Twenty Twelve

by Helen Black

  He clicked into another site called Death At Old Maple Creek. ‘The police were on a routine stakeout of the Pearson family. They were, like, super-religious, believed in keeping themselves to themselves. It ended with the mother, fifteen-year-old son and eleven-year-old daughter dead. The other kids were shot too, but survived.’

  Clem jumped to his feet, throwing back his chair.

  Pearson.

  ‘Clem?’

  Pearson.

  He pictured the list of girls’ names sent to him by Debbie McAndrews. There it was, slap in the middle.

  Veronica Pearson.

  ‘Ronnie X is one of those kids,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s Ronnie X?’ asked Sebastian.

  Things aren’t looking good. Again. I’m handcuffed to one of Ronnie’s hands. Her other is handcuffed to the metal frame of the bunk bed. Which is braced to the wall.

  Hawk marched us back to the camp at gunpoint, Hero snapping at our heels. Tiny and the Serbs were poking around in the bonnet of the pickup. They looked shocked at the sight of us being forced into Hawk’s cottage.

  ‘Got us a couple of traitors,’ he shouted to them. Then he handcuffed us in this bizarre chain, locked us in and we heard the sound of the pickup screeching away. We don’t know where he’s gone, but it’s only a matter of time until he comes back to deal with us. With the doors and windows locked, the vapours from the meth factory bubbling only feet away are choking.

  Ronnie pulls at the frame, but it’s bolted to solid timber. ‘Fuck.’ She strains until the skin around her wrists bleeds. ‘Fuck.’

  I look around wildly for anything we might use to prise the bolt free. On the table are the things Hawk took from Ronnie and me: knives and the pistol. I stretch out to them, pulling Ronnie with me, but I can’t reach.

  ‘It’s no good.’ She rattles the handcuff. ‘It’s no fucking good.’

  I reach out again. There’s only a foot between the tips of my finger and the table.

  ‘We need something to bridge the gap,’ I say.

  ‘Like what?’

  I point at the lengths of rubber piping connecting up the bottles of chemicals. ‘A piece of that might work.’

  ‘Jesus, do you know how dangerous crystal meth is, Jo?’ Ronnie asks. ‘Those chemicals are highly flammable. If they come into contact with one another we’re in deep shit.’

  I take in the evil-looking red stew, the canisters of acid, the bottles of antifreeze.

  ‘The way I see it, we’re already in deep shit.’

  She thinks for a second, then nods. ‘If you climb on my back, do you think you can reach?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  With our hands secured to one another’s it’s going to be awkward. She turns slightly and bends her back forward for me to climb on. When I push my hands into her shoulders for momentum, she gives a sharp intake of breath as I wrench her wrist backwards.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Just do it.’

  I jump and Ronnie staggers forward. I have to grip her waist with my knees for balance, sending a pain ricocheting down my leg. She grabs the frame with the hand attached to it to steady herself.

  ‘Okay?’ she shouts.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, though I feel as if I might fall backwards at any second.

  ‘Can you reach the pipe?’

  I extend my free arm, wiggling my fingers towards the rubber.

  ‘Move up my body, Jo,’ she says.

  I press my free hand onto her shoulder and pull my legs up, dragging the injured flesh past the waistband of her jeans. I close my eyes against the pain and reach up again until I feel my fingernail tapping against something solid.

  My eyes shoot open. I’m almost there. My finger is touching a piece of orange pipe. If I can just get a fraction higher, I can hook my finger over it and pull it down.

  Ronnie begins to wobble beneath me. ‘Hurry, Jo. I can’t hold you much longer.’

  This is it. I imagine every vertebrae in my spine unlocking and my diaphragm expanding. Anything for that extra inch.

  As my finger loops over the pipe I shout out in triumph, but Ronnie can’t take my weight and collapses under me. We crash to the floor, all sharp elbows and soft ribs. When we manage to untangle ourselves, I’m still holding the length of pipe.

  Ronnie looks at me and laughs. Real laughter that makes her shine. ‘You did it, Jo.’

  Suddenly the happiness falls from her face and she turns. The large glass vial to which the pipe was attached has fallen over, its contents pouring out, dripping onto the floor and pooling sidewards across the table. Towards the naked flame of the camping stove.

  I look at Ronnie, she looks at me. ‘Not good,’ she says.

  We have to get out of here right now and the only things that can help are a foot out of reach.

  I bend the pipe into a loop and throw it at the table. It hits the side, missing the weapons.

  ‘Come on, Jo,’ Ronnie shouts.

  I try again, this time getting so close that the rubber hits one of the knives, then bounces off.

  I glance at the chemical spill inching towards the flame. In a few seconds we’ll be toast. I throw again. This time the loop encircles the pistol. Carefully I drag it to the end of the table where it falls, bouncing across the floor.

  ‘Shit.’

  Behind me, I hear a whoosh and feel intense heat on the back of my neck. I throw the loop again, managing to circle the gun. I drag it towards me and grab the barrel.

  ‘Shoot the handcuff,’ Ronnie shouts.

  ‘What if I miss? What if I hit your hand?’

  The red chemical has caught fire, engulfing the table. The upset vial explodes, showering us in shards of glass.

  ‘Shoot the goddamn handcuff!’ she screams.

  I’ve never fired a weapon before but I’ve seen plenty of films. I point it at the handcuff attaching Ronnie to the bed, curl my finger around the trigger and pull. Nothing.

  ‘The safety, Jo. Remove the safety catch.’

  Hands shaking, I click the catch, take aim, say a prayer and fire. The noise of the shot is deafening, so I don’t hear the metal ping as it breaks, releasing Ronnie from the bunk. Then she grabs the pistol and shoots the cuff still attaching us to one another. Free at last, we race for the door, more vials exploding behind us. Ronnie gives it one sharp kick and the wood splinters around the lock as it flies from its hinges. The blast of fresh air is welcome, but then I remember what happens when fire meets oxygen.

  ‘Run!’ I yell.

  I’m at the step when there’s a boom. I dive forward as if I were at a swimming pool, taking Ronnie with me as the fireball erupts, engulfing the shack.

  I hit the ground hard, flames singeing the back of my hair, then I crawl across the clearing commando-style, half pulling, half dragging Ronnie with me.

  At the other side, we get to our knees, gasping for air and retching. Black smoke billows from the shack into the sky and the glass in the windows shatters. I haul myself up and Ronnie after me. Her face is covered in blood and soot. We lean against one another like drunks.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say.

  Before we can move, the pickup roars into our path.

  ‘It’s him,’ says Ronnie.

  The pickup barrels towards us. ‘This way!’ I shout and make my way up the hill, hoping the steep bank will slow Hawk.

  Ronnie follows me. ‘He’s still on us.’

  I turn. Instead of slowing Hawk, our move seems to spur him on and he careers after us.

  ‘There.’ Ronnie points to a cluster of boulders and we scramble up.

  The pickup comes at us, tries to brake and skids off out of control, the wheel clipping the boulders, flipping it on its side. We stare at the wreck in horror as Hawk crawls out, the flesh of his chest ripped open, muscle and sinew on display. His sunglasses have cracked and he takes them off and inspects them. When he looks up at us it is the first time I’ve seen his eyes. They’re the same silver as Ronnie’s.

 
‘Don’t move.’ Ronnie points the pistol at him. ‘Don’t move, Hawk, or I’ll shoot you.’

  His shoulders heave and he covers his eyes. At first, I think he’s crying, but when he moves his hands I can see he’s actually laughing.

  ‘Veronica-Mae, you won’t shoot me,’ he says. ‘We’re family.’

  ‘I once had a brother called Isaac,’ Ronnie replies. ‘He would never have done anything like this.’

  ‘Is that the brother you left to rot in prison?’

  Ronnie’s hand is shaking as she keeps him in her sights. ‘I was nine years old, Isaac.’

  ‘And I was fourteen.’ Hawk jabs himself with his fist, splattering blood. ‘I had no one.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ she says. ‘They took me away. They didn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to me night after night? Do you know what they do to cop killers in jail?’ Hawk opens his arms wide as if he’s on a crucifix. ‘Go on, then. Do it. Just go ahead and shoot me.’

  Ronnie’s whole body shudders and her breathing is shallow.

  Hawk drops his hands to his sides. ‘You see, Miss Connolly, she can’t do it. It’s like the old saying goes, blood is thicker than water.’

  They stare at one another, neither moving, until Hawk begins to lower his hand to his waistband. As if in slow motion, I see he has a gun tucked into it.

  ‘Ronnie,’ I warn.

  ‘Move another muscle, Hawk, and I will kill you,’ says Ronnie. ‘I will not let you hurt any more innocent people.’

  ‘What? You’d hurt your own kin to save this piece of shit?’ Hawk jerks his head at me.

  ‘It’s not her fault she got mixed up in all this,’ Ronnie replies.

  Hawk throws his head back and gives another roar of laughter. ‘Listen to yourself, Veronica-Mae. Making excuses, not taking responsibility. Mama would be ashamed of you.’

  I hear Ronnie’s breath catch.

  ‘What did she always teach us?’ Hawk continues. ‘That doing the right thing ain’t always easy.’

  ‘And you think she’d say this was the right thing?’ Ronnie asks. ‘Cooking up meth and training terrorists?’

  ‘We’re trying to change the world is what we’re doing. I thought that’s what you wanted too.’

  ‘I did,’ says Ronnie. ‘But not like this.’

  ‘Veronica-Mae.’ Hawk drops his voice. ‘I do believe you have gone soft.’ Slowly, Hawk makes for his weapon and Ronnie doesn’t move. If she doesn’t shoot him, he will kill us first. I watch her trigger finger. Nothing. Hawk’s right, she can’t do it.

  I grab the pistol from her and fire. He drops like a stone.

  ‘Isaac!’ Ronnie screams and tumbles down the boulders.

  He’s lying on his back, his stomach spilling out. Ronnie crouches at his side.

  ‘Why did you never reply to my letters?’ he asks. ‘If you’d just replied to my letters . . .’

  ‘What letters? I never got any letters,’ she says.

  He coughs and blood spews from his mouth, then he convulses twice and falls still. Ronnie reaches over and tenderly closes his eyes. A single tear runs down her cheek. When she sees me looking, she bats it away.

  ‘How long have you been here, Isaac?’

  ‘Since I was fourteen, ma’am.’

  ‘And how old are you now?’

  ‘Twenty-six, ma’am.’

  The woman nods. She’s got that real straight hair that makes you wonder if she don’t take an iron to it.

  ‘Do you think you’re a different person from the one that came in here?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘How so?’

  This is the tricky one. One-Two and the other Aryan Brothers have told Isaac all about this question. ‘You gotta make the parole board see you’re a changed man,’ One-Two told him. ‘If you gotta lie, then so be it.’ Isaac trusts One-Two and the other ABs. They saved his life and took him in. ‘Ain’t nobody gonna mess with you no more,’ One-Two said, as he inked a swastika onto Isaac’s bicep.

  ‘Well, ma’am,’ Isaac says. ‘The boy that came in here thought the police were the enemy because that’s what he’d been raised to believe.’

  ‘And now?’ the woman asks.

  ‘And now I can see that they’re just honest men trying to do an honest day’s work.’

  She scribbles something on her pad of paper and waggles her ankle so that her shoe comes loose. ‘I hear a journalist came to see you, Isaac.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘What did he want?’ she asks.

  ‘Said he wanted to tell my side of the story,’ Isaac replies.

  ‘He offer you money?’

  ‘I told him I don’t want no money and I don’t want to tell my story,’ Isaac says. ‘Truth is, ma’am, I just want to start my life afresh.’

  She smiles and makes another note. ‘Thank you, Isaac. I think that will be all.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ‘Give me the gun.’ Ronnie holds her hand out to me.

  I’m still in shock that I’ve killed a man, sickened by how easy it was.

  ‘Give me the gun, Jo,’ she repeats and I drop it into her open palm. ‘Now help me with the pickup,’ she says and walks over to the truck, which is lying on its side, two wheels in the air. She jumps up and uses her body weight to try to right it. I join her and together we manage to tip it sufficiently. It crashes back onto four wheels of its own accord. The doors are full of dents and scrapes and the windscreen is cracked, but Ronnie jumps into the driver’s side and turns the keys, which are still in the ignition. The engine coughs and cuts out.

  ‘Come on.’ She bangs the heel of her hand on the steering wheel. She tries again and this time it splutters into life. I jump in beside her, pushing aside a checked shirt.

  Expertly, she weaves her way through the rocks, up and over the hills.

  ‘Check the glove compartment for a drink,’ she says after a while.

  I open it and a bottle of water tumbles out. As I hand it to Ronnie, I catch sight of the other contents. Papers, credit cards, a wedge of money and an iPhone.

  Ronnie takes a drink and pulls her tongue out in disgust. ‘I hate warm water.’

  I close the glove compartment and take it from her. ‘I’m sorry about your brother,’ I say.

  ‘Like I said back there, that wasn’t Isaac.’

  ‘Still,’ I say. ‘He was once.’

  ‘How did you know I wouldn’t shoot him?’

  ‘I lost my brother.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Long story,’ I say.

  She smiles at me with a deep sadness. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Davey,’ I tell her, surprised by how good it feels to say the word out loud. ‘His name was Davey.’

  Clem and Sebastian arrived back at HQ and Carole-Ann looked up from her bank of computers. ‘By the smell of you, that shower didn’t involve any soap.

  ‘I need to speak to Veronica Pearson’s adoptive parents,’ Clem shouted out to an assistant. ‘I need to know if they can shed any light on where she might be now.’

  ‘You might want to see this first,’ said Carole-Ann.

  ‘It had better be good,’ Clem told her.

  She kissed her teeth. ‘You were the one who said you wanted me to watch this character Hawk.’

  ‘He’s been online?’

  ‘About half an hour ago,’ she said. ‘There was some delay in the feed.’

  ‘Delay? What sort of delay?’ Clem asked.

  ‘A technical problem, a glitch in the network,’ she said. ‘Computers are like that.’

  Clem threw up his arms in despair.

  ‘If you knew anything about computers, you’d know that glitches are what they do best.’

  ‘Show me then, woman,’ he said.

  Carole-Ann clicked into the forum of Platformnow and navigated into a thread called ‘Anyone Up For An Image-Sharing Thread?’ started by Hawk himself.

  Hawk At 19:14r />
  I’m uploading some nice pictures to share with you guys.

  Clem clicked the link and it was a photo of Waco, the buildings burning, smoke plumes rising into the sky.

  SecondAmendment At 19:16

  Good one, man. How do you like this?

  The link took Clem to the charred remains of one of the victims of the Waco siege. It was curled into a foetal ball.

  Hawk At 19:17

  Back at ya, big guy.

  There was a photo of the Weaver family outside their farmhouse at Ruby Ridge, squinting against the sun.

  Gunshot At 19:18

  Can anyone play?

  Gunshot’s image was the mugshot of McVeigh staring remorselessly into the camera, his serial number on display. What the hell was all this about?

  Clem’s phone rang. ‘Yeah,’ he growled.

  ‘Mr Clement?’ The woman’s voice was soft, with the sugar twang of the Deep South of America. ‘This is Nancy Clayton. You asked me to call you about our adopted daughter, Veronica.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much for getting back to me, Mrs Clayton,’ Clem replied.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s been a very long time since I’ve seen Veronica,’ she said.

  ‘Could you tell me a little bit about the adoption?’ Clem asked.

  ‘Well now, my husband and I wanted children for a very long time but sadly it was not to be, so we applied to adopt.’

  ‘And Veronica was placed with you?’

  ‘That’s right. She was orphaned at nine.’

  ‘Were you aware of the circumstances in which she came to lose her parents?’

  Mrs Clayton coughed. ‘We were not told the exact whys and wherefores but this little girl came to us unable to speak and with a large bullet hole in her back. We did the math.’

  ‘Why did you move to Scotland?’ Clem asked.

  Mrs Clayton sighed. ‘My husband Jim had a brother in Glasgow and Veronica, well, she was always so very angry.’

  ‘You thought a move might help?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘And it didn’t.’

  ‘No. Veronica’s behaviour just got worse and worse. Do you know she wouldn’t even change her name to Clayton? I said we needed to go to a doctor and get her some help but Jim – he was so old-fashioned, you see, raised in the Deep South on discipline and respect – he said we needed to show Veronica some tough love.’