Latent Hazard rkadika-1

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Rafi weakly.

  Time passed slowly, but Rafi started to feel stronger and more able to face the world.

  During a further inspection of his wounds, Rafi asked, ‘Doctor, how much longer will I be in hospital?’

  ‘If you can find somewhere quiet to convalesce and someone to care for you, you should be able to leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow would be great,’ replied Rafi

  A kindly physiotherapist arrived and went through a gentle exercise regime aimed in particular at his elbow. This was followed by a dietician who talked about what he should eat whilst his intestines and body mended. Late in the afternoon the surgeon and doctor reappeared. They were pleased with Rafi’s progress. They chatted with Kate and, to Rafi’s surprise, announced that if he wished he could be discharged and could return to the comfort of the hotel. Kate was given a series of contact names and numbers, plus a schedule of when he should attend the local surgery.

  ‘Any ideas on what we should do for clothes and headgear?’ Kate asked the nurse. After a short discussion, Kate opted for the short journey to the town centre to buy Rafi what he needed. An hour later she reappeared carrying a couple of large bags.

  ‘Sorry to have taken so long.’

  Rafi dressed in comfortable, warm clothes. With Kate’s help he stood up and for the first time in days he looked at himself in the mirror. He was horrified by what he saw. His eye sockets looked skeletal. Two thirds of his hair was missing. A jagged scar with stitches ran from just above his hairline to the top of his head and his bruised scalp was a dark reddish purple.

  His legs felt wobbly and he sat down on the bed more quickly than he’d intended – to the great discomfort of his unhealed wounds.

  Kate spoke to the nurse about the practicalities of getting back to Newquay. They opted for the simplest solution and took a taxi. The journey seemed to go on forever. Rafi didn’t know how or where to position himself. His body ached and his head throbbed. They drew up in front of the hotel at 8 o’clock.

  The cold wind cut through his clothes. Kate helped him inside and across to the lift. The area at the bottom of the stairs looked very different. There were temporary carpets. Boarding covered the plate glass window which separated the reception area from the seating area at the bottom of the stairs and also the stained glass window on the half landing. Builders’ dust sheets were draped all over the banisters.

  Kate had phoned ahead to check with the hotel that they were still welcome. The proprietor and his wife were there to greet them. It transpired that they felt their staff had let Rafi and Kate down, revealing their whereabouts to the tabloid press. The?500 bung that the chambermaid had received had been donated to a local charity. She’d kept her job on the basis that her apology was accepted. She was there waiting at reception with a bunch of flowers. She stepped across and passed them to Rafi. She took one look at him and crumpled, promptly bursting into tears.

  ‘I am sorry; I just did not think. The journalist was so convincing. Will you forgive me, please?’ she stuttered through her tears.

  Kate put an arm around her. ‘You weren’t to know. At any rate he probably would have found us sooner or later. At least it’s all in the past and we’re still in one piece… Your flowers look lovely. Thank you. Perhaps you could help us find a vase?’

  Rafi was exhausted by the time he arrived at their room. He slowly shuffled into the bedroom and sat gingerly on the bed. His backside hurt like hell. He curled up on his left-hand side. Kate cradled his head in her lap.

  For the next two days he remained holed up in the suite. His wounds were healing well and he started to get his energy back. Kate, it seemed, was enjoying her role as nurse.

  On the second day the phone hardly stopped ringing. Saara, the major, Kate’s parents, her brother and Emma all wanted to hear how he was and to pass on their love and best wishes. Jeremy phoned to apologise that he couldn’t drop by as he’d been given another assignment, which necessitated a bit of travelling, but he looked forward to seeing them soon.

  In the middle of the afternoon, while Rafi was sound asleep, a call came in from the Prime Minister. Rafi was very groggy. The PM enquired after his health, conveyed his best wishes and hung up. A nice touch for someone so busy, Rafi thought.

  While he recuperated, Rafi went through the newspapers. Post-Stratford, things were slowly returning to normality. In particular, there was one small article by Pete Lockyer which caught his attention: it showed a picture of Maryam in a smart suit sitting in a stately drawing room. Apparently she had not gone to prison, but was helping the police with their enquiries. Strange, he thought, and made a mental note to ask Jeremy what was going on.

  In their little world, the hotel proprietor had been doing his best to protect them from any further unwanted press intrusion, but the situation was becoming untenable. Camped outside was a small village of TV crews and reporters. Kate and Rafi needed to do something or they would get no peace and quiet for the rest of their holiday.

  An idea came to Kate and she phoned Jeremy to get Pete Lockyer’s number. She then phoned Pete to ask if he would do an interview. He jumped at the invitation and said he would be there first thing the next morning.

  As dusk was falling, the hotel proprietor arranged for Kate and Rafi to be smuggled out in the back of a van. The afternoon trip to the doctors was otherwise straightforward. The nurse looked at the notes from the hospital and set about changing Rafi’s dressings and bandages. Fifteen minutes later he only had one dressing left on his side. All the others had been removed as she was pleased with how he had healed. Kate arranged a follow-up session for the last of his stitches to be taken out and they returned surreptitiously to the hotel.

  Psychologically Rafi was feeling much better. His headaches had gone and seeing the wounds on his body almost mended had been a real tonic. That evening they went downstairs for dinner. As he passed through the reception, Rafi observed that the repair work was almost complete.

  In the dining room, they were met by the restaurant manager. ‘Excuse me for saying, but everyone is curious to see how you are mending. They have seen the mess and, like me, find it incredible that you’re still alive.’ He beckoned them forward. ‘Your table is at the far end by a window overlooking the sea. It should be quiet, except you will have to walk past everyone.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Rafi as he shuffled in. He became aware that the room had fallen silent and dozens of pairs of eyes were staring at them. As they approached the table, Rafi noticed that the two seats had their backs to the room and were facing the window and out to sea. ‘Could you move our places so that we can look into the room? That way we won’t look as if we’re avoiding everyone.’

  Moments later Rafi sat down gingerly. The restaurant manager reappeared with the menu.

  Kate asked, ‘Is the person I noticed as I came in the retired doctor who helped Rafi?’

  ‘Yes, he’s sitting over there with his wife.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The menu was mouth-watering. Kate was in her element. Her healthy appetite had returned, helped by the long runs and swims she had enjoyed while Rafi was resting. She made her choice. Rafi was still hesitating and when the waiter returned, Kate passed him a sheet of paper.

  ‘Sorry, but you’re still on a strict diet; it won’t be long before your fully mended and you can have grown-up food again!’

  ‘At least I won’t have to cut it up!’ he said, moving his right arm in its sling.

  ‘I’m so pleased you are on the mend. A serious look replaced Kate’s radiant smile. The helicopter flight down to Plymouth felt like the longest journey of my life. The retired doctor who tended your wounds was a godsend. I honestly thought you might not make it.’

  She hesitated. ‘Would you mind if I asked him and his wife to join us for coffee? He was so brilliant…’

  ‘That’s a great idea.’

  Kate got up and walked down to the doctor’s table. He and his wife
were pleased to accept the invitation, and at the end of the meal, they joined Kate and Rafi in the sitting room for coffee. Like everyone else they were keen to find out what had really been going on. Rafi thanked him several times over.

  ‘Just pleased to help,’ replied the doctor, ‘And the helicopter ride was a first.’

  ‘I only found Rafi a few weeks ago – I couldn’t bear to have lost him so soon,’ said Kate.

  The conversation covered a wide range of topics. The doctor chatted about his time working in Manchester and the increase in gun and knife crime that he had witnessed. He explained how he had had his arm twisted a number of years ago and had attended a special training session on how to deal with gun crime injuries… ‘I’m pleased it came in useful,’ he said with a grin

  After half an hour of talking, tiredness overcame Rafi. He said his goodnights and retired upstairs, leaving Kate chatting to the doctor and his wife.

  Back in the bedroom Rafi undressed with difficulty and surveyed his body. In many places, it was hard to see where one bruise ended and another started. His wounds were still sore, but the burning heat had gone out of them.

  He curled up in bed. Next thing he knew it was morning and Kate was sitting at the bottom of the bed, in her running kit, eating breakfast.

  He smelt the hot food. It made him hungry.

  ‘Good morning. I hope you don’t mind me starting,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all. What’s on the menu?’

  ‘Scrambled eggs, croissants, fresh orange juice and coffee. By the way, we’ve got Pete Lockyer due here in about an hour.’

  Pete was early and caught Rafi in his dressing gown. Kate ordered breakfast for him and his cameraman, whilst Rafi slowly got washed and dressed. She explained the ground rules. ‘Please treat Rafi as a close family member. We do not want anything published that he will regret. We will chat openly to you, on the understanding that you clear what you write with Jeremy’s boss, Neil Gunton, at MI5.’

  Judging by the size of his frown, Pete was none too happy with that suggestion and Kate picked up on his reluctance.

  ‘It’s quite simple. Much of what Rafi and I will tell you has been kept under wraps. There may be things we tell you that could jeopardise the investigations into this awful affair. Don’t worry; there should be enough to keep you in stories for weeks!’

  Pete gave his word. ‘And having seen today’s newspapers I appreciate your reticence,’ he commented. ‘The photos weren’t very nice.’

  Rafi caught the end of the conversation and glanced across to Kate.

  ‘One of the guests took a series of photos of you at dinner last night and you looked quite awful in them. The proprietor was very upset. He’d asked all the guests to respect your privacy whilst you were convalescing. The culprit was the same reporter who passed the bung to the chambermaid. He got a guest to take the photos using a special hidden camera.’

  ‘Quite how marketable is our story?’ Rafi sighed.

  ‘Red-hot,’ replied Pete. He paused. ‘Would you want paying?’

  ‘What sort of sum would we be talking about?’ asked Rafi, and Kate shot him a glowering glance.

  ‘The full inside story, handled properly over a number of weeks or even months, would net you a six, maybe even a seven, figure sum for an exclusive. Basically, you could name your price. Is this going to be a very expensive trip for me?’ enquired Pete.

  Rafi looked across at Kate. She slowly shook her head.

  ‘I think it would be churlish not to take the money,’ said Rafi.

  ‘But…’ interjected Kate. She looked horrified.

  ‘Seriously. Consider if the money was not for us, but for the hospices helping those with radiation poisoning. They must be overflowing. How about Pete’s paper running an appeal to raise money for the hospices helping those suffering? The appeal could go alongside our story. It would be great publicity for the newspaper and be great for its image,’ argued Rafi.

  As he paused to think, Rafi could see Kate visibly relax. ‘If your paper were to start the ball rolling with, say, a?250,000 donation and top it up as more stories were rolled out, I reckon Kate and I would be very happy.’

  Pete looked pensive. ‘I reckon my editor would go with that if I got an exclusive.’

  ‘Where else would we go?’ asked Kate rhetorically with a huge smile.

  They chatted for almost an hour and a half. For the photo shoot, the hotel proprietor arranged for them to be slipped out of the back of the hotel in a laundry van down to a nearby beach where the pictures could be taken in the morning sunshine. They returned using the same means of transport.

  With the story and the photos in the bag, Pete made arrangements to meet with Neil, said his thanks and slipped off to London with his scoop.

  At Kate’s request, the proprietor briefed the journalists and TV crews camped outside that a press conference would be held the following morning, at 11 o’clock, in the dining room.

  Kate and Rafi spent the rest of the day chatting and discussing what he might do next and about her career ambitions in the police force. It was settled that he would move in with her for a couple of months before he made any decisions. It was a happy day. He had a future; one which filled him with great expectations.

  They ate in their room that evening, turned in early and breakfasted early the next morning. Rafi tentatively tucked into a small English breakfast while reading the newspapers.

  They couldn’t miss Pete’s article: it ran to twenty pages! On the front page were a smiling Kate and Rafi walking hand in hand, in the sun, on the golden sands by the sea. The trilby hat and the flowing scarf hid many of the scars and bruises, and all things considered he looked remarkably well. The headline under the photo was: In good hands. The article talked of Pete’s breakthrough in tracking down the terrorists’ getaway vessel, Golden Sundancer, in Iceland and explained Kate’s and Rafi’s roles in unravelling the terrorists’ plots. The article revealed the work that Kate’s team at the City of London police and MI5 had done in finding the locations of the terrorist attacks. It also described the role of the Air Chief Marshal, the Prime Minister, the Defence Secretary and the head of MI5 – and even mentioned Aidan’s team working with the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the pulling of the financial rabbits out of the hat. There were photos of the hotel proprietor presenting the doctor and his wife with a large bouquet of flowers, as well as pictures of John, Emma, Giles and David.

  The article included one new nugget of information. There was a picture of Miti Lakhani. Despite the best efforts of MI6 and the CIA, he had disappeared and the terrorist training camp run by him was deserted. Also, tucked away in the text, was a paragraph alluding to the fact that one of the terrorists had, at the end, tried to save their skin by doing a deal. Rafi smiled. It was another nice way of playing Maryam and the other terrorists off against each other.

  The hotel’s dining room was packed for the 11 o’clock press conference. Pete’s story had whetted their appetites. Before the session Kate received a call from Neil, thanking her for getting Pete to talk to him before going to press. Basically, Neil told them that they could mention practically anything, except for the sleepers, but they should remember that the more they told, the more the journalists would want to know.

  Kate and Rafi sat at a long table covered with a smart white tablecloth and flower arrangements at either end. Bright lights were trained on them.

  The questions were like cannon fire. First they focused on the recent terrorist shooting and Rafi’s wounds, then the questions backtracked to the lead-up to the Stratford disaster and, finally, they were asked their views on whether politicians, prior to the Stratford tragedy, had pushed the boundaries of spin too far.

  ‘It takes two to tango,’ Rafi replied. ‘Irresponsible journalism goes hand in hand with spin. I applaud responsible investigative journalism which questions whether the full truth is being revealed by publicity-hungry politicians. More attention to the minutiae and not just to the big
glossy picture would be welcomed.’

  After a barrage of further questions, Kate stood up. ‘Thank you, you should by now have more than enough! Rafi and I came here for a holiday to recharge our batteries. It’s not turned out as we had hoped. We have only four days left before we go back to London and it would be much appreciated if we could have that time to ourselves.’

  Despite calls for more answers to questions, Kate and Rafi had had enough and left through a side door, picking up their coats and heading for the fresh air and the solitude of the windswept beach.

  The last four days of Rafi’s convalescence went by far too fast. They chatted and laughed as if they didn’t have a care in the world. It was a happy time. On Sunday, it was with sadness that they packed before their drive back to London. It felt like the end of the long holidays and the impending return to school.

  Back in London, Monday morning felt strange. Kate set off for work early and Rafi was left in her flat alone. It was the first time for ages that he hadn’t been with her. He missed her.

  It was a sunny day; spring was in the air. On the spur of the moment he decided to look at Stratford and the new wall around the exclusion zone. He took the underground straight through to Old Street station and walked east towards Hackney Road. After about half a mile Rafi came upon a sign by the roadside. He was entering a restricted area. This was, he assumed, the beginning of a buffer zone. Not far ahead of him he could see a military roadblock in front of a fifty-metre strip of cleared derelict ground. Past this were a three-metre high, heavy-duty steel mesh barrier and the beginnings of a brick wall. Beyond that he could see piles of rubble, empty properties and, incongruously, a number of newly planted trees.

  As he stood taking in the enormity of the dispossessed area, a soldier came across.

  ‘This is a restricted area, sir. You should turn around and make your way back to the other side of the buffer zone.’