Twenty Twelve

by Helen Black

The PM put up his hands. ‘I know you mean well, Simon, but Clem’s right; we couldn’t take the risk.’

  ‘This will ruin everything we’ve worked for,’ said Benning. ‘All those years slogging around the opposition backbenches. Everything we’ve sacrificed – gone.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘They’ll hang you out to dry.’

  The PM placed a hand on his. ‘Then so be it.’

  ‘What? Throw away what we’ve achieved?’ Benning was incredulous. ‘Just give it to the other lot on a plate?’

  ‘We can’t put politics above safety.’

  Benning tried to pull away his hand but the PM grabbed it and held it firm, then he turned to Clem. ‘Let’s see what we can salvage,’ he said. ‘What do we know about the boy?’

  ‘Thomas Frasier. Eighteen. Still living at home with his mum and dad,’ said Clem. ‘He suffered moderate learning difficulties.’

  ‘A retard?’ Benning barked. ‘You couldn’t even manage to catch a fucking retard?’

  Clem didn’t bother to point out for the second time that he had caught Frasier.

  ‘Anything known about him?’ asked the PM.

  Clem shook his head.

  ‘Then we say there was no bomb,’ said Benning. ‘We say this was a terrible mistake.’

  ‘Like Jean Charles de Menezes?’ asked the PM.

  ‘Exactly,’ Benning replied. ‘We say there was no bomb and the event is back in business.’ He turned to Clem. ‘Who shot the boy?’

  ‘Myself and another operative,’ said Clem. ‘Katriona Land.’

  ‘Young?’

  Clem nodded.

  ‘Excellent.’ Benning’s eyes began to shine. ‘She’s inexperienced; she was in a difficult situation. She truly believed Frasier had a bomb.’

  ‘She thought she was saving the lives of hundreds,’ added the PM.

  Clem growled. Yet again he was being asked to lie, only this time Katriona Land was about to be hung out to dry. ‘She did save the lives of hundreds,’ he said.

  Silence fell upon them and Benning’s eyes flickered.

  ‘Did she see the bomb?’

  ‘No,’ Clem replied.

  ‘Did anyone see the bomb?’

  Clem had seen it. Just as clearly as he could see the line drawn in the sand in front of him. He had a choice to support his PM or a fellow officer.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Clem,’ said the PM. ‘That this is all so very wrong. And you’re probably right, but in my position I have to look at the bigger picture. Sometimes I have to do things for the greater good. You, of all people, must recognise that.’

  When Clem looked back over his career, he saw a catalogue of wrongful detentions, cover-ups, torture, even murders, that he had undertaken in the pursuit of national security. It was an accepted part of any operative’s job.

  ‘And at least this way, the poor boy’s parents can believe he was an innocent victim,’ said the PM.

  Clem already knew in his heart of hearts that neither Benning nor the PM gave a flying fuck about Mrs Frasier. But he’d met her. It shouldn’t, but it did make a difference.

  ‘So I’ll ask you again, Clem.’ Benning leaned forward. ‘Did anyone see the bomb?’

  ‘No one saw it,’ said Clem and felt something inside him break.

  Back in his car, Clem’s mobile rang. He checked the caller ID and sighed. Of all the people he didn’t want to speak to, Carole-Ann was probably at the top of his list.

  ‘Yep.’ He lowered the window to let in some air.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

  ‘Let the Games begin.’

  ‘You’re shitting me,’ she replied.

  Clem only wished he was. ‘We keep security watertight at every venue,’ he said.

  ‘And the Frasier kid?’

  ‘Go through everything. I want to know everything he did and said in the last six months. If he took a piss, I want the details.’

  ‘We’re already taking apart his laptop.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Clean so far.’

  ‘Keep at it,’ he told her. ‘Tommy didn’t wake up one morning and decide to become a terrorist. Someone got to him.’

  ‘Grooming?’

  Clem let out a long, slow breath. There was some intel that a number of suicide bombers in Palestine had had learning difficulties. Easy prey for the recruiters. But that was on the West Bank, where years of hardship and oppression meant anyone prepared to give up their life for the cause was feted. Martyrdom was an honour whatever the mental age of those involved. Could Ronnie X really be involved in something so despicable?

  ‘Let’s just get this job done,’ Clem sighed.

  ‘What about Connolly?’ asked Carole-Ann. ‘With Frasier dead . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Clem and hung up. There was now nothing more imperative than finding Ronnie X.

  The cliff-top path is still deserted. Nothing to my left but foam-crested waves as far as the eye can see. Ronnie has given me no choice. I am going with her.

  The wind whips my ears and I can smell the seaweed. My hands are still bound, but it feels so good to walk freely. I look out to sea and watch the clouds scud across the horizon.

  ‘Okay?’ Ronnie has to shout above the howling weather.

  I nod and we continue.

  At last we come to a small bay formed in the rock by a thousand years of crashing rollers. We scramble down a rocky incline, Ronnie helping me. Her footing is sure, the hold on my arm strong. At the bottom, we wait by a wooden jetty, the old planks held together with blue twine.

  ‘Why are you taking me with you?’ I ask.

  Ronnie stabs at the sand with the heel of her boot, like a gardener making an impression with a spade. ‘I might need a bargaining tool,’ she says.

  I blink back my lack of comprehension.

  ‘If they close in on me, I’ll need something they value,’ she explains.

  ‘Me?’

  Ronnie shrugs. ‘They won’t want you dead.’

  I imagine Benning and the PM. ‘Frankly, I’m not sure they’ll be that fussed.’

  ‘In that case,’ Ronnie laughs, ‘I’ll just use you as a human shield.’

  For a moment I laugh too, then I wonder if Ronnie would indeed put me between a bullet and herself. An hour ago I would have put money on the answer, but everything’s more complicated now.

  In the distance, the noise of an engine punctures the air and Ronnie cups her hand above her eyes. When a small fishing boat chugs into the bay she nods to herself. It pulls up at the end of the jetty, its rusted hull bobbing in the choppy waters. A man in black waterproofs appears on deck, his face almost covered by a thick beard, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  Ronnie calls out to him in a language I don’t understand. Gaelic, I think. He gives a one-word reply and she begins to make her way along the creaking planks.

  ‘Come on,’ she tells me and I try not to slip on the green undercoat of algae.

  At the end, Ronnie takes a leap aboard, catching the man’s outstretched hand to help her. She gestures for me to follow and holds out her own hand alongside the man’s.

  I take a step, then hesitate. What if I refuse? Would Ronnie kill me in front of a witness? The man watches me over his fag, a plume of smoke rising towards his eye. Somehow I can’t see him intervening on my behalf.

  I glance behind me. I could run. Even with my hands tied, I’m fast.

  ‘Do you reckon you’ll make it up the cliff without me?’ Ronnie asks.

  I sigh. The way back up is steep, the rocks jagged. One false step and I would fall hundreds of feet.

  ‘The only other way out of here is to swim,’ she says. ‘Do you think you can manage that? It looks pretty rough out there to me.’

  The man squints through his smoke and growls something at Ronnie.

  ‘Better decide now, Jo. Connor says he’s leaving with or without you.’

  I leap aboard.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ says Ronnie.

  I d
on’t reply. She may think she has me beat but she’s wrong. I’m biding my time, waiting for the right moment. And when it comes, I’m getting away from her, no matter what.

  Inside the boat, the cabin is spartan. A bunk bed with two sleeping bags, a stove in the corner, a small flame licking around a steel kettle.

  Ronnie hands Connor a stained envelope, which he opens. I watch him as he thumbs a wad of cash. Satisfied, he says something to Ronnie. She checks her watch and replies.

  He barely looks at me, seemingly not in the least bit curious as to what I’m doing there, hands tied, nose and mouth bloody and bruised. Finally he leaves and the boat turns, then sets out to sea, rolling and tilting.

  Ronnie pushes me onto the bottom bunk, staggers over to the stove and pours black liquid from the kettle into a small cup. She fishes in a tin for sugar, stirs in two spoonfuls and drinks the cup down in one. Then she repeats the procedure and brings it over to me.

  ‘Tea,’ she says. She holds the cup to my lips, the liquid burning the ragged flesh.

  ‘Ow,’ I yelp.

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Just drink it.’

  I take a mouthful. It’s strong and sweet and seductive. I finish the cup. ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Bert wipes a handkerchief across his forehead and takes a seat. ‘What happened to your face, Isaac?’

  Isaac’s hand flies to his cheek. It feels swollen under his fingers, like a ripe peach. He can hear the throaty laugh of the sheriff down the hallway ‘Slipped and fell?’ he replies.

  Bert stuffs his handkerchief back in his pocket and nods. ‘Dangerous place, police cells.’

  Ain’t that the truth.

  Early that morning the doctor told Isaac he was fixed up, so he got dressed in some old jeans Bert had left for him. He wonders what happened to the clothes he was wearing when he got shot.

  ‘Now don’t you look nice.’ Nurse Mary-Joan smiled at the gap between the hem of his trousers and his feet where his bony ankles were displayed to the world. ‘All dressed up and nowhere to go,’ she said. ‘Now hold on a minute, you do have somewhere to go.’

  Then she called the police officers who had stood guard all those weeks and they came in and told him he was under arrest, brought him straight over to the jailhouse and slung him in the pen.

  Bert fiddles with the pin in his necktie. It’s silver with a small green stone. It reminds Isaac of something Mama used to put in her hair.

  ‘Did they ask you anything yet?’ Bert says.

  Isaac nods.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Isaac knows all about the Constitution and the Fifth Amendment. Mama done drill them with all that stuff almost as much as the good book.

  ‘Good boy,’ says Bert. ‘Now soon, they’re going to take you to the courthouse and ask you how you plead. You just leave everything to me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Call me Bert, please.’

  Isaac nods but he knows he ain’t going to do that. He’s always been taught respect for his elders, and anyway he don’t hardly know Bert. ‘Did you hear anything about my sister?’ he asks. It’s been near two weeks since he wrote Veronica-Mae and he hasn’t had a reply.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Isaac.’

  ‘What about Daddy?’

  Bert scoops up his papers. ‘We’ll talk about that after the hearing, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Bert taps on the door for one of the officers to let him out. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Isaac?’

  ‘Just get me out of here, sir.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Spray hits the small window of the cabin, obscuring the view, although there is precious little to see. The last time I looked, the only thing I could see was mile upon mile of grey water. Now night has fallen and there’s nothing but black out there.

  Ronnie stares out anyway, occasionally dipping her finger in the sugar tin then sucking it. With her face still, she seems less angry, less deadly. There’s still something electric about her, but it’s not as forbidding. She’s almost human.

  ‘Why do you work for the government?’ Out of the blue she turns to me, pinning me with those eyes the colour of bullets, hatred seeping out from every pore. ‘And don’t give me any shit about wanting to make a difference.’

  I can’t see any point in lying. ‘My dad was a famous secretary of state.’

  ‘The great Paddy Connolly,’ she says.

  ‘Great indeed.’

  ‘I guess when that’s your starting point there was never any danger of you working in Tesco.’

  I toy with asking how the hell she got involved with Shining Light, but suspect it did have everything to do with wanting to make a difference.

  ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad,’ she says. ‘They may not mean to, but they do.’

  I sigh and complete Larkin’s poem. ‘They fill you with the faults they had and add some extra, just for you.’

  The cabin door opens and Connor enters. He speaks to Ronnie around another filterless cigarette. She answers him, then pulls me to my feet. ‘First leg of the journey is over,’ she says.

  We make our way onto the deck, Ronnie steadying me with one hand, holding the rail with the other, as the boat sails in the grey dawn towards a small island. When it stops at the end of another wooden jetty, Ronnie jumps off. There’s a gap of a couple of feet between the boat and the first plank. The water swirls and froths in the void. If I slip, I’ll almost certainly be sucked under.

  ‘Faic tuson,’ Connor growls at me.

  I don’t need to speak his language to know he’s telling me to piss off.

  ‘I wouldn’t wait to be told twice,’ says Ronnie.

  So I jump, fall forwards and slam face down onto the jetty, the sea splashing my cheek through the gaps. Ronnie pulls me upright and waves to the boat as it sets off back to sea. I swear I see a smile on Connor’s face.

  Then she strides away across the beach, leaving me to trot after her, seawater dripping down my chin. We climb a bank of dunes, our feet sinking out of sight, sand coating the bottoms of our legs, and pause at the top.

  There’s a field of patchy grass and weeds, a short strip of tarmac laid down the middle. At the very far end of the black strip is a two-seater biplane painted in khaki camouflage.

  ‘You have got to be kidding me,’ I say.

  Ronnie presses on, leaving me standing and gawping. There is no way I am getting on that plane.

  Valerie Maynard’s tissue had disintegrated, leaving a flake of white paper on her top lip.

  ‘I just can’t believe it,’ she said for the tenth time. ‘How could anyone think Tommy was involved in anything criminal?’

  ‘That’s what we’re looking into,’ said Clem. He took a surreptitious peek at his watch. He’d already sat with the head of Portman Row Centre for half an hour. He needed information and he needed it fast.

  ‘His mother must be devastated,’ said Valerie.

  Clem didn’t want to head in the direction of poor Mrs Frasier. ‘I understand there was some trouble with a girl,’ he said.

  Valerie wiped a fresh tear with the back of her hand. ‘He fell in love. These young people might not be as quick as you and I, but their bodies work perfectly well. Hormones racing around like any teenager.’

  ‘She wasn’t interested?’

  Valerie gave a wry laugh. ‘They never are. Not in boys like Tommy.’

  ‘He didn’t take no for an answer, I hear.’

  ‘Tommy thought if he kept pestering her, she’d agree to be his girlfriend, so he went to the café where she worked every single day and asked her out,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to give him ten out of ten for persistence.’

  ‘She didn’t go to the police?’ Clem asked.

  Valerie shook her head. ‘She came to see me and I explained the situation. Nice girl, actually; Polish.’

  ‘Apart from that, did Thomas have much contact with anyon
e outside the centre?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ she answered. ‘He came here every day like clockwork.’

  The noise of laughter filtered down the corridor outside as two young adults with Down’s syndrome chatted and joked with one another. Clem could well imagine that for people like Thomas Frasier this was a place of acceptance. A place he could be himself. ‘You’d have to check with his mother,’ Valerie added.

  Clem smiled but knew that Mrs Frasier was in a very dark place, and that he would be the last person she would want to speak to.

  The Shaking Cow was a clean coffee and milkshake bar on the corner of Portman Row. The sound of the cappuccino steamer filled the air.

  Kasia Borki smiled sadly at Clem from the other side of a window table. ‘I saw on television about Thomas.’ She pronounced his name the Polish way, emphasising the ‘O’. ‘It very shocking.’

  ‘It is,’ Clem agreed.

  ‘You think here in UK, it cannot happen like that. The police here don’t shoot people.’

  ‘Can you tell me about Thomas?’ Clem asked.

  Kasia looked out of the window. ‘He like small boy.’

  ‘He began to make a nuisance of himself,’ said Clem.

  Kasia waved her hand. ‘Is nothing.’

  It could go one of two ways. There were those who were too well brought up to speak ill of the dead. And those who couldn’t wait to dish the dirt.

  ‘Serious,’ she said. ‘Is not important.’

  ‘What did he actually do, Kasia?’

  She groaned, clearly not wanting to say.

  ‘Kasia?’

  ‘He come in every morning and ask me to be his girlfriend,’ she said. ‘He ask me for kiss.’

  ‘You didn’t feel comfortable with that?’

  She shrugged. ‘I go to centre and Mrs Maynard apologise to me.’

  ‘And he didn’t bother you any more?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He stopped coming into the Shaking Cow?’

  ‘Oh no, he still come every morning.’

  Clem raised his eyebrows.

  ‘He very polite, he no trouble. He just come in, order his drink and use computer.’

  ‘Computer?’

  Kasia pointed to the row of computers along the back wall. ‘This internet café.’

  Ronnie opens the plane’s door and gestures for me to get in.