by Helen Black
‘What did you do, Mrs Clayton?’
‘We put her in a residential unit for children like her,’ she said. ‘Disturbed.’
‘The Orchard?’
‘Yes. It seemed like a nice place, not at all what you’d expect. I didn’t want to leave her, of course, but Jim said it would teach her to value what she had.’
Clem raked his scalp with his nails. What had these people done?
‘Anyway, a few months after she’d been in there we got a letter from Social Services saying she didn’t want to come home,’ she said. ‘I went to see Veronica but she was adamant, so . . .’
‘So you left her in there.’
Mrs Clayton didn’t reply and a pause stretched out between them. ‘We made a big mistake,’ she said finally. ‘We should never have adopted her. She hated everything about Scotland. And us.’
‘I’m sure you did your best,’ Clem said mechanically.
‘I really did try. Do you know, the only time I ever saw that child smile was when we went on holiday to the islands?’
Clem’s heart beat a little faster. ‘Where did you go, Mrs Clayton?’
‘The Outer Hebrides,’ she said. ‘A tiny little place. I didn’t like it all, but Veronica loved the quiet. She spent hours just walking those hills on her own. There were only a few people living there and I heard they all left in recent times.’
‘Do you remember the name?’
‘Let me see now, it was such a long time ago. If I recall correctly we had to fly over there in the smallest plane you ever did see. I thought I would die of fright.’
‘The name?’ Clem interrupted. ‘It’s very important.’
‘Well, it sounded like something you’d call a girl,’ she said. ‘Tara? No, that wasn’t it. Mara, perhaps?’
Clem hung up and ran to his office. He grabbed a thick black book from his shelf and blew off the dust. Then he thumbed the pages until he found what he was looking for and raced back to Carole-Ann’s desk.
‘Here.’ He plonked down the atlas.
She wafted her hand through the cloud of dust.
‘I think this is where Ronnie has taken Jo Connolly,’ he said.
Carole-Ann peered at the page. ‘The Outer Hebrides?’
‘Cara.’ He circled a small speck with his thumb. ‘The island of Cara.’
Carole-Ann sniffed at his puffed-out chest. ‘In the meantime, Hercule Poirot, are you the least bit interested in this?’
‘What?’
‘The website.’ Carole-Ann pointed at the thread they’d been reading.
Hawk At 19:19
R1234, if you’re out there, man, this one is especially for you.
This time the link was to a photograph of two hands almost touching, an electric current between them.
R1234 At 19:20
I’m here.
Hawk At 19:21
Good to see you, friend. I want you to look at the photograph, man. It’s from me to you. You got to look deep, man, to see what I’m telling you.
R1234 At 19:22
Okay.
‘Do you think it’s important, Clem?’ asked Carole-Ann.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, leaning in to look more closely. ‘I really don’t know.’
When we reach the crofter’s cottage again, Ronnie pulls over. ‘I’m going to check if there’s anything in there we can take,’ she says and jumps out.
When I’m sure she’s safely inside, I open the glove box and take out the iPhone. To my surprise I can get a signal so I tap in a number I’ve memorised.
‘Yeah?’
‘Clem, it’s me.’
‘Jo?’
‘Call me Miss Connolly,’ I say. ‘Everyone does.’
‘Holy cow, are you okay? Are you hurt?’ he asks.
‘I’m fine.’ I look down at the wound on my thigh. ‘I’m in one piece, anyway.’
‘Where are you?’
‘You’ll never believe me,’ I tell him.
‘Yes I will, Jo – you’re on an uninhabited island in the Outer Hebrides.’
‘How the hell do you know that?’
‘It’s my job to know these things,’ he says. ‘What I need is your exact location.’
I look around. ‘I don’t know. I’m on a hill not far from the beach.’
‘North or south part of the island?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll find you. What about Ronnie?’ Clem asks.
‘You don’t need to worry about Ronnie,’ I say. ‘She had nothing to do with the bombings.’
‘Listen to me, Jo.’ Clem’s tone is urgent. ‘Whatever she’s told you, Ronnie is very much involved. She’s manipulating you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘This is how she works, Jo. She and a person called Hawk orchestrated the entire operation. They used people with learning difficulties, groomed them, then got them to plant the bombs.’
I picture Ronnie with her friend Rory and feel sick. Could it be true? Was she planning to use him?
‘We’re watching Hawk right now,’ says Clem. ‘We think he’s planning something else.’
‘Hawk’s dead,’ I tell him.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I shot him myself.’
Ronnie comes out of the cottage, arms laden. ‘I have to go,’ I tell Clem.
‘Jo, you need to stay on the line so we can lock in your location.’
I hang up.
Ronnie swings back to the pickup, opens the door and is about to drop cans of Coke and family bags of crisps into my lap when she sees the iPhone. ‘Jo?’
‘I called MI5,’ I say.
She drops everything onto the ground. ‘Why did you do that? I told you I’d make sure you got back.’
‘I didn’t tell them where I am.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Jo, they can track phone signals.’
‘I’ll get out now. You get to the plane.’ I slide out of the car and stand opposite Ronnie, cans at our feet. ‘Answer me one question,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘Did you have anything to do with the terrorist attacks?’
She groans through her teeth. ‘I told you I didn’t.’
‘What about Hawk?’
She falters.
‘Well?’ I demand.
‘At first I had no idea he had anything to do with it.’
‘What about later?’ I ask.
‘I began to suspect.’
‘Did you help him?’
‘No,’ she says.
‘Not in any shape or form?’
She falters again. ‘I gave some friend of his a fake ID, but I had no idea at the time what he intended to do; I had no idea about the Plaza bombing and that’s the truth.’
I stare at her. Is she lying? I still can’t tell. ‘What about Sean? Why is he heading to London?’ I raise my voice. ‘What is he going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ she shouts. ‘Maybe he’s taking a holiday.’
‘Jesus Christ, Ronnie. Do you think he went to plant another bomb?’
‘I don’t care!’ she screams. ‘I just want to leave.’
‘People’s lives are at stake, Ronnie. You can’t just walk away. Hawk was right about one thing. Sometimes you have to do what’s right, however hard it is.’
‘Fuck you,’ she says, gets into the pickup and drives away.
There’s a gentle smattering of summer rain as Isaac steps through the prison gates. He puts his face to the sky and lets the drops fall onto his face like tiny kisses.
‘Hey, Pearson,’ one of the guards calls out. ‘We’ll be seeing you real soon.’
Isaac shakes his head.
‘A leopard can’t change its spots,’ says the guard. ‘I’ll give you a month, two at tops.’
Isaac picks up the transparent plastic sack that contains his belongings. Not much to show for twelve long years. He’ll throw it all away, first chance he gets. Today is the first day of the rest of his life and he can’t w
ait to get on and live it.
Not far away in the field, a mouse scampers past, his little pink nose twitching. Then out of the sky swoops a bird of prey; his beak fastens around the mouse and snatches him away. Poor thing was no match for the mighty hawk.
Isaac smiles. Yes, sir, he just can’t wait to get on with his life.
Chapter Twenty-three
I sit at the side of the road, sipping a Coke, staring at the iPhone. I still haven’t called Clem back. Given everything that Ronnie’s done, am I really prepared to let her get away? I dial a number.
‘Highfields.’
‘Could I speak to Paddy Connolly?’ I say.
I wait while they fetch my dad. I hear him grumbling before he gets to the receiver.
‘Is that you, Jo?’
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Long story.’
‘Listen, Jo, this is just the time you should be getting yourself known,’ he says. ‘You should see the amount of coverage the Olympics is getting since this handicapped boy got himself shot. It’s twenty-four-seven and you need to milk it for all it’s worth, then you might get promoted to something half decent.’
‘It’s disabled, Dad.’
‘What?’
‘The person is disabled. It’s society that handicaps him.’ Dad of all people should know that.
‘I don’t know what you’re bleedin’ going on about, Jo.’
Anger swells in me. Why won’t he ever recognise what he’s done? ‘Why did you send Davey away, Dad?’ I ask.
‘Come again?’
‘You heard me.’
He doesn’t speak but I can hear his raspy breath down the phone. ‘Why do you want to talk about this after all these years?’ he asks.
‘I’ve always wanted to talk about it,’ I say. ‘I just didn’t dare bring it up.’
‘It’s not important,’ he says.
‘Davey was important.’
‘Your career is what matters now.’
‘Does it matter more than the truth?’ I ask.
He sighs. ‘Just let sleeping dogs lie.’
But I can’t. I think about Davey every day. I need to know. ‘Why did you do it, Dad? Why did you send him away?’
‘It was for the best, Jo,’ he says at last.
Typical. All about him, as usual. I imagine it was pretty inconvenient for the great Paddy Connolly to have a son with Down’s syndrome. Not likely to have a glittering career, was he? That sort of thing could ruin a man’s image.
‘Best for who?’ I ask.
‘Best for all of us,’ he replies. ‘Your mother couldn’t cope.’
I do remember Mum spending days in bed and the fits of crying.
‘She was depressed, Dad,’ I say. ‘She needed help.’
‘I know that, but the way I saw it, Davey would never be independent, he’d always need looking after and if anything happened to me and your mum, it would fall to you. You had your own life to lead. We couldn’t expect that of you.’
‘What are you saying?’ I feel my chest constrict.
‘I’m saying I did it for you.’
‘For me?’ I can hardly squeeze the words out. ‘You sent him away for me?’
‘Yes,’ Dad says.
Misery sweeps over me and my eyes sting with tears. I think I’ve known this all along. I’ve blamed Dad, but deep down I knew.
‘I loved Davey, Dad. I missed him every day of my life,’ I say.
‘I know.’
‘When he died in that awful place, I thought my heart would burst in two.’
‘Mine too,’ he says. ‘It was the biggest mistake of my life.’
I can’t believe my ears. The mighty Paddy Connolly has just admitted he got something wrong.
‘Dad,’ I say.
‘Yeah?’
‘Sometimes you can be a real bastard.’
‘I know, kid. I know,’ he admits. ‘But I’m the only bastard you’ve got.’
I hang up and contemplate my next move. Staying right where I am doesn’t seem a shocking proposition. I’m just considering opening the huge bag of crisps when the pickup screeches to a halt.
‘Did you save any of those for me?’ Ronnie asks.
‘I’m not sharing.’
‘Don’t like that flavour anyway,’ she says. ‘Gives you bad breath.’
I haul myself up, my leg killing me, and get in. ‘Where to?’ I ask.
‘We’ve got a plane to catch.’
Clem paced up and down his office. ‘Can we get a trace?’
Carole-Ann shook her head. ‘She’s hung up again.’
What the hell was Jo doing? Surely she hadn’t fallen for Ronnie’s bullshit?
Sebastian had fallen asleep at his desk, Hawk’s picture thread still on the screen of his PC. Clem envied his ability to shut down and shut off.
‘The island’s not big. We’ll find her eventually,’ said Carole-Ann.
‘It’s the eventually I’m worried about,’ Clem replied.
‘At least we know she’s alive.’
Clem nodded, but he couldn’t help thinking that if Jo was still with Ronnie, it might not be for long.
The biplane judders across the skies with me wedged next to Ronnie, my leg at an awkward and painful angle. Ronnie is fiddling impatiently with a dial.
‘What made you change your mind?’ I ask.
She doesn’t look up from her task. ‘I think I might know how we can find the guy using Paul’s ID.’
‘Go on.’
The dial comes away in her hand. ‘Goddamn piece of crap.’ She throws it behind her.
I hold my breath, waiting for the plane to fall out of the sky without it. When it doesn’t, I decide to continue the conversation. ‘How can we find him?’ I ask.
‘When I gave my brother the fake ID, I also told him about a landlord I know who rents out houses for a few days, no questions asked,’ she says.
‘Isn’t that what hotels are for?’
‘Too many cleaners, bellboys, maintenance guys,’ she says. ‘Not ideal if what you’re doing is illegal.’
‘I thought you didn’t get involved in anything illegal.’
Ronnie smiles at me. ‘I said we didn’t hurt anyone if we could help it. I didn’t say any of it was legal.’
I lean my head against the window. I must be mad not to have just waited for Clem to pick me up. ‘How did you pass on information to Hawk?’ I ask.
‘Internet.’
I’m incredulous. ‘You emailed each other?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she says. ‘We’d log into the same websites and chat in the forums. Difficult to spot amongst all that endless crap people talk.’
‘Didn’t you worry that if someone did spot your conversations they could track you?’
‘Internet cafés,’ she says.
‘I didn’t see any of those near Hawk’s training camp.’
Ronnie shrugs. ‘He went back to the mainland regularly. All he had to do was piggyback someone else’s connection. Easy.’
It doesn’t sound easy to me. It sounds like a lot of hard work. ‘Don’t you ever get sick of all this, Ronnie?’ I ask. ‘Don’t you ever crave a normal life?’
She goes back to the controls and I know I won’t get an answer.
Rory pours himself a glass of water. An adult male is made up of 60 per cent water. An adult female is 55 per cent. 71 per cent of the world’s surface is covered by water. Rory sips his drink and re-reads Hawk’s message.
As soon as he clicked on the picture, he knew what to look for. It was obvious.
The last time Rory saw Imelda she sighed at him and said, ‘What’s obvious to you, Rory, isn’t always obvious to everyone else.’ He could have told her that what is obvious to everyone else is often mystifying to him.
But he didn’t say that because Imelda did not want to know what Rory thought.
Rory did not speak to Imelda.
Rory’s glass is empty so he puts it in
the steriliser. It is designed for six baby bottles but can only fit four glasses in it.
Rory sits back at his desk and reads Hawk’s message for the twenty-sixth time.
R1234, I think by now we are friends.
I need your help.
Please meet me tomorrow outside Stratford underground station at 11.00 a.m.
Stay off Platformnow. It is no longer safe. Hawk
Rory checks again where Stratford underground station is. He has already checked six times. Rory has not left his flat for eleven months and seventeen days.
Ronnie lands the plane with a thud and I look out of the window. ‘Where are we?’ I ask.
‘Mainland,’ she says. ‘I’d have liked to get us closer to London, but it wasn’t possible.’
‘Too many police?’
She opens her door. ‘Not enough gas.’
My stomach rolls at the thought of running out of fuel over the ocean.
‘We’re gonna have to drive the rest of the way,’ she calls over her shoulder.
I get out my side and look around another deserted field doubling as an airfield. ‘I don’t see any cabs,’ I say.
She cups her hand over her eyes and looks into the distance. ‘I called one earlier.’
My sarcastic laughter soon disappears when a battered jeep, the exhaust making an almighty rattle, comes careering over the horizon. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Transport.’ Ronnie winks at me.
The jeep screeches to a halt only feet from where we’re standing and two men get out. They both lean against the bonnet, arms crossed over thick chests, eyeing me suspiciously. Ronnie moves towards them, leaving me next to the plane. They speak in low voices, the men periodically shrugging their shoulders. I check my watch, aware that miles away ‘Paul’ is planning a terrorist attack.
At last Ronnie holds out her hand. Thank God they’ve reached an agreement. One of the men spits on his palm and Ronnie takes it in hers. ‘Get over here, Jo,’ she shouts to me.
I make my way to them, sweating under the glare of the men’s stares. One of them nods at my face.
‘What happen?’ His accent is thickly Eastern European.
Ronnie smiles. ‘You know these famous types. They get work done.’
He raises a bushy eyebrow. ‘Nip and tuck?’
‘Yup.’
He says something to his friend, who gives something between a laugh and a cough, then tosses a key to Ronnie who catches it in her outstretched hand. We jump in the jeep and she starts the engine. It’s been left in gear and we shoot forward, stalling with a groan. The men laugh.