‘All good?’ says Banyan.

  ‘Should be. He drunk enough?’

  ‘Got to be. He’s done the whole bottle.’

  Gabe turns and his head moves slowly and stupidly. He has trouble focusing on me. ‘I’m sorry, Danny.’

  I nod and an arm is put around my neck from behind, another around my head. I reach around but cannot get to whoever is holding me, so I rush him backwards. He is not big enough to stop me but he has seen this trick before and he does not fight the momentum, uses it to drop and turn. Suddenly I am falling and he still has hold of my head and neck, then he has me on the grass. His grip is strong and he squeezes and squeezes. I try to use my legs and arms to get up but already my vision is darkening and I cannot breathe. I feel panic and struggle but there is nothing I can do.

  I can see Gabe. I am looking up at him. Things get darker and darker and the last thing I see is Banyan taking the bottle of Scotch from Gabe almost gently while another man hits him on the back of the head with the butt of a gun and he collapses slowly to the ground.

  28

  ‘RACK THE SEAT back, Dan. Dan, Dan, listen. Rack the fucking seat back. Now.’

  Gabe’s voice seems to come from a long way away but I open my eyes and I am sitting in the passenger seat of his car and he is next to me. How did I get here? I look across at Gabe. His face is shining, his hair on fire.

  ‘Dan. Rack your seat back.’

  His hair is not on fire. It is lit up by something. I look behind and am blinded by headlights. There is a lot of noise. A car’s engine screaming. This car I am in. I look at Gabe and it feels like slow motion.

  ‘Rack your seat back.’

  I reach under my seat. There is a handle. I pull it, push with my legs and my seat slides backwards. Gabe leans over, puts his hand under the seat. The whole car is moving, juddering. The van is trying to push us over the cliff. The noise is amazing.

  Gabe sits back up and he ha
s a gun in his hand. He points it behind us. It is next to my head and so close. He pulls the trigger and the rear window explodes. The sound of the gun is huge in my ear. He shoots once, twice, three four five times and hauls on the wheel of the car. We shoot forward and turn. I look out of my window and all I can see are waves far below me, their white tops. I cannot even see the cliff we are on. We are hanging in space. There are rocks in the sea below and they are hundreds of feet down, dizzyingly far. The chassis drops. One of the wheels must have gone over. We are going over. My weight is against the door and I am looking down at the sea below. Gabe floors the accelerator but nothing happens. The van that was pushing us over is coming towards us again. We aren’t moving. It is going to hit us side on, tip us over. I hear the enraged snarl of the engine, its furious impotence. The lights of the van are inside the car. Everything is lit up, shocking white, black shadow. Then like a goat finding its feet on a steep rock face, the tyres bite and we leap forward. Gabe struggles with the steering wheel like it is alive. The back wheels slide out and now we are heading away from the cliff. Gabe leans across me and shoots through my window, the gun going off in front of my face. I can feel the explosion, escaping gases slapping my skin. Then we are off and bouncing over the grassy area and then onto gravel, Gabe turning and the car skidding onto a road. He floors it and we barrel down a lane lined by high hedges, twisting through the bends until we reach a junction onto a bigger road, two lanes. Gabe does not speak. The needle is nudging eighty, ninety, a hundred, and we listen to the road unreeling under the tyres until there is a small lane on our left. Gabe swings into it, kills the engine and lights.

  He turns to me. His eyes have difficulty focusing. ‘Danny. I’m going to need you to drive.’

  We stop at an all-night services and Gabe walks unsteadily to the toilets where, he tells me, he intends to vomit. When he comes back he drinks four cups of coffee, one after the other, from a machine. I cannot help but notice that his hand is shaking.