The Blasphemer

by Nigel Farndale

  Nancy exhaled slowly, sat down next to Daniel and felt the bend of his arm move around her waist. She shrugged him off and turned her back to him.

  Daniel got on his knees and, putting a hand on both her shoulders, turned her to face him. ‘Look at me, Nancy,’ he said. ‘Hey! Look at me.’

  Nancy shook her head. ‘I had an argument with her this morning.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Nothing. She wanted a nose stud … The other morning she asked why we never kiss any more.’

  ‘She’ll be all right.’

  ‘What if she isn’t?’

  They sat in silence for a full minute as they weighed this. Daniel spoke first. ‘I think there’s something wrong with Dad.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think he’s ill. He was drinking from these bottles of morphine and he has these patches on his shoulders. I caught him stuffing a handkerchief in his mouth.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So I wouldn’t hear him crying out in pain, I guess.’

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘You know Dad.’

  ‘Poor Phil. Maybe it isn’t too serious.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The atmospheric pressure in the bedroom changed. The air thickened. Nancy put her hand to her chest, over her heart. The cold pain she had been feeling there all evening melted and lost some of its weight. ‘Poor, poor Phil. I went round to see him only the other day. I’d translated those letters.’

  ‘Thanks. He was desperate to see them.’

  ‘Don’t think he’s had a happy life.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Typical of him not to mention he was ill.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Does Amanda know?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘You want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Nancy placed a hand on Daniel’s leg. ‘I know.’

  Daniel lifted Nancy’s face, framing it in his hands and wiping her tear stains away with his thumbs. She opened her arms. They held on to each other tightly and lay down, her back to his front, with their heads at the feet end of the child-sized bed. Daniel felt for Martha’s pillow and lifted it down so that Nancy could rest her head on it. They stayed like this for five minutes before Nancy sat up and saw the diary with the leopard-print cover that had been hidden under Martha’s pillow. She reached across for it and flicked to the last entry. It was about Hamdi; Martha’s love for Hamdi; Martha’s plans to run away with Hamdi and get married and buy a thatched cottage by a stream. There were dozens of love hearts on the page: large, small, coloured in red.

  They hurried down the stairs and met the inspector on his way up. ‘We’ve had a strong lead,’ Mayhew said. ‘A neighbour of yours. Martha was spotted in a car at four o’clock.’

  ‘What car?’ Nancy said. ‘Who was driving?’

  ‘A man.’

  Daniel and Nancy exchanged a look of panic. ‘Who?’ Nancy said.

  ‘Your neighbour described him as being young-looking, smartly dressed, jacket and tie. “Of Middle Eastern appearance”.’

  Daniel blinked. ‘Middle Eastern?’

  ‘Do you know anyone fitting that description?’ the inspector asked him.

  He numbly placed the diary on the table.

  Philip put a hand on his shoulder and repeated the inspector’s question. ‘Do you know anyone fitting that description?’

  By the time Nancy, Philip and Daniel pulled up outside Hamdi’s flat a mile away in Balham, a TV news crew had laid out cable and was training its arc lights on a balcony that had a metal fire escape leading down from it. Seven police cars, their lights flashing, had formed a corral. Within this was a cordon of blue and white tape. A policeman was giving instructions into a loudhailer.

  Mayhew knocked on the window: ‘He’s her form teacher, correct?’

  Nancy nodded, trying not to cry. ‘Martha had a bit of a thing about him. She … thought the world of him.’

  They overheard a voice crackling over the police radio: ‘The suspect’s name is Hamdi Said-Ibrahim. Repeat, Hamdi Said-Ibrahim. He is known to the Counter-Terrorist Branch. Do not approach him. An Armed Response Unit is on its way.’

  ‘God knows how surveillance missed him giving Martha a lift,’ Mayhew said. ‘What were they playing at?’

  ‘Are you the parents?’ a reporter asked as Daniel stepped out of the car. He ignored the question.

  An armed response unit arrived in a Range Rover with blackened windows. They were wearing black body armour and baseball caps and carrying Heckler & Koch assault rifles. They immediately trained them on the balcony. Daniel recognized the two plain-clothed men who pulled up in a black BMW at the same time: the shaven-headed American and the older, leaner man with the heavily lined face. He seemed to recognize Daniel in turn and came over, only to walk past him and shake hands with Philip.

  ‘Geoff,’ Philip said. ‘I feel reassured to see you here. It’s my granddaughter, Martha.’

  ‘I know. It’s going to be OK. We’ve had our eye on this one for a while.’

  After ten minutes, Hamdi appeared with his arms raised over his head, wearing only his underwear. As he was being restrained, a white forensic suit was pulled over him and he was handcuffed. A policeman behind him held a hand to the back of his head, keeping it bowed slightly as he led the way down the echoing metal stairs that served as a fire escape. Another policeman emerged from the flat talking into his radio mic. His crackly voice could be heard in a nearby police car saying: ‘No sign of the kid.’

  ‘Hey!’ Daniel shouted. ‘Where’s Martha?’

  Hamdi looked up. ‘Professor! What’s going on?’

  ‘What have you done with Martha?’

  ‘Don’t know where she is. On my honour. I dropped her off at your house. That was the last I saw of her.’

  ‘Please, my friend, you must tell us …’

  The hyperthyroid bulge of Hamdi’s eyes was more pronounced than ever. He was twisting his neck to keep Daniel in his sight, as if he were a lifeline. ‘She talked about someone called Tom. Said she had lunch with him and that he lived in a big house. Do you know a Tom?’

  Sirens sounded as the suspect was driven away for interrogation. DCI Mayhew addressed Nancy, Daniel and Philip together. ‘He’s being taken to Paddington Green high security station. We should get some information about Martha soon.You can come with me if you like, but if I were you I’d head back home and wait there. We’ve left a couple of officers at the house. I’ll keep you up to date with any developments.’

  When the three got back into their car, Daniel started the engine only to stop it again. He was looking at Nancy. She was covering her mouth with her hand.

  ‘What is it, Nance?’

  ‘He said “Tom”. He said Martha was talking about Tom.’

  ‘Tom the counsellor? Thought you said you’d tried him.’

  Nancy did not answer. She was tapping a number into her mobile. ‘I did. He said he would call if he heard anything … He’s not answering. I think we should go round there.’ She tried again. ‘Tom! It’s Nancy.’ Pause. ‘No, she’s still missing … Has she tried to call you? … Well, if she does can you call me straight away on this number?’There was fear in her eyes. She ended the call and pressed the mobile to her chest. ‘She’s there. I know she’s there.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Dulwich … twenty-two or twenty-one Alice Grove. Twentytwo. Definitely twenty-two. It’s opposite the college. I went for lunch. We went there, Martha and me. She could easily have remembered the address.You know what she’s like.’

  Philip sounded dazed. ‘Who is Tom?’

  ‘My counsellor. Tom Cochrane.’

  ‘Why would …’ Daniel’s voice trailed off as he noticed Philip looking confused. ‘You OK, Dad?’

  ‘It’s Hamdi – I think I recognize him. I can’t think where I’ve seen him before but I recognize him.’

  A fire engine – blue and red l
ights flashing, siren off – turned into Alice Grove ahead of them and parked outside number twentytwo. A firefighter jumped out and began sealing off the road with ‘Do Not Cross’ tape. It shimmered across the street, rolling in on itself, stirring and twisting.There was a smell of gas in the night air. The firefighter began knocking on doors. The street was being evacuated.

  ‘That’s the house.’ Nancy pointed. ‘I recognize it.’

  ‘Everyone back, please,’ a firefighter said. ‘There’s a gas leak.’

  ‘I think my daughter might be in that house,’ Nancy said, still pointing.

  ‘We’ve knocked on that one. There’s no one in. Now please, stand back. There’s a risk of an explosion.’

  ‘Please. She’s nine.’

  ‘OK, we’ll check it again, but you must get back.’

  A second fire engine arrived and parked across the end of the street, blocking it to further traffic. As Nancy and Philip walked around it, Daniel saw an open compartment full of maroon and gold-coloured coats. He grabbed one, along with a helmet, and slipped it on as he followed the firefighters walking down the street towards the house. As he got near it, he broke away and followed two more firefighters carrying a metal ladder around the side of the house. They laid it on the ground and returned to the fire engine. Daniel, his face now hidden by the helmet, marched over. The ladder was lighter than it looked – longer too, reaching as high as the guttering. Once at the top of it, he half crawled along a gully at the join of two slate roofs and, lying flat on his belly, looked down on to the glass of the conservatory, twelve feet below. No lights were on but he could make out a shape – the crown of a man’s head. The man was swaying in the semi-darkness, staring at what looked like a lighter in his hand, as if unsure what it was. Daniel felt off-balance. A swoop of vertigo. He removed his helmet. A linking door to the kitchen, he could now see, was wedged open. Towels and blankets were sealing the bottoms of the other doors. What was going on? Another shape. A child. It was Martha, wearing her pink coat, cuddling her velveteen turtle, sitting on a sofa looking drowsy.

  Kevin walked into the room and looked up. If the dog starts barking, Daniel thought, Tom will surely follow his gaze. He now knew he had to jump, but he also knew his nerves were failing him. As he crawled backwards, concealing himself, a firefighter appeared on the roof behind them. Daniel put his hand to his lips and pointed at the conservatory roof. He peered down again and could see that the man was a foreshortened and isolated figure with a small bald patch. How dare he take his daughter? How dare he lock her in a room and turn on the gas? He looked across at Martha. Her eyes were closed, her freckled face cushioned on the palm of her hand. As she slept, her small, rubbery fingers clenched. She stretched her arms and legs, her muscles rolling softly. The gas smelled stronger than before. Daniel realized it would be rising to meet him. It was harmless to breathe these days, he knew that, but an acid taste of bile nevertheless bubbled up in the sump of his throat. The point of no return. The realization of the unthinkable. He tried to compose himself.

  He looked back to see a second fireman arriving, using urgent hand signals, demanding that he come back down. Unsteadily, he got to his feet and held his arms out for balance. He could now see Nancy in the drive below. She was rubbing Philip’s back. What were they talking about? Nancy looked up, saw him and covered her mouth. Philip followed her gaze. They were both looking at him now, silhouetted against the moonlight. Philip appeared to be nodding.

  There was a flash of light, a white ray of stabbing pain on Daniel’s retina. Assuming it was the gas igniting, he ran instinctively towards it and, his stomach lurching, jumped in the direction of Martha. His arms described small circles as he fell for an impossibly long moment. The sensation he felt was of falling through time, of finding its inward flow.When his boots met the glass, it was as if he had broken through the surface of an ice-covered lake and was being slowed down by the drag of water. It was the drag of time. Outward, linear time had expanded and slowed almost to a halt. Below him, the earth was losing its gravitational pull. There was a pungent smell of gas in his nostrils; gas escaping past him through the shattered ceiling of the conservatory, into the night. As his arms flailed they disturbed particles of silver dust: shattered glass suspended in air, floating as if in a vacuum. He had been here before, living out these final moments, these fractions of seconds – falling to earth, through the earth, into a deep place where the sun is silent.

  He landed heavily, his knees buckling, and as he pitched sideways, he felt his skull crack against something solid. The fragments of glass darkened and thickened. They were everywhere, showering him, suffocating him, burying him alive.And then he felt nothing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Le Bizet, Belgium. Second Tuesday of September, 1918

  SLEEP DROPS AWAY AS ABRUPTLY AS A TRAP DOOR AND ANDREW SITS up in bed. He has a sense of a noise dimming, a shadow sound, a dog barking somewhere. He is baffled momentarily by a hollow sensation in his stomach then, as he remembers what is to happen this day, he finds his voice. ‘What time is it?’The words are shouted.

  No one answers. He stands up. Light is edging under the door – a dirty white dawn. He contemplates the clothes draped over the chair and knows that he does not want to die in a uniform that does not fit him. When the assistant provost marshal unlocks the door, Andrew is standing naked, squaring his shoulders defiantly.

  ‘I want a uniform that fits me,’ he says.

  The APM turns his head and, without taking his eyes off the prisoner, speaks to his own shoulder. ‘Medic.’

  Surgeon-Major Hayes steps out from behind him, unrolls a cloth pouch and lifts up a syringe. ‘We need to give you this, Kennedy.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A tranquillizer.You won’t know anything.’

  ‘Don’t need it, sir. Not afraid. No fear left.’

  The chaplain is the next to appear in the doorway. He is wearing purple insignia and a white clerical stole. He holds the prisoner’s arm tight to reassure him. Distracted by this, Andrew does not notice Hayes step behind him until it is too late. As he turns, the surgeon-major jabs the needle into his left buttock. He slumps forward into the chaplain’s arms. The APM wraps the now limp body in a blanket and carries him out as if he were carrying a sleeping child, down the steps of the police station and into the yard.

  When the firing squad arrives half an hour later they are surprised to see the prisoner already tethered to the post. A rope is tied tightly around his chest to stop him slipping down. He is wearing a hood. His head is lolling forward. The APM pins an off-white aiming mark to the prisoner’s tunic, over his heart. The mark is a four-by-two flannelette used for rifle cleaning.

  Several members of the firing squad are swaying, anaesthetized with drink. The twelve rifles are laid out ready – Major Morris’s final order has been followed.The soldiers line up, one behind each gun in two rows of six. All raise their rifles to their shoulders and take aim, with the back rank remaining standing while the front rank, on an order from the RSM, get down on one knee. Lieutenant Cooper nods at a drummer boy and a roll begins. The RSM raises a handkerchief at a ninety-degree angle in front of him and, as he lets it go, a ragged volley is fired. The prisoner’s body sags on the wooden post. Surgeon-Major Hayes marches over to it, feels for a pulse and holds a stethoscope to the chest before nodding at Lieutenant Cooper. The subaltern puts away his revolver, relieved that he will not have to deliver the coup de grâce.

  Hayes unties the ropes and supports the dead weight as he lays it out on the ground. ‘You there,’ he barks at Macintyre, ‘give me a hand.’ With Macintyre taking the feet and Hayes lifting under the arms, the two men carry the body over to a waiting coffin and tip it in.The coffin is too small: the body looks big inside it. Macintyre looks at the prisoner’s bare feet, unable to hide his disappointment.

  ‘He said I could have his boots,’ he mutters.

  They each take one end of the coffin lid and lay it on top.

>   ‘Sir?’ Macintyre says.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How come there’s no blood?’

  The surgeon-major does not answer. As he marches back inside the police station to fill out a death certificate, the members of the firing squad stand around. The only sound is the clattering of bolts being drawn back and spent cases tumbling down into the dust.

  ‘Any recoil?’ one says.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Thought I felt a kick, but I’m not sure.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Le Bizet, Belgium. Present day. Seven months after the crash

  A SMALL CROWD OFVILLAGERS HAD GATHERED IN THE GROUNDS OF the old police station. The owners of the house were among them, back from their holiday.They had not been aware of the headstone in their garden, still less that an English war hero was buried underneath it. Not only had they given their permission for his exhumation, they had turned it into an event – inviting neighbours, handing around drinks on trays. A gendarme and a priest were here in a semi-official capacity, as was the mayor of Le Bizet who was to accompany the remains to their new burial place, the Tyne Cot Commonwealth War Graves Cemetery on the Passchendaele Ridge.This was why Clive and Philip were here, too. For Philip, making the journey through the Eurotunnel without Daniel had been distressing, but he felt he had no choice.There was unfinished business here. He knew Daniel would have wanted him to come back.

  The remains were to be joined at Tyne Cot by the headstone, once it had been cleaned. A photographer from the local paper was recording the occasion. Whenever he used his flash, he gave depth to an otherwise flat and grey afternoon.

  ‘You know Morris was a conductor before the war?’ Clive said to Philip as the two men stood slightly apart from the others.

  ‘Yes.’