On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  Don’t do that.

  She couldn’t sleep. With open skies and the stars beginning to wink at her, she knew soon any residual heat she owned would be bought for next to nothing by the surrounding countryside. Robbed again.

  She looked at her phone. The battery was half-full. She looked across at the trike. It was still there. At least she had transport. If she could be bothered to get on it.

  Monster tiredness assaulted her and she let her chin drop, her phone falling from her hand.

  Her eyes closed.

  And Freddie came.

  No!

  She woke - too scared to sleep.

  But that’s what her body was telling her to do.

  Come on, love. You need to get some rest. They’ll deal with it all. A soft voice. Calming. Closing.

  You’re not worth it. You think too much of yourself. The soft voice now laced with menace. They’ll do a better job without you. You just complicate matters.

  The voice’s tone was changing all the time. And Sam knew whose it was: mocking and degrading.

  No. She couldn’t allow this.

  She prised open her eyes - and blinked a couple of times. She picked up her phone. She’d lost another 25 minutes.

  It was getting dark now. Everything still ached … and she knew she had to move.

  Hand to the floor. Push.

  Nothing.

  Shit.

  She tried again. No. Her body was dead weight. Fat and bone in a human-shaped sack.

  What to do? She was no longer fighting the Mafia and Mr F fucking Derwent. She was exchanging fisticuffs with an unseen enemy. A hooligan inside of her.

  She’d felt this way before. Post injuries in Afghanistan. A mortar shredding her stomach. And killing the man she loved. The doctors had patched her up in Bastion. They’d done a fab job. But they could do nothing about her anxiety. She slept. And slept. And when the nurses had tried to get her out of bed, her body wouldn’t respond. And the fog that permeated every corner of her brain told her not to give a shit. What did she have to live for? What was the point?

  It took them a week to get her mobile. Up on her sticks. She hobbled here. Then rested. And she hobbled back again. The soldiers’ best friend, black humour, deserted her. A couple of lads from the local Regiment who were both in with amputations, took the piss out of her in a kind, military way you would have thought would have done the trick. But she turned them away, sour-faced and miserable.

  In her bed on the front line she knew she had to take back control. She had to beat the fog; and the lump in the front of her head that was stopping any sensible, cognitive thought.

  She had to do something.

  So she did.

  There were plenty of hospital sharps about. She stole a scalpel and, late one night when the ward was being serenaded by far-off gun fire and manly snores, she cut the top of her thigh.

  Inside.

  The pain was instant and overwhelming.

  The blood relentless.

  She had cut too deep. But what did she expect? She was hardly an expert.

  In panic she scrambled around for something to press against the wound to stop the flow. She remembered there was a box of tissues on the bedside table. In the part-darkness she reached for them, inadvertently pushing the table away from her, the castor wheels squeaking as they helped the box make its escape. Sam was angry now. With one wet, red hand pushing against the wound she quickly she slipped her legs off the bed and took a step to the table. She ripped out a dozen or so tissues and pressed them hard against the cut. In the darkness she looked for seeping blood. The tissue turned red directly above the wound. She reached for some more. And applied them to the makeshift dressing.

  ‘Are you OK, Sam?’

  The voice was from the next door bed. A soldier. REME. He was in with shrapnel wounds from a rocket attack against a vehicle he’d been travelling in.

  ‘Piss off, Ginger.’

  That was his nickname. And, of course, he was ginger.

  She ignored him and, with her back to him, checked the dressing. It was holding. She must have looked a sight. Half-light, hunched and staring at her crotch.

  ‘Have you lost something? You know. Like a cherry?’

  That stopped her. She closed her eyes. And smiled to herself.

  She turned, with her hand still between her legs.

  ‘Is that how your mother taught you to sweet talk a girl, Ginger? Now, piss off and get some beauty sleep. Dream of being blonde, brunette … or even bald. Anything’s better than the excuse growing out of your head at the moment.’

  She smiled a forced smile and, without turning her back on the soldier, she checked the wound. No blood.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK? Can I get you something?’ He was on his side now, his head propped up by a hand. Even in the poor light Sam could see genuine concern.

  She smiled again.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I cut myself shaving.’

  ‘Well, it’s really good to see you on your feet and sparky.’

  That stopped her as well.

  ‘Thanks, Ginge. Mean it.’ And with her hand still pressing against the wound, she hopped back into bed.

  ‘Now, piss off and get some sleep.’

  The memories washed over her.

  The cutting hadn’t cured the anxiety, but it had allowed her to take back some control. She remembered cutting herself three more times in as many weeks, at the end of which she was able to banish any oncoming anxiety with exercise. Lots of it.

  Sam pulled her bum bag round from behind her. She unzipped it. Inside was a passport, a small wallet, a toothbrush, some pocket tissues and a penknife. She took the penknife and tissues out and pulled up her dress, exposing her inner thigh.

  She remembered how to cut - and more importantly, how not to cut. She had the open penknife in one hand and a still-folded paper tissue between her teeth.

  It was dark now. But she didn’t need any light.

  She pulled the skin apart so it was tight between two old wounds with her free hand.

  And cut.

  Slowly.

  One … two … three.

  She reckoned the line of blood was about five centimetres long. She couldn’t see it, but she imagined it bubbling up from the open wound, gathering itself together and then allowing gravity to take it by the hand, down the length of the cut, onto pristine flesh and then track to that point when the weight of blood was heavier than the meniscus force holding it to the skin. In Sam’s head the trail fell, like wax from an upturned candle, hitting the ground, turning the brown earth black.

  The pain shot up through her crotch, across her chest and made her heart briefly palpitate at a million beats a minute.

  Shit, that hurts!

  She let go of the wound, reached for the tissue and pressed it hard against the red line, counting to twenty.

  … nineteen … twenty.

  That was enough. Enough time. Enough blood. And enough pain.

  She removed the tissue and replaced it with a fresh one. It wouldn’t hold, but it would do for now. In any case, her dress was red. It would be difficult to tell.

  She checked for aching limbs.

  A little … here and there. But better.

  Let’s go.

  She stood unsteadily. Took a couple of deep breaths, and staggered over to the trike.

  Sam had memorised the route from Google Maps. It was 505 kilometres. With a couple of fuel and pee stops she reckoned she’d be in Rome just after two in the morning. She’d SMS’d Frank. His reply had been immediate. He would be in Rome by ten. He’d have the kettle on.

  She had decided to keep the trike. Mostly because she didn’t think she had the time to find a car hire, and even if she did it was likely her name would be marked and if she used a debit card, two thugs would appear from somewhere - and she couldn’t cope with that.

  It did leave the issue of the stolen nature of the MP3 which may well have an ‘all-stations’ call out on it. />
  And that’s when she’d been lucky.

  As she drove off the hill, winding her way down to the motorway and beginning to freeze in the cold temperatures which were lashing her at up to 60 kilometres per hour, she spotted a small farmhouse off to one side. It had some barns and a yard full of cars and a motorbike. It looked like there was a party going on, which had moved inside to escape the cold.

  She left the trike on the road and jogged into the yard, her thigh protesting every time her foot hit the floor.

  Bike first.

  Hiding in the shade of a pickup truck, she used her penknife to remove the plate from the back of the bike.

  Next, the barns. There were two of them. Both open.

  She pushed on the door of one. It creaked. It was dark inside. She slipped in and switched on her phone’s torch. She shone it around the darkness.

  The barn was split into bays by wooden fences, and there was a hay loft. No cattle.

  She looked around.

  Shit!

  There was noise from up top. Giggles and ‘shushes’.

  Just my luck.

  A female head and naked chest, blinking in the glare of the torch. It ducked down. More giggles.

  Assuming that she wasn’t going to be ratted on by a couple having fun in the hay, she continued her search.

  You can do anything once. Although, here, she shouldn’t hang about.

  There.

  Coveralls. And some wellies. Big wellies. Ordinarily too big for her.

  Over there. A wax jacket.

  Perfect.

  She left more giggling behind, pulled the door to and headed back to the trike. Five minutes later, dressed as a Somerset pig farmer’s assistant, she was on the same, but different MP3. And now warmed and more protected from the cold, she was on her way to Rome.

  Via a couple of fuel and pee stops ...

  Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London

  Jane paused outside her door, her foot keeping it ajar. She looked across the main office’s empty desks to the windows. The night sky was heavy with low clouds which reflected London’s ambient light, giving them a mauvy tinge. Rain was coming. Buckets of it. The forecasters reckoned they’d have a month’s worth in the next couple of days. The farmers and reservoirs needed it after the long dry summer. And the capital needed it too. Rain dampened enthusiasm for marches. People were less inclined to come out onto the streets and make a noise if they were going to get drenched in the process.

  The Met reckoned tomorrow’s march would be the largest in London’s history, with over one and a half million protesters planning to invade the city. If they were right that would be double the 2003 ‘Stop the War’ march, which in itself dwarfed all of the city’s previous marches. The problem was coincident protests were being held in nine cities across the UK. The police were at breaking point. If any of the marches turned violent, there was no backup. Riots would lead to looting. Looting would lead to more crime. The Met Commissioner’s brief earlier today spoke of possible vigilantism post any looting, which could mean further societal breakdown. The PM was standing by to take the unprecedented step of imposing a curfew in areas where the police might lose control. And, across the country, the Army were practising crowd control in the quiet corners of their barracks.

  It had all happened so quickly. The ferry disaster. And the ricin attacks. After almost a year of sporadic terror people had had enough. They were at their wit’s end; she felt it too. She travelled to work most days on the tube and she’d noticed two things. First, the carriages were less full. People were avoiding enclosed spaces. Second, everyone was jumpy. She could sense it on the trains. They were quiet; fearful. There was a palpable sense of desperation everywhere.

  Closer to home a small group of activists had camped outside Babylon’s main entrance. A couple of hours ago Jane had popped out to get a sandwich and some fresh air. On the way back in one of the protesters had thrown an egg at her. It was ridiculous.

  And now the bloody VP’s visit.

  How did they know my name?

  OK, so the names of senior staff in SIS weren’t a national-level secret, but you’d have to work quite hard to uncover the details.

  It was clear to everyone in the building she was the Jane on the banner. The CT police had picked up the two lads almost immediately, but the trail had gone cold within an hour. It was another low-energy, but clever and confounding act. As at nine o’clock this evening ten nations were chasing their tails on what would, ordinarily, be very solid intelligence of an attack against a ‘major public figure’. All of them had been fed the threat by bona fide agents. In isolation every state had to assume the threat was real. And yet, surely, the neo-terrorists couldn’t have that much stretch? Not ten separate targets in ten separate countries?

  The CIA and they had worked tirelessly for 12 hours. The VP as a target was a sound, intelligence-consolidated, choice.

  And yet they had been played. His visit had gone off without a hitch.

  They’d been sent off elsewhere, whilst the real threat would pop up where they least expected it. And if recent history was anything to go by, they were looking at something which would terrorise great swathes of population. She was convinced this wasn’t about incisor-sharp, political assassinations. Certainly not the US Vice President on an impromptu visit to the UK.

  No. It was about mass terror. It was about bringing the world to the boil. If NT were to murder a public figure - or figures - they would be ones whose death would cataclysmically undermine public confidence. Whoever they were.

  And, if she listened to Sam Green, it was all about money. The whole thing.

  Sam, and Frank, were convinced the ‘Ndràngheta were coordinating the attacks. They certainly had the reach. And they had the cellular structure to keep the thing tight and secure.

  But were they really the power behind this?

  Jane couldn’t see it. They had no history of fomenting chaos. Their MO was extortion; medium and low level business interference, for which they were paid well. Drugs, now thought to be Europe-wide, with fingers in the US and Canada. And subverting power with bought influence; but only so they could keep doing the drugs and extortion with impunity.

  Whilst they could probably pull it off, a terror racket on the world stage wouldn’t be on their agenda.

  Surely?

  Just before she left the office Carla had dropped a report on her desk. It was the current state of play concerning the Brit billionaire. The front page summary had some new news. AfH International Bank, Geneva, the largest of the 296 overseas accounts that likely laundered the man’s money, had been subject to GCHQ scrutiny. AfH held 14 separate accounts the Doughnut attributed to a shell company based in Jersey: Lakeland Industries. Lakeland Industries held four accounts in The Cayman Islands, two of which linked back to the yet-to-be-named British man. They’d managed to uncover the signatory of one of the Cayman accounts. His name was Mr Helvellyn. Wires connected to other wires, connected to others. Which joined the circuit back at the beginning. It was a labyrinth. Carla reckoned they’d have a matrix of links of all of the accounts by size and geography within 48 hours.

  That wasn’t quick enough for Jane. She was attending the JIC tomorrow morning where they would press her on ‘money’ being a driver for the terror. She really could do with more. She’d dropped Carla an email asking her to pop in first thing.

  Still standing in the doorway, and still staring out into the gloom, Jane checked her watch. The JIC was in eight hours’ time.

  Go home. And try to avoid another egg shampoo.

  Her phone pinged. It was a secure email from the Asmara team in Eritrea. They were working late. It was addressed to Frank, cc’d to her. Frank would be in Rome by now. Hopefully with Sam. She opened the mail and scanned it. And then read it in detail.

  A few seconds later she pulled her door open fully and headed back to her desk.

  Sam was right?

  The Eritrean team’s agent had delivered a
copy of the contract behind the new-build waterfront fishing warehouses in Mersa Fatma. The government signatory was a known, bent politician - which was neither a surprise, nor the key piece of intelligence. What was, was the company contracted to build the warehouses was Italian: Astal Generali, which the team had investigated. It was another shell. Based in the town of Scilla … in Calabria.

  Mafia central.

  Jane took off her coat whilst speed-dialling Frank on her mobile.

  Were they at last making progress?

  Chapter 16

  British Embassy, Via Venti Settembre, Rome, Italy

  Frank was struggling to stay awake. He’d spent the last two hours pulling together all of the threads of Operation Peacock. Op Peacock was the new, unimaginatively named title for the intelligence gathering effort to piece together the Italian/Mafia/Swiss/British NT conglomerate on which the UK and now the CIA were focusing their efforts. In parallel, they were also chasing down the latest extant threat to a major public figure. The latter was also now exercising the minds of the intelligence agencies of 12 other nations, including the recent additions of Brazil and Japan. Someone back at Babylon had done some sums. The total number of ‘major public figures’ distributed among the 12 countries stood at 14,357. Frank was sure if there were such a threat, and he and Jane thought it was now a red herring, the target would likely be the 14,358th - and not on the list.

  He was clear. The key now was breaking into the ‘Ndràngheta Mafia.

  And that was a problem.

  The Station’s chief, R1 (Rome, 1), had pulled together a three-man team to assist Frank. All of them were case officers. As such, all of them outranked him, and that wasn’t just in actual rank. Frank wasn’t a field officer, so he couldn’t pass stereotypical judgements on every serving-overseas member of SIS, but he reckoned the station where you were based influenced how you were dressed. In Rome’s case it was all sharp grey suits, single-colour all-cotton shirts and, as it was most places today, no tie. One of the three wore sunglasses in the office, which Frank thought was overkill as the station had been relegated to the Embassy’s basement.