by Helen Black
‘It’s too deep,’ Ronnie replies.
‘So what’s the alternative?’
‘We go back,’ she says.
I push her away. ‘No.’
‘We go back and get you patched up.’
‘Patch me up here,’ I say.
‘With what?’
‘I don’t want to go back,’ I tell her.
‘Me neither, but it’s the only way you’re getting out of here alive. We go back, get your leg treated, then we leave at the first chance we get. You have to trust me.’
Do I trust her, though?
She pulls me to my feet and once again I feel her arm around my waist. ‘You’re freakishly strong, you know.’
‘You say the sweetest things.’
I lean heavily against her as we make our way back to camp. When we arrive, the grey dawn is appearing and the bonfire is nothing but a heap of smoking ashes. Tiny is asleep behind the wheel of the pickup.
‘Hey!’ Ronnie smacks the bonnet with the palm of her hand.
He jumps up. ‘What the fuck?’
‘I need some help here,’ she shouts.
He rubs his face with his hands and gets out of the cab. His feet are bare, airing long yellow nails that curl under the pad of each toe. ‘Put her in there.’ He gestures to the cottage where I found the hand grenade.
Ronnie drags me up the step and kicks the door open. The man with the goatee leaps from the bedroom, gun in hand, wearing nothing but a pair of black Y-fronts.
‘Sorry to disturb,’ says Ronnie and staggers to the table where she sets me down.
‘What happened?’ he asks.
‘Out hunting,’ she replies.
‘At night?’
Ronnie shrugs. ‘What can I tell you? She’s from London.’
She takes hold of each side of the tear in my tracksuit bottoms and rips, exposing a wound in my thigh that looks like a gaping mouth mid-scream.
I let my head fall forwards against the table top with a thud.
‘That don’t look good,’ goatee tells Ronnie.
‘No shit,’ she says.
The door opens and Tiny appears with a first aid kit, a camping stove and a bottle of whisky.
‘Boil some water,’ he tells goatee. ‘And clean these.’
He rummages through the first aid box and hands over two huge darning needles and a pair of scissors.
Goatee gives me a wink then takes the stove and the implements outside.
‘Okay, my friend, I want you to take a big swallow of this.’ Tiny helps me sit up and holds the bottle to my mouth. ‘I mean a really big one.’
I glance at Ronnie, who nods, so I take a gulp and cough it down. Tiny claps me on the back and takes a swig himself. ‘For luck,’ he says.
‘Come on, Tiny,’ Ronnie says. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
‘All right then.’ He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pair of pliers.
‘Mary, Mother of God,’ I say, using my mum’s preferred Irish expletive.
‘You need to keep very still now, okay?’ says Tiny and Ronnie presses me back with a firm hand.
Then goatee crashes through the door. ‘Did I miss it?’
‘Not yet,’ says Tiny. ‘Hold her down.’
Ronnie pushes against both my shoulders. Someone else – goatee, I assume – grips my feet. ‘Look at me, Jo,’ Ronnie says. ‘Look right at me.’
‘This is going to hurt, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘Only a little.’
I concentrate on my breathing, slowing down my pulse, when out of nowhere comes a pain so intense it radiates from my thigh outwards until every cell in my body is screaming as loudly as I am.
‘I got the skin pressed tightly together now,’ says Tiny.
Ronnie pushes harder to keep me in place as I thrash, wanting to see what the hell is being done to me. I crane my neck to find that Tiny has clamped together the two pieces of ripped skin with his pliers. It meets in the middle in an ugly ridge.
‘Let’s sew her up,’ he says triumphantly.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ I yell.
Surprised by my voice, Tiny lets the pliers fall and the cut opens up, blood spurting like a fountain.
Ronnie turns to him. ‘Tiny, didn’t you tourniquet it first?’ She lets go of my shoulders, whips off her belt and ties it tightly above the wound. Tiny grabs the pliers from the floor and once again prises the wound shut.
They both wait a moment, watching.
‘It’s slowing,’ observes Tiny.
‘Good,’ says Ronnie. ‘Now pass me the needle and thread.’
I float in and out of consciousness until I feel a wet cloth pass over my face and I find Ronnie smiling down at me. ‘Good as new,’ she says.
‘Can I look?’
‘I wouldn’t, if I were you.’
Tiny passes me three pink pills and the whisky, then helps to prop me up. ‘Better get you back to your cabin to rest,’ he says.
‘She can bunk down in my bed,’ says goatee, still in just his pants. ‘I won’t be needing it.’
‘You leaving today?’ Tiny asks.
Goatee nods and grins. ‘I’ll be in London by tonight.’
They carry me through and lay me on the bottom bunk. I feel woozy from the loss of blood, but I need to speak to Ronnie alone so I force my eyes to stay open until Tiny leaves.
‘What you said in the woods,’ I ask her. ‘You did mean it?’
‘Hush,’ she says, gesturing to the other room.
‘I have to know, Ronnie,’ I say. ‘Just tell me yes or no.’
She glances at the door then nods.
Clem dropped Sebastian outside his flat in Bexleyheath. It was a fair drive from Millbank, but the kid had worked bloody hard.
‘Thanks for your help,’ said Clem, as Sebastian got out.
‘No need. I enjoyed it.’
Clem gave a grunt.
‘Seriously,’ said Sebastian. ‘I’d love to do what you do.’
‘Where do you work at the moment?’ Clem asked.
‘JTAC.’
The Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre was home to a lot of techies.
‘If I wanted to transfer over, do you think I would stand a chance?’ asked Sebastian.
From what Clem had seen, the kid was not only bright; he also had great instincts. ‘I think the bigger question is why you’d want to,’ said Clem. ‘This is a hard life.’
‘But the quid pro quo is that you live in the knowledge that what you do really matters.’ Sebastian’s face was a mask of seriousness. ‘That your actions are directly responsible for keeping people safe, saving lives.’
‘I didn’t save Tommy Frasier.’
‘But you’ve saved plenty before and tomorrow you’ll save someone else,’ said Sebastian.
‘You make it sound simple.’
‘Isn’t it?’
Clem smiled and watched the kid let himself in. There had been a time when Clem, too, had seen everything in such clear and uncomplicated terms. When he’d first signed the Official Secrets Act all those years ago, he’d understood his job, and it had nothing to do with protecting politicians.
He leaned forward and banged his head against the steering wheel. Then he got out and rang Sebastian’s bell.
‘Clem?’ Sebastian opened the door with a toothbrush in his mouth.
‘Have you got a computer?’ asked Clem.
Toothpaste dribbled down Sebastian’s chin. ‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’
Dear Veronica-Mae,
This will be the last letter I write to you.
I don’t know if anyone told you, but they found me guilty of killing that policeman.
They can’t give me the death penalty because of my age, but they needn’t worry none; my life here in jail is much worse than ten minutes on a gurney getting a lethal injection.
I wish I could do what Daddy did, but I know that I can’t. I wish I could say I ain’t mad at him, but I know that I can’t. All I can
do is try to survive, hour by hour, day by day and hope that one day I can find it in my heart to forgive him.
As for you, I want you to forget all about us. Maybe you’ve done that anyways, but if you ain’t, then I’m telling you that you gotta. Mama, Daddy, Noah and Rebecca are all dead. I might as well be. So you have to concentrate on your new family now and make a new start. You can’t be making comparisons, all right? You gotta take them as they is, and put your trust in them.
That’s all I got to say.
Your brother,
Isaac
Chapter Twenty-one
Ronnie wakes me with a gentle shake. ‘Are you okay?’
My entire left leg feels as though someone has wrapped it in barbed wire and set it alight.
‘Yeah.’ As I sit up, a wave of nausea breaks over me and I gag. But I have no time to be ill.
‘Jo?’
I put up my hand. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Injury or no injury, there is no way I’m staying here.
‘The others are out training,’ she says.
‘Hawk?’
‘He’s gone somewhere with Sean.’
‘Sean?’
‘The guy with the goatee.’ She rolls her eyes at me.
How come I’m the only one who didn’t know his name? Did he tell me and I forgot? My head is so thick that it’s possible. Right now, anything’s possible.
‘Can you stand?’ Ronnie asks.
I clench my teeth and swing my legs off the bed, the rip in my trousers flapping like a tattered flag.
Ronnie grabs a rucksack from the corner. ‘I’ve got water, food and ammo.’
I cry out as I put weight on my feet and stand.
‘Are you sure you can do this, Jo?’ Ronnie asks.
‘Stop with the questions,’ I snap. ‘I’m sure.’
She nods, leaves the room and I limp after her.
‘Here.’ She throws me a metal pole from the corner of the room. I catch it in one hand and use it as a crutch.
Before we leave, Ronnie checks her knives are secure, slips a pistol into her back pocket and slings a rifle over her shoulder.
I hold out my free hand. ‘Give me a gun.’
Ronnie sighs.
‘Now,’ I say.
She takes the pistol from her pocket and thrusts it at me. I slip it into my waistband.
‘Ready?’ she asks.
I nod.
She opens the door a crack, checks outside, then gestures to me to follow. She slides down the porch steps and I hobble after her.
The sun is high in the sky and within seconds sweat is coursing down my back, but we daren’t wait any longer before making our escape. Hawk could return at any second.
Once we’re over the summit we follow the tyre tracks. The pain in my leg is so intense I have to bite my lip to stop myself from screaming. I put as much weight as I can on my right leg and the makeshift crutch, but when I have to swing my left leg forward, it feels as if the flesh is tearing apart. Given that it was sewn together with a darning needle, it might well be doing just that.
Despite my handicap I find myself ahead of Ronnie, whose head is scanning left, right and behind us. She turns at every sound, her rifle pointed. Anxiety is written large across her face. I realise that Ronnie is frightened of her brother.
‘It’s okay,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll be okay.’
When we finally make it to the crofter’s cottage, Ronnie opens her rucksack and takes out a bottle of water. I lean against the Celtic cross and close my eyes.
‘Take a small drink,’ Ronnie instructs. ‘We have to make it last.’
My hands shake as I put the bottle to my lips and some water sloshes out onto the ground.
‘Careful,’ Ronnie admonishes.
I ignore her. It’s as if everything that once frightened me about her has drained away. Or maybe it’s me that’s changed. Certainly I feel stronger despite my injuries.
‘I bet you rue the day you tracked me down to that hotel in Glasgow,’ I say.
She shakes her head. ‘You just don’t get it, do you, Jo?’
‘Get what?’
‘You were the one hunting me,’ she says. ‘You and MI5. You left me with no choice but to find you.’
I look at her now, like a wild animal in the woods, and I begin to appreciate how trapped she must have felt, especially when Miggs died. She wasn’t prepared to just wait and see what happened.
‘How did things end up this way?’ I ask.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You and your brother. How did it turn out this way, with you on the run from MI5 and him living here, fucked out of his mind.’
‘Long story.’
‘We’ve got all day.’
She shakes her head and sets off towards the sound of crashing waves just out of sight. When I catch up to her, she looks at me wearily. ‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Yes, I really want to know.’
We navigate an area covered in jagged stones and I stumble and swear. While I’m concentrating on finding the smoothest path, she speaks.
‘Our family was killed by the police.’
I’m taken aback, but try not to show it.
‘How?’ I keep my voice as cool as possible.
‘Shot.’
I cough. ‘Who?’
‘My mama, my older brother and sister,’ she says.
‘All dead?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘What about you and Hawk?’ I ask.
‘Oh, they shot us too,’ she says.
I glance at the scar on her shoulder and she touches it with her free hand.
‘Bullet passed right through me. Two inches lower and it would have gone through my heart,’ she says. ‘I was nine years old.’
‘Why?’ I can’t believe it. ‘Why would they do that to you?’
Ronnie shrugs. ‘Must have had their reasons.’
I shake my head. A whole family decimated? Children gunned down in cold blood?
‘So now you know,’ she says.
I’m so shocked I can’t speak. Even the pain in my leg has lessened. When children lose everything to violence, how do they move on from that? The answer is they don’t.
We arrive at the stream and Ronnie cups her hands under the flow to drink. Awkwardly, I lower myself down, my left leg held out straight to the side. The water’s ice cold and numbs my lips. I take mouthful after mouthful, gulping it down. Then I splash my face and neck.
‘When I get home, the first thing I’m going to do is take a shower,’ I say. ‘For eight hours.’
A smile threatens the corners of her mouth, then she freezes.
‘Ronnie?’
She holds up her hand and gets to her feet. I struggle to do the same, stand at her side and listen. She points back to the cottage still visible behind us. I can’t see anything moving.
Ronnie taps her ears, telling me to listen. I do, but all I can hear is the sea and the wind. Then something jars. A slight crack and a high whine. Ronnie’s eyes dart back and forth until they settle on one spot and she grabs my arm.
I follow her eyeline to the Celtic cross. Something is now standing next to it. An animal. It stands utterly still, ears pricked. Hero.
Ronnie’s grip tightens and she mouths, ‘Don’t move.’
We’re locked in our position like statues, eyes fixed on Hawk’s dog. He makes the whine we heard earlier but still he doesn’t move.
My leg begins to shake. I need to take the pressure off it, transfer my weight to the other. But I can’t. A dog like Hero will spot the slightest shift in the landscape. I will my leg not to give out. Not now.
At last, when I think I can’t take any more, Hero darts away.
Ronnie exhales and loosens her grip. We’ve had a lucky escape, but it won’t be long before Hero is back. And if Hero is out here, then where is Hawk? We turn to head away as fast as we can, but our path is barred.
‘Hello, Ronnie.’
Hawk smiles at us
, rifle on his shoulder, eye to the cross hairs.
Sebastian brought Clem a coffee. ‘No milk,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
Clem took a sip from the chipped mug and winced. It tasted as though there wasn’t much coffee either. ‘Let’s go over this again,’ he said. ‘We both noticed that Hawk persistently referenced Waco.’
‘And Ruby Ridge,’ added Sebastian.
‘Both incidents where it’s alleged that the American police killed innocent civilians.’
Sebastian, who had changed into a turquoise polo shirt, sat at his computer. It was the latest kit and must have cost thousands. Shame he hadn’t spared a couple of quid for some proper coffee.
‘Almost eighty people died in Waco.’ Sebastian clicked on a website called The Truth About Waco and a list of names filled the screen. ‘A lot of them were just kids.’
Clem scanned the list of the deceased and their ages. One. Two. Four. Just babies, really.
‘A lot of people see it as a wholesale massacre by the authorities,’ said Sebastian. ‘The subsequent enquiries have been critical about the police tactics used.’
Clem scanned the list again. ‘What about Ruby Ridge?’
Sebastian clicked on another website showing an image of a farmhouse. It was in an idyllic location. ‘The Weaver family lived here. The place was under surveillance when the father was suspected of trading in illegal firearms. Things went tits up and one of the kids got shot in the back. One of the women was shot in the head while she held a baby.’ Then he clicked on an image of Timothy McVeigh, the Oklahoma bomber. ‘Hawk wouldn’t be the first person galvanised into action by this stuff. McVeigh cited Waco and Ruby Ridge as two of his primary motivators.’
Clem pushed his hands through his hair. He had the feeling that everything Sebastian was telling him had a terrible logic.
‘But what I don’t understand is why wouldn’t Hawk make his point in America?’ Sebastian asked. ‘Why here in London?’
‘That one’s easy to figure out. The greatest show on earth just rolled into town,’ Clem answered. ‘A successful terrorist attack at the Olympics would take place on the world stage. It doesn’t get bigger than that.’
‘I can see what you’re saying; it’s just that for these guys it’s usually about the Constitution and the right to bear arms and all that shit. They see Waco and Ruby Ridge as a war between the state and the people,’ said Sebastian. ‘Look, here’s another one.’