by Adrian Wills
Chapter 37
Proctor remained oblivious to the suspicious looks from a scattering of mud-caked gardeners as Martin Kelly led him along a gravel path through the allotments. With his hood down and his sleeves rolled up revealing a gallery of neo-Nazi tattoos, he looked every part the right-wing fanatic. By contrast, Kelly seemed in his natural environment in his grubby jeans and earth-blackened fingers. Blake had assumed the former IRA bomb maker was long dead. The fact that he was alive and well came as less of a surprise to him than that he had apparently moved to England and was living in obscurity under the noses of the security services.
Kelly remained on MI5's most-wanted list in connection with his suspected part in a number of high profile bombings on the British mainland during the height of the troubles in Northern Ireland. Blake had last seen his picture as a young undercover officer at the start of his Special Forces military career, when his team had come close to locating the explosives expert on at least two occasions, although never close enough to allow the notorious killing squads, whose existence the Army vehemently denied, to target him. As the peace process gained ground and other threats to Britain's security came to prominence, the appetite for bringing Republican terrorists to account waned, and the hunt for Martin Kelly had been quietly forgotten.
The willowy Irishman looked ravaged by years of living on the run, but he still dragged his right leg as he walked, an injury said to have been the legacy of a mishap with an incendiary device that had detonated in his lap. His unmistakable gait was well known by the men who hunted him as a distinguishing feature that couldn't be disguised.
The two men, chatting casually, turned left along a track between a line of plots. They stopped outside a shed with windows masked by sheets of yellowing newspaper. Kelly produced a key from his trouser pocket, and after checking no one was watching, unlocked the door and let Proctor inside.
Blake hunkered down behind an overgrown patch of weeds and long grass and waited. Less than five minutes later, the shed door swung open, and Proctor emerged clutching a sports bag. He looked around nervously, swung the bag over his shoulder, and strode purposefully out of the allotments. Blake gave him two minutes head start then followed at a distance as Proctor retraced his steps back to the Tube station.
At Dollis Hill, Blake jumped on the same carriage as Proctor, fearful of letting his agent, and more importantly the sports bag, out of his sight despite the risk of being recognised. He tried to relax, scanning a discarded copy of a free newspaper that had been abandoned on an adjacent seat, while Proctor sat stony-faced with his back straight and the bag on his lap.
The train swelled with passengers as it edged closer to the centre of the city, but at Baker Street, a bored-sounding voice crackled through the speakers to announce the service would be terminating at the next station because of an unspecified incident on the line. The news was greeted with a collective moan. Blake made a quick calculation that they'd need to pick up the Central Line to Bank and switch to the Northern Line to make it back to London Bridge station. A simple detour, but one that meant mingling with crowds, and an increased risk of losing his mark.
When the train rolled to a halt at Bond Street, Proctor was quickly on his feet. He pushed his way out of the carriage, and hustled towards an exit signposted for the Central Line, with Blake fixed on the back of his head bobbing above a throng of confused passengers.
The crowds made it impossible to rush, and Blake was able to keep Proctor easily within in his sights as he shuffled through a network of tunnels and escalators to reach a platform swarming with passengers. Two trains arrived within minutes of each other, filling until they were fit to burst with people crammed into every space. Proctor and Blake made it onto the third train, jostled onto the same carriage more by luck than judgement.
When the doors glided closed, Blake strained to see around the sweaty bodies and spotted Proctor at the far end of the compartment, standing with his neck crooked under the curve of the ceiling, and clutching the bag tightly to his chest.
By the next stop, the heat generated by so many bodies packed into such a confined space had become unbearable. The air was heavy and beads of sweat dripped down Blake's back. He planted his feet firmly on the floor to brace himself against the constant lurching as the train slowed and accelerated through rapid turns, but a tangle of strangers' legs and bags prevented him from repositioning more comfortably. He counted down the seconds until they reach the next station, when the doors would openly briefly and provide a burst of cooler air. His only consolation was that he could see Proctor clearly, and remained close enough to the door to hop off if Proctor made a dash for it.
Eventually, the train slowed and came to a halt at Oxford Circus, where the station was lined at least five deep. Blake gripped an overhead leather handle and held himself upright as the momentum sent a crush of people falling on him. The door against his shoulder grumbled open and he was hit by a refreshing breeze. A few hopefuls waiting on the platform attempted to push their way on board, but were rebuffed with militant bad humour. The doors sighed closed and the train moved off again.
The same thing happened at the next station, and again at Holborn where the despairing faces of those waiting looked at those shoehorned into the carriage with envy. Blake's eyes fell on a blonde woman at the back of the platform with a faraway look in her eye. The merest hint of make-up cleverly amplified her natural beauty, and Blake found himself transfixed.
As if sensing his gaze, she looked at him briefly, but glanced away as she caught his eye, finding interest in scanning the length of the train instead. Her focus fell on the mid-section of Blake's carriage where Proctor was standing. She stared intently, her mouth dropping open and her expression changing. The faraway serenity Blake had read a moment before faded and her eyes widened, her previous calm composure evaporating. Then, as the doors banged closed, she lunged forward, pushing and shoving her way through the crowd, screaming a piteous howl that cut through the rattle and hum of the train pulling away.
Inside the carriage, everyone turned to stare, but quickly lost interest. The seasoned London travellers had seen it all before, and worse. Just another crackpot losing their grip on reality. They were only glad it wasn't their problem.
The woman's palm slapped the window by Blake's head, and she was knocked sideways off her feet, crashing into a bemused family of Japanese tourists. Blake tried to make out the words she was screeching but all he heard was a pitiful howl and then the train was plunged into the darkness of a tunnel and her screams faded away.
Chapter 38
Lucy Chapman rubbed her eyes and succeeded only in making them sorer. The air in the carriage was thick with the dirt from the city, and she remembered why she usually avoided the Tube. At least she had managed to find a seat and hadn’t had to endure standing huddled against a stranger's sweaty armpit.
A young black woman, with ludicrously long, painted fingernails and her hair in elaborate plaits sitting opposite, was tapping away at a mobile phone. She was plugged into a pair of earphones that produced a fast, tinny beat and never once looked up until the train pulled up at her stop.
Lucy absentmindedly touched the handle of her flight case by her feet, and wondered what her husband was doing. The previous two days they'd barely spoken, and sat in an uncomfortable silence on the long flight home, both bearing the sort of seething resentment that buried into the soul. She had stormed off at the airport shortly after their return to the U.K.
The trip to Brazil had been a disaster. It had cost them a small fortune, and although Lucy hated to admit it, Peter was right. They had been conned by their taxi driver, and hadn't found a single genuine clue about her brother's disappearance. The stress it had put on their marriage had exposed the fragile cracks in their relationship. The tension between them had finally exploded in an almighty row in their hotel room forty-eight hours earlier. Not the sort of row that cleared the air, but the sort in which home truths, better left unsaid
, were hurled around like emotional bombs, and which had only served to deepen their resentment of each other.
After landing at Heathrow, Peter had made an attempt at a reconciliation, but Lucy was tired and emotionally spent.
'Lucy, I'm sorry if I've upset you. Let's talk about it,' he had implored, as they stood at a luggage carousel watching the slow procession of other people's battered cases.
'I think we're probably past talking,' she had hissed back at him.
'Come on, it doesn't have to be like this.' He had tried putting his arm around her shoulder, but she had shrugged it off like a petulant child. 'Just...don't!'
'I want to find Nick as much as you do, but you have to be realistic.'
'Do you, Peter? Do you really want to find Nick as much as I do, because you sure as hell don't act like it.'
'Of course I do, it's just - '
'It's just what? Costing you too much? Taking up too much of your precious time?'
'Of course not. But we've got our lives to live too. We can't put everything on hold to find Nick when he might well be - '
Peter had stopped himself saying it, but they had both known what he'd meant. He broke his wife's gaze and scanned the conveyor belt for any sign of their cases.
'When he might well be dead?'
'It's a possibility, but not one that you're even willing to contemplate. I'm sorry, it's an awful thing to have to think, but you have to accept it, for your own sanity, if nothing else.'
'Screw you, Peter!' Lucy had screamed at her husband, before grabbing her cabin bag and marching off towards the arrivals hall.
'Lucy! Where are you going?'
'I can't be around you right now. I'll stay with mum or something. Don't try to get in touch.'
She had left him standing like an abandoned puppy, with his big, doleful eyes staring after her. She had been surprised he hadn't put up more of an effort to stop her going, but she realised now that she had made her feelings quite plain.
The arrivals hall had been bustling with passengers loaded up with bags, but nobody had noticed the petite, blonde sobbing quietly to herself in a corner. They all had places to be, loved ones to greet, lost in their own personal worlds, with no time or inclination to worry about someone else's problems. Lucy fished out her mobile phone from her bag and called the only person she could turn to.
'Are you back? How did the trip go?' The sound of her mother's voice triggered more tears. 'Lucy, darling, what's wrong?'
'Can I come home for a few days and stay with you?' she sobbed down the line.
'Of course. What is it, sweetheart?'
'Nothing, mum, - I'll tell you when I see you. I'll be there in a few hours.'
Three noisy youths joined the carriage and fell into the seats beside Lucy, laughing and joking crudely. Perched on the edge of her seat, she counted off the stations.
Earls Court.
Gloucester Road.
Knightsbridge.
Hyde Park Corner.
The boys finally stood up and disembarked at Green Park, much to Lucy's relief. A middle-aged man and woman quickly took their seats. He was dressed in a sombre blue suit and cream raincoat. She was immaculately turned out in a long, flowing dress.
Piccadilly Circus.
Leicester Square.
Covent Garden.
One more stop. By now, the train had filled to bursting as they swept through some of the city's most famous landmarks.
As the train pulled into Holborn, Lucy struggled up with her flight bag and forced her way through a throng in the doorway. She slipped out onto the platform, straightened her dress, and followed signs for the Central Line as the train rumbled away behind her.
She was disheartened to find her platform crammed solid with people, and the mood turning ugly. She watched four trains stop, each packed tightly with passengers gasping for air as the doors opened and closed a few seconds later. But she was in no rush, and hung towards the back of the platform, unwilling to join the crush. Announcements kept coming, apologising for the busy trains, and explaining about a problem at Green Park, but it did little to quell the mood of frustration.
By contrast, Lucy felt an unexpected calm. She had needed time alone and, ironically, being in the centre of a large crowd gave her the isolation to think things through. There was nothing quite like a horde of strangers to focus the mind and allow a certain introspection.
She checked her watch and considered her options. She could take a taxi, but she was short on cash. There was always the bus, but she had no idea which one to catch, or even where to find the right stop. She could walk to another station, maybe even pick up another line, and try a different route. But that would mean dragging her bag through the crowds. So she resolved to give it another ten minutes.
Another train arrived and departed taking with it a few lucky individuals who managed to squeeze on board. Three more trains, she told herself, then she'd give up.
Lucy peered at the faces looking thoroughly miserable. If anything, there was less room than on the previous train. She accidentally caught the eye of one man who was staring her way. He was tall and rugged, with dark brooding eyes and an impassive expression.
She looked away quickly, glancing along the rest of the carriage with morbid fascination at the desperate expressions. The mid-section seemed worst. Passengers' necks were craning around each other's arms and the windows dripped with condensation. Pressed into the door was a man with a shaven head holding a sports bag to his chest. He rolled his neck as if to ease the tension in his muscles, and she saw his face in profile. A familiar face. He turned to look out onto the platform. Their eyes locked for an instant, and Lucy felt as though an arrow had struck her in the chest.
'Oh my God,' she muttered under her breath as the train lurched forward. 'Nick!' she cried out.
She dropped her bag and threw herself into the melee of ill-tempered passengers, fighting and bustling her way forwards.
'Nick! Nick! Nick!' she wailed like a banshee.
The crowd parted in horrified bewilderment. She reached out for the carriage, not really knowing what she was doing. Her hand slapped the glass and she was pitched sideways, thrown to her knees.
When she picked herself up, the train was already disappearing into the tunnel, its taillights twinkling in the darkness, and from deep within her chest, a heart-wrenching sob rose up.
Chapter 39
A roll of posters poked out of the bag slung casually over Lucy Chapman's shoulder. It was early evening, and large numbers of people were coming and going through Holborn Underground station in the Kingsway. Many were distracted by their phones, either staring into their screens or talking with the device clamped to their ear, all lost in their own little worlds, somehow negotiating their way without looking or talking to each other.
Lucy stood at the side of a kiosk selling newspapers and confectionery, watching people's faces, and wondering where to begin. She had planned to put up posters around the station, but her middle-class self-consciousness rendered her temporarily paralysed. She didn't even know if it was legal to put them up on the streets of the capital. Mind you, there were plenty of others around, torn and faded, mostly advertising nightclubs and live music events. At least hers would be for a worthwhile cause. She decided to take her chances as the crowds seemed to thin momentarily.
She stepped assertively across the pavement, and approached a building adjacent to the station with granite walls that towered high above the tree-lined street. She placed a poster over a defaced purple notice advertising DJs she'd never heard of, appearing on dates that had long since passed. She fixed it in place with four strips of sticky tape and stepped back to check it was straight.
'Excuse me, madam.' The voice over her shoulder made her jump.
She whirled around ready with her excuse, fearing she was about to be chastised, and was surprised to be confronted by the grinning face of a tall man in a bright yellow jacket and dreadlocks tucked up inside a k
nitted beanie hat.
'How are you this evening?' he asked, with a wide smile. She noticed he was clutching a clipboard. 'You know, you remind me of someone. You look just like Gwyneth Paltrow.'
Lucy stared at him with bemusement, wondering if he was making a pass at her.
'Yeah, you know you've got her eyes.' He leaned backwards, and to one side, as if to better gauge the contours of her face. 'Yeah, definitely, man. You're a dead ringer.'
Lucy coyly tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and looked down at her shoes.
'Now let me ask you, do you donate to charity because we're out this evening talking to people about this really special work that's being done to combat cancer.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Did you know that for just three pounds a month - ' His voice trailed off. 'Hey, what's that?' He pointed to her poster.
'That?' said Lucy, blushing. 'I'm looking for my brother, Nick. I saw him on the Tube the other day, and I thought someone might know where he is. It's stupid really, but...'
She had scanned one of favourite pictures of Nick into her computer and enlarged it to fill up most of an A4 side of paper. Above Nick's face, she had typed 'MISSING' in a bold font. Underneath, she had added, 'Can you help find my brother?' and included her name and her mobile number. She had worried about publicising her contact details in a city that had its fair share of cranks and creeps, but decided it was a risk worth taking.
The man with the dreadlocks took a step closer to examine the poster more thoroughly.
'Oh, man - that's tough. How long's he been missing?'
'Several months. We thought he'd gone travelling in Brazil, and they tried to tell me he was dead then - . Sorry, this sounds so silly now I say it out loud, but I saw him on the train. I didn't know what to do. I've put some adverts in the Standard but that's turned out to be quite expensive. You probably think I'm mad.'