Twenty Twelve

by Helen Black

  He checks the video again. Mistakes can be made. The red bulb was a mistake.

  He is now sure it is Ronnie at the door.

  Rory likes Ronnie. Ronnie doesn’t say Rory is weird. Ronnie doesn’t say Rory should ‘get out more’. Ronnie doesn’t say very much at all. And both their names begin with R. Which is good.

  Rory releases the door and listens to Ronnie climbing the stairs. Seven steps. Ronnie has taken them two at a time.

  ‘Hey.’ Ronnie nods.

  Rory nods back.

  Then Ronnie holds out an opened family-size bag of peanut M&Ms. Rory likes peanut M&Ms but he doesn’t take them.

  ‘No red ones,’ promises Ronnie.

  ‘Sure?’ says Rory. Mistakes can be made.

  Ronnie heads into the kitchen, takes the tray from behind the bread bin and pours out the sweets. Rory checks them carefully. There are approximately seventy-two. No red. He takes the tray, bends from the waist and sucks up an M&M with his lips.

  ‘So what do you know?’ Ronnie asks.

  Rory knows a lot of things. He knows the rate at which bacteria multiply in an open wound. He knows who invented the laser disc. He knows the square root of 676. But that is not what Ronnie means.

  He reaches for his logs. There are five laid out, each detailing different information which he notes in strict rotation every twenty-six minutes. He takes the second, which is Ronnie’s log. There are hundreds of entries written in pencil. The time and date is logged next to each of them.

  ‘Busy,’ says Ronnie.

  Rory nods. Of all the thousands of websites, blogs and databases he watches around the world for Ronnie, five have had increased traffic recently.

  ‘So who’s watching us?’ asks Ronnie.

  When Rory was fifteen he would have looked around the room, expecting to find a person watching Ronnie. But he has had a lot of help since then. He has learned about socialisation and interpretation and empathy.

  ‘Social Services,’ he says, pointing to the relevant records.

  Ronnie reads them silently, running a finger under the most recent entries. ‘What about these?’

  ‘Government,’ says Rory.

  It is a golden rule that he must never tell anyone that he hacks into the systems of the World Bank, all the major credit card companies, the police, secret services and the government. A golden rule has nothing to do with colour and it is not made of precious metal. It is a rule that can never be broken. If Rory tells anyone what he does, he will be sent to a very bad place. Worse than The Orchard.

  ‘Who exactly?’ Ronnie asks.

  Rory writes down the name of Christian Clement. ‘MI5.’

  ‘Who else?’

  Rory writes down the name Joanna Connolly, Department of Culture, Media and Sport.

  Rory is not good with facial expressions. So many different ones. Some of them impossible to decipher. But he recognises Ronnie’s at this moment: surprise.

  ‘Do you know where she lives, Rory?’

  Rory writes down the address and Ronnie scans it.

  ‘Thanks.’ Ronnie turns to go and Rory panics. He hasn’t been asked a question yet he knows there’s something he needs to tell Ronnie. He bangs the sides of his head with his fists.

  ‘Hey now,’ says Ronnie. ‘Enough of that.’

  Rory bites his lip.

  ‘Do you have something you want to tell me?’ asks Ronnie.

  Rory nods.

  ‘Is it about MI5?’

  Rory shakes his head.

  ‘Jo Connolly?’

  ‘Yes.’ Relief floods over Rory. ‘She’s in Glasgow.’

  Chapter Eight

  It’s biting cold in the station and I shiver as I watch the departure boards flicker. The next train back to London isn’t for another two hours and there’s no way I can stand here dithering and hopping from foot to foot until it arrives. I toy with buying myself a coffee to warm myself up but my feet are already leading me to the bar of the Station Hotel.

  ‘What’ll it be?’The barman looks up at me, his face flushed and pockmarked.

  I check out the bottles of single malt lining the back shelf. Ordinarily I avoid spirits, but this has been no ordinary day.

  ‘Glenmorangie,’ I say.

  ‘Double?’

  I nod. When in Rome. Amber liquid slips down in a soothing stream.

  ‘Fill her up?’ The barman glances at my empty glass.

  I look in my purse and discover I’m down to my last twenty. Shelling out for taxis and paying off the girl in Easterhouse has used up all my cash. I’m not going to be able to claim any of this lot back, either.

  I put the note on the bar. ‘Why not?’

  Refilled glass in hand, I pull out my mobile. The battery’s low and I don’t have my charger. Still, a girl can’t be on call twenty-four-seven, can she? I feel the sting of guilt as I think of the old man not being able to get hold of me. He’s had so many health problems in the last few years. But I tell myself I couldn’t get home any quicker whatever might happen.

  I drain the whisky and a wave of fatigue washes over me, seeking out every bone, every joint. Even my teeth feel tired. I’m going to be fit for nothing tomorrow.

  The barman eyes me over the craters on his misshapen nose. ‘Looks like you need some shut-eye,’ he says.

  My shoulders slump in agreement.

  ‘I’d bed down for the night, if I were you.’

  He’s right. It would be better to stay. Get a good night’s sleep and jump on the milk train in the morning. I’d be at work by ten, ready for anything they throw at me.

  My mind made up, I stumble out of the bar to the hotel reception.

  ‘A single room, please,’ I say.

  The receptionist is called Iona. Her brass name badge tells me this as it wobbles on her left breast.

  Iona checks the computer and smiles. ‘Will that be cash or credit card?’

  Clem threw his wallet and mobile onto the passenger seat, where they bounced off into the footwell. What the hell did Connolly think she was playing at?

  Did she think tracking down terrorists was some sort of girl guide adventure? Clem had seen the public school kids in London pretending to be soldiers, doing their drills for the CCF. Did Connolly think this was the same? Just a bit of fun?

  He put the key in the ignition and gunned the accelerator. Bang. He’d left the car in reverse and hit the wall behind. Shit. He’d damn well bill Connolly for that when he caught up with her.

  He drove out of the car park and was heading to the airport when his phone rang. He glanced down at it, out of his reach, and thanked the lord for Bluetooth.

  ‘Prime Minister,’ he said.

  ‘Where are you, Clem?’

  The echo told him that the PM had him on the squawk box. He could picture Benning lingering behind him like a bad fart.

  ‘On my way to Glasgow, sir,’ said Clem. ‘There’s some intel that the outstanding suspect might be up there.’

  There was a silence as if the PM did not want to be reminded that an outstanding suspect existed. Sorry, sir, but life doesn’t come neatly gift-wrapped and tagged.

  ‘Have you spoken to Jo today?’ asked the PM.

  There was another little parcel that wasn’t half so tidy as it looked from the outside. ‘I saw her early this morning at the basketball stadium,’ said Clem. ‘I briefed her on Miggs’s death.’

  It wasn’t a lie. That was the only time Clem had had contact with her that day.

  ‘She’s gone off comms,’ said Benning.

  Clem grimaced. No wonder Connolly thought she was 007, when everyone around her spoke like they were in a film. ‘Maybe she’s getting her head down,’ he said. ‘She’s had a rough few days.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said the PM.

  Though of course he had no idea just how rough things had actually been. If the PM ever got wind of what had happened at St Barts, Connolly and Clem would both be for the chop.

  ‘No doubt you’ll let us know what
you discover in Glasgow,’ the PM declared.

  ‘Of course.’

  Clem hung up and pulled into the airport car park. He flashed his ID, skipped security and boarded the plane. The stewardess smiled cautiously as she showed him to his seat in first class. She would have been told he had special clearance, but no more.

  He declined a glass of champagne and buckled his seat belt, cursing Jo Connolly.

  There were only three other passengers in first class: a couple of businessmen discussing the bond market at full volume, and a young woman, slumped in her seat, her eyes covered by a pair of dark glasses. Clem thought he recognised her. Actress, maybe, or pop star. As the plane lifted into the sky, the businessmen lifted a glass to one another and a deal worth ‘millions’.

  Clem growled and snatched up the papers he’d made Mrs McAndrews email to him. Two Social Services files. One for Stephen Miggs; the other for a Paul Ronald. If Clem were in a better mood he would have to give Connolly credit for getting this lot. Particularly the last known address of Ronald. But he wasn’t in a good mood.

  When the plane touched down, Clem was allowed off while the other passengers were asked to wait a few more moments. He heard the businessmen tutting behind him and imagined the scowl on the actress-cum-pop star’s face, but he couldn’t give a shit. The stairs had been attached and Clem lumbered down them to the waiting car. Christ, he felt old.

  ‘Sir.’ The driver stared straight ahead.

  It was dusk in Glasgow and rain spat at the windscreen.

  ‘Easterhouse,’ Clem told him.

  The driver nodded and sped away.

  When I finally kick off my shoes and flick on the television, a picture of me at the basketball stadium fills the screen. I groan and channel hop, looking for something, anything, that has nothing to do with the Olympics. I settle for a re-run of Only Fools and Horses – the episode where Rodney and Del Boy dress up as Batman and Robin.

  I’m barely horizontal on the bed when I fall into a delicious half sleep. I should take off my clothes but I can’t be bothered and instead I wrap my arms around the pillow. I’m not pissed – well a bit, maybe – but it’s more than that. It’s like I’ve finally come to a stop. I smile and let myself drift away. David Jason’s voice floats in and out of my consciousness. ‘This time next year . . .’

  Minutes later – or maybe hours, I can’t tell – I wake. It’s dark and I’m disorientated but I’m disturbed by a noise at my door. A scratching. At first I ignore it, but then it comes again.

  A prickle of fear spikes the base of my neck. Is someone trying to get into my room? I lean over to turn on the bedside lamp and blink into the light. My door is shut. I scoot over and check it. Definitely locked.

  I listen carefully for the scratching noise but there’s nothing. I press my ear to the door but nothing greets me other than silence.

  Slowly and carefully I unlock the door. The bombing has made me antsy and I need to know if there is anyone on the other side. The door opens an inch and I peer through the gap. Nothing. I prise it open a head’s width. Enough to get a proper look, but I keep my body weight against it in case I need to slam it shut. Nothing.

  Then I see the newspaper on the floor. It’s The Times leading with the story that the terrorist cell has been caught. A mugshot of Miggs that must have been taken years ago stares up at me, eyes hard, scowl tight. He looks every inch the criminal and nothing like the shell of a man I met in hospital. Underneath his picture my own face grins up at me from the basketball court. The PM is quoted as saying, ‘Business as usual.’

  I sigh with relief. All I heard was a paper delivery. I laugh at my own stupidity and head back to bed, leaving the paper where it is. I need more sleep.

  The driver pulled up in Arnsdale Place and Clem wrinkled his nose. Shitsville Arizona.

  He got out, his feet crunching on broken glass.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said.

  At the end of the street a gang of Neds were circling a lamp post, bottles of Buckfast clamped in their fists, ignoring the rain that was now lashing down.

  Clem pressed the buzzer hard and kept his finger down until an upstairs window opened.

  A girl leaned out. A junkie by the looks of her. ‘What’s your fucking problem?’

  Clem looked up at her, his face slick. ‘I need to speak to you,’ he said.

  ‘Is this about Paul?’ she asked.

  Clem nodded and caught the trace of a smile at the corner of her lips. When she opened the door, he spotted the track marks on her arms that confirmed his suspicions.

  ‘You want to know about Paul Ronald?’ Her voice had a sneaky edge.

  ‘That’s right.’

  She cocked her head to one side. ‘What’s it worth?’

  Clem shook his head. Addicts. Always on the make. ‘Absolutely nothing,’ he said.

  Her face fell. Clearly she’d been relying on him for her next fix.

  ‘Fucker,’ she snarled and pushed the door.

  Clem saw it coming and rammed his foot against the wood. The girl tried to fight him but had little strength.

  ‘Away to fuck,’ she shouted. ‘What do you think you’re on, pal?’

  ‘I just want some information and then I’ll leave you alone.’ Clem’s tone was calm.

  ‘Information?’ She was screaming now. ‘I’ll give you a piece of information. I want you to piss off.’

  Behind him, Clem heard the slap of trainers on tarmac. The gang of boys from under the lamp post had relocated. One stepped forward, his skinny white frame swamped by a black tracksuit.

  ‘Everything all right, Charlene?’

  ‘No it’s fucking not,’ she shouted. ‘This bastard’s trying to kick the door off.’

  The boy looked Clem up and down. ‘You’re in trouble now, pal,’ he said. ‘We look after our own in the Hoose.’

  Clem didn’t answer but kept his foot firmly against the door.

  The driver lowered the electric window. ‘Problem?’

  Another kid at the back hopped from foot to foot, laughing hysterically, completely out of it on drugs or drink or both. ‘Aye, there’s a problem.’ He stuck his head in the window. ‘We’re gonna fuck you up.’

  Glancing at the crazed grin still on the boy’s face, the driver punched him hard. There was a wet smacking sound and the boy flew backwards, falling into his mates, blood spewing from his mouth.

  In an instant, the others pounced at the car, smashing their bottles against it. The driver tried to put up his window but one of the gang pulled a claw hammer from his pocket and shattered it with one vicious blow. The driver was peppered with glass, small cuts appearing across his cheeks. Another jumped onto the bonnet and began kicking the windscreen.

  ‘See what happens?’ The first boy gave Clem a triumphant smile. ‘See what happens when you mess with the Hoose?’ Then he took out a flick knife.

  Clem appraised the scene. Worked out the odds. He had no choices left.

  The gunshot reverberated around the night sky. Clem had shot upwards out of harm’s way and now had his weapon trained on the boy with the knife.

  The boy eyed him with contempt, but stayed put. The blade glistened but he didn’t lunge. He might be a headcase; indeed he might have more drugs in his system than Pete Doherty. But he wasn’t stupid.

  ‘Feds,’ he murmured.

  The other boys were silenced and quickly evaporated. The boy with the knife joined them without a backward glance at Charlene, who was still in the doorway, her eyes wide.

  Clem nodded at the driver who was shaking shards of glass from his hair. ‘Okay?’

  The driver licked his finger and stemmed a trickle of blood coming from the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ll live.’

  Clem turned to Charlene, who had let go of the door and was shivering, her arms wrapped around herself. ‘Can we talk?’ he asked.

  She turned and made her way upstairs. Clem followed.

  The flat stank of dirty nappies and the culprit lay asleep in a cot,
one pink fist clutching a bar. Charlene closed the bedroom door and hurried into the lounge. She began scooping up syringes and empty baggies from the coffee table.

  ‘I’m not interested in any of that,’ said Clem.

  She smiled weakly and let her works fall back among the overflowing ashtrays.

  ‘I’m trying to come off it, you know?’

  Clem didn’t answer.

  ‘But it’s hard.’ Charlene went over to the window, rubbed at the grime with her thumb. ‘This place is overrun with gear.’ She looked out into the street. Somewhere in the distance a car alarm was blaring. ‘All those years I never even touched the skag ’cos everyone knows it fucks you up, and here I am on the crystal meth.’ She gave a shrug and a cold laugh. ‘Ironic, eh?’

  ‘Tell me about Paul Ronald,’ said Clem.

  ‘Whatever he was involved in had nothing to do with me,’ said Charlene.

  ‘I understand that.’

  She walked back across the room and reached down onto the coffee table for a packet of B&H. She took one out, lit it and took a deep lungful of smoke.

  ‘So where is he?’ Clem asked.

  ‘Dead.’ Charlene let out a stream of smoke from her nostrils. ‘Overdose.’

  ‘When?’

  Charlene took another drag, the end of her cigarette burning brightest red. ‘Christmas. He’d been inside and done his rattle. I telt him, when you’ve been off the gear for a while, you cannae just dive straight back in. You’ve got to take it steady.’

  Clem nodded as if this were sensible and reasonable advice from one friend to another.

  ‘He wouldn’t listen,’ she said with a shrug.

  So this man couldn’t be Ronnie X. Nice try, but no cigar.

  ‘Has anyone else been here asking about him?’ Clem said.

  ‘Aye. This afternoon. He was never this fucking popular when he was alive.’

  It had to have been Connolly. ‘Female, white, early thirties?’ he asked.

  Charlene flicked the ash from her cigarette into the cup of her hand. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Athletic type?’

  Charlene shrugged. ‘Good-looking and really posh.’

  Connolly. ‘Right, thank you.’ Clem turned to leave.