Nothing Sacred

by David Thorne

  35

  GABE’S CAR IS on its side in the middle of the road and I am standing next to it. It is lying lengthways across the road, blocking it completely. It is nearly as tall as I am.

  Gabe and Petroski are nowhere to be seen. I can see approaching headlights in the distance. They will be here very soon. There will be one car, a Land Rover, and in it will be the ex-soldiers of 7 Platoon, getting as far away from the scene of the massacre as they can. I cannot see the car but I guess that they are travelling up an incline as I can see the beams of their headlights momentarily search the night sky. I can hear their engine. After what I have just witnessed, I do not want to meet these men. They kill with the contemptuous ease of young gods. The night is still and the moon is baleful. I am scared. I would rather be anywhere else than here, right now. I am in over my head, way over my head.

  The wind gusts and dies, then gusts again, making the sound of the approaching car’s engine fluctuate so that one moment I think it is nearly upon me, the next it sounds distant again. I do not know how long I have. I stand where I am. I am going nowhere.

  Now the car is no more than five hundred metres away. It immediately slows down when they see me. I am picked out in the beams of the Land Rover like I am an actor on stage, the car on its side behind me the backdrop. It keeps approaching slowly and I imagine the soldiers in the vehicle calculating, evaluating, wondering what the chances are of meeting an overturned car on this isolated road, at this time, after what has just happened behind them. They will want to get away. They will want to get past me. They have weapons, they have firepower and manpower to spare. I am alone. They will keep coming, get as close as they dare. I hope that that will be close enough.

  They are so near that I can make out the distinctive shape of the Land Rover. I can see the circles of the head-lights and when I look away they leave spots in front of my eyes. They cannot get much closer.

  There is a flat crack, which is so incredibly loud that I expect it to tear the air open, rend a hole in the sky. Light flares beneath the Land Rover and it jumps into the air, all four tyres leaving the ground. The explosion must have gone off towards the rear of the car because its back wheels lift higher and it comes down on its front bumper, like a bucking horse kicking up its hind legs. The shock wave hits me, heats my skin and blows through my hair like the exhaust of a fighter jet. My ears ring. I take a step back. The back of the Land Rover is on fire. I wonder if anybody inside can still be alive.

  *

  I do not think I have ever seen Gabe lower than when he was sitting on the floor of his dining room, beating the polished boards in anger and shame and humiliation. Leaving him then I worried that he might never come back, that I would never again see the Gabe I used to know.

  But what was done to Maria has lit something inside him, reawakened his sleeping animal. The aura he used to wear when he was in uniform is back. Looking at him over the past twenty-four hours I can imagine the officer who led men into battle, who set an example so impressive that they would follow him anywhere, and willingly. He exudes the air of a man who is motivated and capable and utterly ruthless.

  He told me that no officer would deal with IEDs on a day-to-day basis without learning about the threat they carried in detail. He told me that he had lost count of the number he had taken apart, examined their workings, what they contained, how they were triggered. He said that making one was a piece of piss. Look at the sort of people in Afghanistan who laid them – medievalists with an instruction manual. If they could do it, so could he.

  Normally, Gabe said, a decent IED would be triggered by a mobile phone from a safe distance. But we did not have the time for this so what he and Petroski laid out on the road was little more than four grenades hidden inside the dead fox that Gabe had collected along the way and a roll of wire, which they unravelled twenty metres off the side of the road and behind a low stone wall. There was only one road in and out of where Petroski lived; nowhere else to go but the sea. We knew they’d be passing. It was just a question of making sure we didn’t miss.

  Rolling Gabe’s car onto its side took all three of us and even then it was not easy. We had to jack it up first, put our shoulders into it. But it was, Gabe and Petroski assured me, a good decoy. The Land Rover would slow, keep approaching, would come to a stop less than thirty metres away. They sited the IED fifty metres away. In the event, they got it exactly right.

  Two birds with one stone, Gabe had said. First we get 7 Platoon to do our dirty work for us. Then we take care of 7 Platoon. Leave them with an inoperative vehicle loaded with automatic weapons less than a mile from the scene of a full-blown massacre. See how that reflects on the image of Global Armour: their employees running around the Essex countryside assassinating prominent members of the underworld. Gabe had smiled, laughed. Good luck with that.

  Gabe and Petroski are out from behind the wall and at the Land Rover almost before it has properly settled back on its ruined suspension. They have guns in their hands. They get one of the rear doors open and haul out the unconscious or semi-conscious soldiers, pull them to the ground. Petroski points his gun at them while Gabe takes weapons from them. They work quickly and efficiently and at no point do any of the soldiers have a chance to fight back, even if they were in a condition to. I watch them work by the light of the fire burning in the back of the Land Rover. I have to admit that it is an impressive sight. They have done this before; no movements are wasted and they work in efficient partnership.

  The front door of the Land Rover is pushed open and Petroski points his gun at the figure emerging. The man puts his hands up and I see that it is Banyan, the man I saw at the tennis court and at our night at the edge of the cliff. He stands against the side of the Land Rover, does not move.

  Gabe finishes taking the weapons from the men on the ground. He walks towards Banyan. When he is nearly to him he lifts his arm up so that it is parallel to the ground. He is holding a gun. His gun is only inches away from Banyan’s forehead. I can see Gabe’s face and he looks entirely remorseless. He means to shoot this man. He wants to shoot this man. He wants nothing more. This is the man who killed Lance Corporal Creek, the man Gabe felt he should have protected. I know Gabe. Know that he values the principle of revenge. This, shooting Banyan, would in his eyes even the score, deliver justice.

  Petroski walks up to Gabe. His face is caught by the fire from the Land Rover. His shiny skin reflects the flames, which throws the ridges of his dreadful scar tissue into sharp relief, ravaged skin and shadow. In the orange flickering glare of the fire he looks like a creature from a lurid B movie: a sickly imagined monster.

  Very gently Petroski places his hand in front of the barrel of Gabe’s gun. I can see him speaking but I cannot hear what he says. He is speaking softly and I cannot imagine what he is saying but know that the words he chooses will be kind and reasoned. I have rarely met a man so good and generous. He leaves his hand in front of Gabe’s gun and eventually Gabe nods and lowers it, takes it away from Banyan’s forehead and turns and walks away.

  We right Gabe’s car, watching for movements from the injured men, and drive away from the destroyed Land Rover and the six ex-soldiers of 7 Platoon. As Gabe drives, Petroski calls it in, speaks to a police officer and tells him that he has heard shooting, gives them his address although he does not tell them his name or that he lives there. They will be there in minutes. They will bring a helicopter. I do not rate 7 Platoon’s chances of getting away very highly, experienced soldiers or not. Though what the police will make of the scene when they get there I cannot imagine. Five dead bodies at the hands of men who have never seen or heard of them before, who have no motive or explanation for what just happened. It will take some unravelling.

  36

  ON THE WAY back to Gabe’s we meet a stream of police patrol cars, their blue strobing lights illuminating the edges of fields and branches of trees as they barrel past us. Overhead we hear the drone of a police chopper, see its searchlight probing the g
round. We do not say a lot in the car. What we have just seen was too monstrous, too sudden, too final. We caused it and it happened, but none of us imagined it would work out so well, so terribly perfectly. At least five men dead, as a result of my phone call. How are these things even possible?

  I do not go inside when we get to Gabe’s. It will be dawn soon and I need to get some sleep. The three of us shake hands, almost guiltily, aware that we have been through something this night that we will try never to speak of again. Perhaps Gabe and Petroski feel the same way as I do: that we have done something we believe was right, but have at the same time committed grave wrongs. Then I think of Gabe and his time in the army, the ruthlessness that runs through him like a seam of hard mineral, and I doubt it. He will sleep like a baby.

  Back at my place Maria’s presence is everywhere so I sleep in my spare room, which is bare and cold. Although I think I won’t, I fall asleep before it becomes light.

  The first thing I do when I wake is call Maria’s mother, who tells me that Maria is well although still disoriented and confused. I tell her to let me know if there is anything I can do, that I am sorry that Maria and I, what we had, had not worked out. I make coffee, then put a call through to Jack on the local paper. I take a drink of coffee as it rings, blink, try to force some energy into my body after three hours’ sleep.

  ‘Danny. How you doing?’

  ‘I’m good, Jack. Listen, I owe you a story. Got a pen?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Last night, about ten miles north of Bradwell.’

  ‘The shootings?’

  ‘This is in confidence, right?’

  ‘Lips sealed, hope to die, et cetera.’

  ‘The police will have found the shooters. Look into them. Connections with Global Armour. British mercenaries operating on domestic soil, carrying out executions. Might be a story in it.’

  ‘Sounds like something I could sell. You’re sure about this?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Can I ask where you got your information from?’

  ‘You can ask, Jack. Won’t help you.’

  ‘Fair enough. Thanks for this, Dan.’

  ‘No problem. Just leave me out of the story.’

  ‘Never met you in my life.’

  It has been days, weeks even, since I have done any proper work for any of my existing clients – if, that is, any of them still exist. After I have spoken to Jack I get in my car and head to my office. I pick up the post, check messages, see that Aatif is being definitively denied the right to remain in the UK. But before I even have time to sit down there is a knock at my door. I walk out into my entryway and through the glass door I can see Sergeant Hicklin. I do my best to hide my irritation at seeing him, open the door.

  ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘Mr Connell. You look tired.’

  ‘Got a lot of work.’

  ‘Really?’ He takes a look about my shabby entrance, the scuffed floor tiles and bare bulb hanging from the water-damaged ceiling. ‘Pays well, does it?’

  I do not reply to this, stifle a smile at his guileless taunt. ‘Want to come in?’

  ‘Brief word. If I may.’

  I walk through to my office, shove a hand at the chair in front of my desk as I pass it, sit down behind my desk. Hicklin settles himself, crosses his legs, ankle on knee.

  ‘So,’ I say.

  ‘So.’ Hicklin nods slowly, as if collecting his thoughts, remembering why he is here and what he wants. ‘You hear about the shootings?’

  ‘Shootings?’

  ‘Right. Five men dead. All connected, in some way, to the Blakes.’

  ‘Really.’ I try to sound interested, surprised, remind myself that Connor Blake is my client and that this is relevant to me. ‘That’s something.’

  ‘Something,’ Hicklin repeats to himself. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. It really is something.’

  ‘Does it, however,’ I say, ‘affect my client in any way?’

  ‘I suspect he will have known them.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? Go visit him, rub his back, tell him I’m sorry about his friends?’

  ‘No, Mr Connell. No. You misunderstand me. I want to know what you know about it.’

  ‘About…?’

  ‘You suddenly begin representing Connor Blake. Your girlfriend is attacked, put into a coma. And less than forty-eight hours later, five of Blake’s men are found full of bullets. Doesn’t sound odd to you?’

  ‘Sounds circumstantial,’ I say.

  Hicklin nods. ‘Your friend, Mr McBride. He was in the army. You know we arrested soldiers nearby?’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a mess on your hands.’

  ‘You know, Mr Connell, I’m beginning to revise my opinion about you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘That layer of arsehole. It’s a lot thicker than I thought.’

  I do not want to make an enemy of Sergeant Hicklin. He is the only ally I have on the force, the only policeman I can trust. I hold up my hands, show him my palms.

  ‘Sergeant, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re getting at. As far as I am aware, Connor Blake had nothing to do with what happened to Maria. I am still representing him. What happened last night has nothing to do with me. Purely coincidental.’

  Hicklin nods, stands up. ‘How is she, anyway? Your girlfriend.’

  ‘She’s awake. No permanent damage. And Sergeant? She’s not my girlfriend.’

  At Ryan’s funeral I stand at the back and do not introduce myself to anybody, arrive late so that Vick does not see me. The funeral is held in a church built of local flint and the turnout is sparse. There are perhaps forty people in the church, which is small and gloomy. Ryan took his own life and I wonder if that is why so few people have turned up, reluctant to pay their respects to a man who committed an act against God. The minister speaks about Ryan’s time in the army and his new career as a prison warden. He skirts the subject of his suicide, fudges the issue of whether or not he is bound for hell, says simply that he hopes that wherever Ryan is now, he is at peace. I sense that the minister does not hold out a great deal of hope for this scenario.

  I can see Vick on the front pew and her children Ollie and Gwynn are next to her, with Ms Armstrong the social worker sitting the other side of them. I guess that she is the responsible adult assigned to accompany the children from where, I know, they are still being held in care. Ms Armstrong wears her usual African headdress, although today it is a sombre navy blue with a lighter blue pattern on it. I wonder how terrible it must be for Vick to be sitting before the coffin of the man she loved, sitting next to her children she is not allowed to look after. Connor Blake has torn a ruinous path through all of our lives in the last few weeks.

  As I stand at the back listening to the minister, I console myself with the thought that I have now taken a measure of vengeance. Although – and I acknowledge that I should not be having these thoughts in a place of God – nowhere near enough.

  I arrive at Vick’s after the last guests have left her house, after her children have been taken back to the care home. When I get there she is clearing up paper cups and plates, wrapping up uneaten food, still wearing her dark skirt and jacket. She looks tired but when she sees that it is me she smiles and flattens her hair, asks me to come inside.

  ‘I saw you at the funeral,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah. Showed my face.’

  ‘Thank you, Daniel.’

  ‘I saw Ollie and Gwynn. What’s the situation?’

  ‘The situation.’ She sighs, nods me into the living room. ‘Let’s sit down.’

  I walk through and sit in an armchair. Vick sits in the sofa facing me, her coffee table between us.

  ‘The situation, Dan, is that it’s still a mystery. Ollie and Gwynn, they say I never touched them. Ms Armstrong, I think she believes us. But still, we don’t know what happened.’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  For a moment Vick does not react, as if she has not heard what I said. Then she looks
at me slowly, says, ‘You know?’

  ‘I know everything,’ I say. ‘Time you did too.’

  With Connor Blake’s people taken care of and his father disowning him, lifting any protection, I cannot see how much of a threat he can now pose to Vick or her children. I tell her about Connor Blake, what he did to Karl Reece, tell her that he was held in the same prison that Ryan had worked in. I tell her how he had got to Ryan, had got his people to move Vick’s furniture, hurt her children, terrorise them to ensure Ryan’s compliance. How Connor Blake had placed Ryan in a situation so dreadful, so impossible to navigate out of, that he had taken his own life to spare hers and their children’s.

  ‘How do you know?’ said Vick. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Soon as he didn’t have Ryan any more, he needed somebody else. Somebody else to blackmail, to get him out of prison by any means necessary. Me.’

  As I tell Vick about what Connor Blake did to me, about the photographs and the drugs and the attack on Maria, she looks at me in horror and utter dismay. I go through it as quickly as I can and I can see her trying to keep up, trying to make sense of what I am telling her. But perhaps these events can never make complete sense, caused as they were by a man whose morality is so at odds with society’s that he might as well come from another planet.

  ‘Oh Dan. Oh Dan, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault,’ I say.

  ‘If I hadn’t come to you…’

  ‘You couldn’t have known. How could we have known?’

  ‘She be okay? Maria?’

  ‘Think so. Hope so.’

  Vick is quiet for a moment, her legs tucked underneath her on the sofa, thinking about what I have told her.

  ‘Ryan… I thought…’

  ‘He was a good man,’ I say. ‘He did his best for you, for the kids.’