Twenty Twelve

by Helen Black

  ‘Who’s there?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say.

  ‘Jo?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, just open up,’ I tell him.

  It takes him what seems like an age to unlock the window and slide it across. Then he stands there in a pair of stained pyjamas, staring at me.

  I push myself up by my hands and swing my legs inside his room in one fluid movement.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asks. ‘Bleedin’ Catwoman?’ He laughs at his own joke until I wave him away.

  ‘What did you mean about a fall guy?’ I ask.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You said you’d have let the hysteria run until you’d handed over your fall guy.’

  Dad doesn’t answer immediately. He lowers himself onto the bed and wets cracked lips with the tip of his tongue. ‘How important are these Olympics?’ he says at last. ‘On a scale of one to ten?’

  I think about the strikes, the unemployment figures, the marches and the riots. The country has been imploding. ‘About an eleven.’

  ‘And how disastrous would it be if the terrorists turned out to be Islamists?’ Dad asks.

  I don’t respond. We both know the Americans would be on the first plane home. The whole show would fall apart and the reaction in the Middle East doesn’t bear thinking about.

  Dad nods. ‘This is the last chance saloon for the government and you’re still not suspicious when the spooks discover less than twenty-four hours after the event that a bunch of white supremacists did it?’

  I sigh. It does seem suspicious. But Clem has given assurances. ‘You’re saying this is all a set-up?’

  Dad opens his palms upwards.

  I shake my head. Dad is a cynic. He thinks Ghandi had an ulterior motive. If he’s right, it would mean MI5 and the PM had deliberately framed and killed innocent people. And that the real terrorists are still out there. That sort of stuff only happens in second-rate thrillers.

  ‘I know how it looks,’ I say. ‘But this time, you’ve got it all wrong.’

  Dad grunts and gets back into bed. He pulls the sheet up to his chin. With the moonlight pouring across his face, he is so still, he could easily be dead.

  Miggs could feel the gear in his system. He didn’t know how it got there but the sensation was undeniable. Like being a bairn wrapped in a great big blanket. Not that anyone ever wrapped Miggs in a blanket when he was a bairn, but he could imagine. He let out a moan of pleasure.

  Miggs used to do a lot of gear in the old days, before Ronnie convinced him to jack it in.

  ‘It’s how they control you,’ Ronnie told him. ‘Drink, drugs, religion – all the same. Just ways to distract you from the real questions.’

  It was spot on. Course it was. Ronnie was always right.

  When you’re using, you flip-flop between the ecstasy of the hit and the agony of the come-down. You spend your time on the rob, or selling yourself. Far too busy to care who’s running your life.

  ‘Stephen Miggs.’

  A voice floated towards him from the periphery of his consciousness. He’d ignore it but for the fact that whoever had spoken had used his first name. No one had done that since his last social worker.

  ‘I know you can hear me, so open your eyes.’

  Curious, Miggs did as he was told. It was the man from Ronnie’s flat, the one with the gun.

  ‘You’re awake then?’ said the man.

  ‘Aye.’ Miggs’s voice was barely a low scratch.

  ‘Tell me about Shining Light,’ said the man. ‘Did you do the Olympic job?’

  What job? Miggs hadn’t had a job in years. Who’d employ someone like him? A record as long as the tattoos down his arm. Not that Miggs had been looking very hard. Being a wage slave to some capitalist fat cat didn’t appeal. Signing on, Ronnie said, could be a political act.

  ‘The bomb in the Olympic Village,’ the man said. ‘Was Shining Light responsible?’

  Now Miggs understood. This was why MI5 tracked them down. Why the gadge in front of him had come to the flat like fucking Robocop.

  He saw no reason to lie. ‘I don’t know anything about a bomb.’

  The man narrowed his eyes and nodded. ‘Your cell had nothing to do with it?’

  ‘Cell?’

  ‘You, Deano, Steve.’

  Miggs laughed. The idea that those useless twats constituted a ‘cell’ seemed ridiculous.

  ‘What about Ronnie?’ the man asked.

  Miggs’s smile slipped. Whatever they did to him, no matter how many drugs they pumped into him, he wouldn’t give Ronnie up.

  Again, he told the truth. ‘I don’t know where Ronnie is.’

  The man tapped his front tooth with his thumbnail. It made a hollow sound. ‘You don’t deny that Ronnie was involved in the bombing?’

  Miggs closed his eyes. Ronnie had never once mentioned a bomb. When they’d watched the explosion on the telly, Miggs had been shocked. He remembered again the presenter, the blood and the black smoke. Then he pictured Ronnie, impassive as usual, giving nothing away.

  ‘I don’t know where Ronnie is,’ Miggs repeated.

  I’m halfway across town when the fuel gauge lights up. The Mini needs petrol. I sigh. It’s half past one in the morning and my head is toast. The old man’s words have burrowed their way into my skull, nipping me with their sharp teeth.

  I consider going back to Highfields, running this whole thing past him again. But what would be the point? He believes this whole thing is a set-up, and I believe . . . well, I’m no longer sure what I believe.

  I pull into an all-night garage on the Old Kent Road and jump out. I grab the hose and try to fill her up but each time I squeeze the trigger there’s a clunk from the nozzle, then nothing.

  I make my way to the shop where an attendant is barricaded inside behind reinforced glass. His ears are punctured by a row of metal studs, as is his nose, lower lip and right eyebrow. A human pincushion.

  ‘The pumps aren’t working,’ I say.

  The guy shakes his head and points to a small microphone.

  ‘The pumps.’ I lean into it. ‘They’re not working.’

  ‘You gotta pay beforehand, love,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t know how much it will cost to fill the tank,’ I reply.

  ‘Gotta guess,’ he says.

  ‘What if I don’t need as much as I pay you?’

  ‘Come back here and I give you the change, all right?’

  ‘It all seems a bit complicated,’ I say.

  ‘Not really.’ The guy looks at me as if I’m stupid.

  ‘And what if I don’t stop?’ I ask. ‘What if I pay you ten quid but just keep pumping.’

  The guy shakes his head. ‘Cut you off, innit.’

  Fine. I pass two twenty-pound notes through the metal drawer. ‘Can I get a receipt?’ I ask.

  The guy nods and slides a small white ticket towards me. Carefully, I slot it into the back of my purse. Since the last expenses scandal all receipts are pored over like forensic evidence at a murder scene.

  As I go to close my purse, I catch sight of something. It’s Clem’s card and it makes me stop in my tracks. Rather than Dad, surely this is the man I need to speak to.

  I check my watch. It’s late but I figure MI5 agents don’t work nine to five.

  By the time I’ve put the gas in the tank, I’ve made up my mind. I jump inside the car and punch the numbers into my mobile.

  ‘Miss Connolly.’ He answers on the first ring.

  ‘Call me Jo,’ I say. ‘I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time.’

  ‘I’m at St Barts hospital.’

  ‘Right. I just wondered if I could speak to you about some things I have on my mind.’ I pause for emphasis. ‘Some concerns.’

  ‘Concerns,’ Clem repeats.

  ‘I just want to go through what happened at the Plaza again.’

  There’s silence on the line.

 
‘Perhaps we could speak tomorrow?’ I suggest.

  ‘I’m not sure there’s anything else to say, Miss Connolly.’

  ‘It’s Jo. Look, I don’t want . . . I just need you to answer a few questions.’

  More silence.

  ‘Fine,’ Clem says at last.

  ‘What time?’ I ask, but the line’s already dead.

  Clem rubbed his mobile against his mouth. Benning had assumed the Connolly girl would make the perfect sap. That she wasn’t a patch on her father, just a smiley face to punt whatever story they gave her. Maybe that was the wrong call. Maybe she was a chip off the old block.

  He glanced through the window of the private room where Miggs lay, attached to a machine, his head bandaged, hiding the bullet hole that had almost killed him. He was in a bad way. Might not last till morning. Clem needed a confession as soon as possible. Then everyone, Connolly included, could put this thing to bed.

  He went to his briefcase, retrieved a small vial of sodium pentothal and headed to the door.

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  Clem looked up, palm still on the door handle, and slipped the vial into his pocket with his free hand. A nurse was staring straight at him, shoulders back, chin cocked.

  ‘MI5.’ Clem dismissed her and began to open the door.

  ‘I don’t care if you’re the bodyguard to the bloody Queen.’ The nurse crossed the space between them and pulled the door closed. ‘This patient is seriously ill. Doctor Crosby said absolutely no interviews.’

  ‘A brief word,’ said Clem.

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘You do realise how important this is?’

  The nurse narrowed her eyes. ‘The most important thing to me right now is keeping that man alive. Shocking as it might sound, this is a hospital. It’s what we do.’

  Clem gritted his teeth and set off to page Doctor Crosby.

  I pull into the car park of St Barts and am stopped by a police officer. The hospital is on high alert due to the Plaza bomb.

  ‘Can I ask your business, madam?’

  I show him my department ID. ‘I’m meeting security forces here.’

  My demeanour brooks no argument and he waves me in. I’m not going to be shrugged off like a minor irritant, not by the police and certainly not by Clem.

  The automatic doors open with a whoosh of air and I pass from the cold night into the sterile heat, a blue poster wrapped around a concrete pillar welcoming me in eight languages. I shudder. Have I mentioned before how much I hate hospitals?

  Even at this time, there are people milling around and a group of teenagers have gathered in front of the reception desk, pushing into one another, all speaking at the same time. Uniformed officers patrol the perimeter, keeping a watchful eye.

  I glance up at the directions board. Accident and Emergency, Cardiothoracic, General Surgery, Trauma. The list is endless. It dawns on me that this is an enormous place and I’m unlikely to just bump into Clem. I pull out my mobile.

  ‘Miss Connolly.’ Again he answers on the first ring.

  I don’t bother to tell him to call me Jo. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

  ‘I’m at the hospital,’ I say.

  There’s a pause and I steel myself to explain that yes, this is urgent and yes, I do bloody well need to speak to him.

  ‘Meet me in the café,’ he says.

  Pleased with myself, I make my way up in the lift, buy a bottle of Evian and settle at a table facing the door. I take a swig of water and smile. Dad always calls me a fool for spending money on something that comes out of the tap for free. ‘Too up yourself for council pop?’ All those barbed putdowns stockpiled for maximum damage.

  I take another sip and wait. There’s no sign of Clem. No sign of anyone, in fact. I sit and drink, the silence crashing around me.

  Five minutes later, the Evian finished, I check my watch and mobile. Clem has stood me up. But if he thinks he can shrug me off, he can think again. I toss the empty bottle in a bin and head out into the corridor. Another wave of signs hit me. Cardiology. Haematology. Neurosurgery. Christ knows what most of it even means.

  I need to think this through. Clem is here with a man he shot hours ago. A man not expected to live. Where would he be? I recall the signs downstairs and snap my fingers. Trauma. It has to be. You don’t get much more traumatic than getting a bullet between the eyes.

  I take the lift again and arrive outside the Trauma ward. The reception area is deserted, a half-drunk cup of coffee abandoned, a white doctor’s coat hanging limply over the back of a chair, like a sad ghost. At the far side is another set of doors, presumably leading to the patients’ rooms. I walk over and try them, but they’re locked. I peer through the pane of glass. Two uniformed policemen are standing guard outside the furthest room. No sign of Clem, but this has to be the right place.

  I’m about to press the buzzer when a nurse exits the guarded room and hurries down the corridor towards me. As she passes through, I nod and hold the door, hoping to slip inside.

  ‘Staff only,’ she says.

  I open my mouth to explain but something about the way she has her hands on her hips tells me to shut up.

  ‘Are you with the police?’ she asks. ‘Or the security services?’ She makes quotation marks in the air with her fingers.

  ‘Erm,’ is all I can manage.

  ‘Like I told the last one, no one is getting to talk to your fella down there until Dr Crosby says so. You lot might not care if he drops dead, in fact it might suit you given how he ended up in here, but it’s not going to happen on my shift.’ Her eyes flash. ‘Understand?’

  ‘Completely,’ I say. ‘But I’m not with the police.’

  She looks unimpressed. No doubt an explanation of who I actually am and why I’m here won’t help the situation. I look around me hopelessly. If I don’t come up with something, I’m going to get my marching orders without any answers from Clem. My eyes settle on the chair and the bedraggled doctor’s coat.

  ‘I’m Doctor Crosby’s colleague,’ I say.

  The nurse’s eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘Given the severity of the patient’s injuries he asked me to take a look at him.’ As I say the words, I can hear the ridiculousness of it. But I’m desperate. What if the old man is right? What if Clem is feeding me a pack of lies? He’s certainly giving me the runaround. What if, I can almost hear the scratchy voice in my ear saying, the man at the end of the corridor conveniently dies?

  I take a few steps back, grab the coat and return to the double doors to scan the identity badge clipped to the lapel. Shazia Rashid’s pretty brown face smiles up at me. I blot her photograph out with my thumb, thrust out my other hand and beam at the nurse.

  She takes my hand and gives it a light shake. ‘Can I take your name?’ she asks warily.

  I blink rapidly, remembering the film forming on the contents of the abandoned cup. ‘Kenco,’ I say. ‘Doctor Kenco.’

  ‘As in coffee?’

  ‘Yup.’

  An empty second stretches between us.

  ‘Dark and rich.’ I’m gabbling but I can’t stop myself. ‘And perfect in the morning.’ I hear my false laugh and wince. There’s no way she’s going to fall for this.

  She sighs and checks her watch. There are dark circles under her eyes. She’s probably been on her feet the whole night and needs all this like a smack on the arse.

  At last she moves aside. ‘Go on then.’ She motions down the corridor with her head. ‘But for God’s sake, put your coat on.’

  I nod and struggle into it. Shazia Rashid must be a size zero because the sleeves finish at my forearms and the stitching groans at the seams. ‘Put on a bit recently.’ I pat my stomach.

  She gives me another withering look, so I duck past her before I can commit any further acts of extreme stupidity.

  As I approach the policemen standing guard, I realise I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do next. All I do know is that I
am impersonating a doctor in order to obtain access to a terrorist. And that can’t be good.

  When I’m at the door they look at me expectantly.

  ‘Doctor Kenco.’ I flash Shazia Rashid’s badge at them.

  ‘Right,’ says the one on the left, swallowing a yawn.

  I wait a moment before I understand that there’s nothing else they want from me. No complicated procedure for me to prove I am who I say I am.

  I push open the door and put one foot inside the room when a voice comes from behind.

  ‘You know who you remind me of?’

  I turn. The policeman on the left is wagging a slow finger at me.

  ‘That politician,’ he says.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ The other copper looks up now. ‘The one they put in charge of the Olympics.’

  I’m about to point out that I’m not a politician, that in fact, I’m independent of politics, which I think is quite an important distinction, when I remember I’m trying to pass myself off as a doctor to gain access to a terrorist. I smile politely.

  ‘Not a bad thing now she’s saved that kid, eh?’ the second one laughs. ‘You’ll get plenty of drinks bought for you down the pub.’ He lets out a chuckle and I join in.

  ‘Make the most of it,’ adds the first. ‘It’ll all be forgotten by next month and everyone will be back to wondering who the fuck she is.’

  I leave them laughing in the corridor and shut the door behind me. Inside, the room is darkened, only a lamp is on next to a bed where a man is lying, his head swathed in bandages. Wires snake between his chest and arms to a monitor, which lets out a melancholy, rhythmic beep.

  There’s no sign of Clem.

  I take a deep breath. Is this one of the men who tried to blow me up? He looks so small. Pathetic even.

  I take a step closer. His face is pale, sprinkled with reddish stubble breaking the surface of the skin. His arms lie lifeless by his sides, covered from knuckle to shoulder in tattoos. I peer at the intricate designs of hawks, guns and swastikas.

  Suddenly his eyelids begin to flicker and I’m shocked to find myself looking into his eyes. He blinks three times, as if trying to focus.

  ‘Is tha’ you, Ronnie?’ his words slur, solidifying around his accent.

  I’m not sure what I should tell him, but before I can make a decision, he grabs my arm.