Twenty Twelve

by Helen Black

  I nod and we begin to make our way across to the stands, trying not to think about how many thousands are in danger. Suddenly, there’s a commotion up ahead. A woman is shouting.

  ‘Can’t you watch where you’re going, you moron?’ She’s standing with her hands on her hips, a look of disgust on her face.

  I catch sight of who she’s speaking to. A hulk of a person, his T-shirt too short, fluffy earmuffs balanced on his bald head. ‘Rory!’ I shout.

  We watch him hurry off, the woman still berating him, and begin to give chase when we’re stopped by a burly security guard.

  ‘Can I see your tickets, please?’

  Ronnie and I look at each other. No amount of clever chat is going to remedy this situation.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘What for?’ asks the guard.

  ‘This,’ I say and punch him in the face. As he hits the deck, blood pouring from his nose, we sprint after Rory. ‘I am sorry, honestly,’ I shout at the guard, but Ronnie pulls me away towards Rory, who has disappeared inside the mammoth aquatic centre.

  ‘Swimming?’ I say.

  ‘More damage in contained areas,’ says Ronnie. ‘Very difficult to evacuate.’

  ‘Would Hawk really be that much of a bastard?’ I ask.

  Ronnie doesn’t answer. It’s a stupid question.

  We race inside, hit by the heat, the smell of chlorine and the sound of cheering.

  It’s actually a diving event taking place. The young British superstar, set for a gold, is making his way up the ladder to the high board. The crowd shout out his name. Rory is at the far side, pushing his way past grumbling fans, a rucksack bobbing on his back. When he gets to a spare seat, he squeezes himself in, placing the bag carefully on his lap and jiggling it like a baby. I hold my breath at the thought of the contents.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Ronnie asks.

  ‘For a start you’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on.’

  I spin and find Clem behind me, gun in Ronnie’s back.

  ‘I knew you were a wild card, Jo,’ he says. ‘But this is fucking ridiculous.’

  ‘There’s a bomber in the building,’ I tell him.

  ‘I know that.’ He nods at Ronnie.

  ‘It’s not her, Clem. Believe me, it’s not her.’

  Clem blinks once, gun in place.

  ‘Think about it, Clem,’ I say. ‘The last person Hawk would use for this would be his sister.’

  ‘Ethical soul, was he?’

  I shake my head vigorously. ‘I know how it sounds, but Hawk had a twisted sense of morality. His family, or what’s left of it, was all that mattered to him.’

  Clem doesn’t react. I have no idea whether I’m making any inroads. All I do know is that Rory is less than 200 feet away, carrying enough explosive to blow us all to kingdom come.

  ‘Anyway, Hawk had a much better system than risking his sister, didn’t he?’

  Clem doesn’t reply.

  ‘He picked on the vulnerable and convinced them to do his dirty work,’ I say.

  There’s a slight twitch at the corner of Clem’s eye.

  ‘See the guy over there?’ I gesture to Rory. ‘He’s the one.’

  Clem glances up at Rory, taking in his ear defenders and illfitting clothes.

  ‘The bomb’s in the rucksack, Clem,’ I tell him. ‘We have to take action right now.’

  Clem looks from Ronnie to Rory and back again, assessing the situation. At last he nods to himself, takes three steps forward, holds his weapon high in the air and shouts, ‘Armed police!’

  Someone in the crowd screams and soon pandemonium breaks out as people try to move out of Clem’s way. He ignores the chaos around him and coolly points the gun at Rory. ‘Give me the bag, son.’

  Rory screws his eyes closed and hugs the rucksack to his chest.

  Clem gives a weary sigh and cocks his finger around the trigger.

  ‘No,’ Ronnie begs. ‘Please don’t kill him.’

  ‘I can’t take any more risks,’ says Clem.

  ‘Please.’ Ronnie’s voice catches in her throat. ‘Rory’s just like the other boy who was shot. He’s being used.’

  Clem breathes audibly.

  ‘Let me speak to him,’ says Ronnie. ‘He trusts me.’

  A pause stretches between them, then Clem gives a nod.

  Ronnie takes a step forward. ‘Rory, can you hear me? It’s Ronnie.’

  Rory begins to rock back and forth.

  ‘You have thirty seconds,’ Clem whispers.

  ‘Rory, I need you to give me that rucksack,’ she says. ‘It’s really, really important, do you understand?’

  ‘You said you’d come back,’ Rory mumbles. ‘You said as soon as possible.’

  ‘This is as soon as possible. It got too crazy, Rory. I had to go away.’

  Rory buries his face in the rucksack.

  ‘I can’t wait any longer,’ says Clem.

  Ronnie’s face is stricken.

  ‘Let me try,’ I say.

  Clem raises his eyebrow.

  ‘Just for a second,’ I persist. ‘Let’s try not to spill any more blood.’

  Clem narrows his eyes at me, which I take as a yes and step forward towards Rory. ‘Do you remember me, Rory?’

  He opens one eye. ‘You punched me.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I say. ‘I was very frightened. Have you ever been very frightened?’

  He nods.

  ‘Then you’ll understand. I think it was very brave of you to come down here. Were you very frightened on the journey?’

  ‘A man was nasty to me.’

  ‘That was wrong of him,’ I say. ‘What people don’t understand is that just because you’re a bit different doesn’t mean you’re stupid or worthless.’

  Rory doesn’t answer, but both his eyes are open.

  ‘I had a brother called Davey,’ I say. ‘He was very different. There were things that most other people could do that Davey found impossible.’ I take another step towards Rory, gulping at the thought of what’s in that bag. ‘But there were things Davey could do that I found completely impossible.’ I take another step. ‘I bet you can do all sorts of things other people can’t, eh?’

  ‘I can remember things,’ says Rory.

  ‘There you are, then.’ I smile. ‘I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning.’

  I take one more step. ‘Did Hawk’s friend give you the bag?’

  Rory nods.

  ‘Do you know what’s in it?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Would you be prepared to give it to me?’

  Rory’s knuckles go white as he tightens his grip. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Did Hawk’s friend tell you to keep it with you?’

  Rory nods. ‘At all times. It’s very special to Hawk and I have to look after it until he gets here.’

  ‘Hawk’s not coming, Rory,’ I say.

  He looks pained and makes a noise like an animal.

  ‘Do you understand, Rory?’

  ‘He said he would meet me here.’

  ‘He can’t do that, I’m afraid.’

  Rory begins rocking again, making his low moan.

  ‘I have to do this now,’ says Clem and moves into position.

  Desperate, I look around me. There at the bottom of the diving ladder is a pile of towels. I sprint to them and grab one. ‘How about I swap that bag for a towel?’ I say.

  Rory freezes.

  ‘You need four, right?’ I ask.

  He nods.

  ‘How about it?’

  I hold the towel out and Rory releases one of his hands. Slowly I move forward until I’m a foot away from him. ‘Take the towel,’ I say to Rory.

  Unsure at first, he reaches out to it. Once it’s in his fingers he pulls it to him and rubs it against his baby-soft cheek.

  ‘Now give me the bag, Rory.’

  Gingerly, he lifts it and passes it over. In turn, I pass it to Clem, my hands s
haking, and he rushes it out of the building.

  As the police and security forces begin to arrive, I grab Ronnie’s hand. ‘Come on,’ I urge her.

  ‘Where to?’ she asks.

  I don’t answer but lead her away.

  ‘What is this place?’ Ronnie watches me undo several locks and bolts on a small flat in Westminster.

  ‘My dad’s old flat.’

  Inside, there’s a smell of mould and cobwebs drape from the ceiling. ‘It’s like Miss Havisham’s house,’ says Ronnie.

  I’m momentarily surprised to hear Ronnie reference Charles Dickens, but the feeling passes as I realise I am no longer surprised by anything Ronnie says or does.

  ‘Dad bought it when he was an MP,’ I tell her. ‘He used to bring me here sometimes, try to interest me in politics.’

  Ronnie noses through the bookshelves at the biographies of all the greats covered in dust. Churchill, Macmillan, Thatcher. Another century. ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I was far more interested in sport.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I got injured.’

  ‘So you went for plan B?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  When I started working for the civil service, Dad said I should use this flat, but it never felt right.

  ‘Can I get a shower?’ Ronnie asks.

  ‘The water will be freezing.’

  Ronnie sniffs her armpit. ‘Right now, that’s the least of my worries.’

  I show her to the bathroom and stand on the landing, listening to the water run.

  ‘Why did you keep this place?’ she shouts.

  ‘I dunno,’ I say. Why did I keep it? Was I hoping Dad would get better? Was I hoping that one day I’d feel worthy enough to move in myself?

  The water stops. ‘Any chance of finding a toothbrush?’ Ronnie calls.

  ‘Try the cabinet,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  I open the door. ‘Try the cabinet.’

  Ronnie is wrapped in a towel, her back to me, water dripping down her scar. In the mirror she sees me looking at it.

  ‘Does it still hurt?’ I ask.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  There’s nothing I can say so I don’t try.

  Later we sit at the table eating Cornish pasties I bought from the corner shop. I open a bottle of wine from Dad’s collection.

  ‘Very swanky,’ says Ronnie, taking a gulp of claret to wash down a mouthful of pastry.

  ‘For a man of the people, my dad always had very expensive tastes,’ I laugh.

  When the bottle’s almost empty, I broach the subject on both our minds. ‘What now?’

  Ronnie shrugs. ‘I should be safe here until it’s dark.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  She takes another sip of wine. ‘I hear Brazil is nice this time of year.’

  ‘You know, we could go to Clem and explain everything,’ I say. ‘You had no involvement in any of the attacks.’

  ‘I kidnapped you,’ she states.

  ‘Says who?’

  Ronnie raises her eyebrow.

  ‘If I don’t tell them anything, where’s the evidence?’ I ask.

  She drains her glass and holds it up to the light, letting the last shafts of sunshine bounce off the crystal.

  ‘You don’t have to live like this, Ronnie,’ I tell her. ‘Hawk is dead but you can have a different sort of life. If you want it.’

  She doesn’t look at me.

  ‘Will you at least think about it?’ I ask. ‘Promise me you’ll think about it.’

  She puts down the glass and leans over to hug me. She smells of toothpaste and fresh mountain air. ‘You’re a real case, Jo Connolly,’ she laughs.

  Then I feel a sharp sting in my thigh and feel myself fall into blackness.

  When I wake, it’s dark and my head is pounding. There is no sign of Ronnie. I check the telltale pinprick where she injected me and rub it with my finger.

  In the living room, on the bookshelf, next to a huge tome about Paddy Connolly, is a letter. I don’t want to read it, and I wait until darkness falls.

  Finally, I have to pick it up.

  Jo,

  It’s been one hell of a ride, hasn’t it?

  But now it’s time to say goodbye.

  Don’t be sad. Don’t look back.

  The future is ours, Jo, and like you said, we can make it into whatever we want.

  Your friend,

  Veronica-Mae

  Epilogue

  Autumn 2012

  I smile into the cameras.

  ‘What do you think of the prime minister’s resignation, Jo?’ one of the hacks calls out.

  ‘He wants to spend more time with his family,’ I say. ‘I think we can all understand that.’

  ‘Will you throw your name into the ring, Jo?’

  I wag my finger. ‘I’m not a politician.’

  ‘Come on, Jo,’ he shouts. ‘The country needs you.’

  I smile, jump into the Mini and race off to Brighton.

  The hospital receptionist smiles at me with her straight white teeth. ‘Nice to see you again, Miss Connolly.’

  ‘You too,’ I reply and make my way up to Kingfisher ward.

  Rory is waiting at the security door, his eyes fixed on his watch.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask him.

  ‘Eleven oh two and thirteen seconds,’ he says.

  ‘That’s not bad, is it?’

  He looks at me with a frown. ‘You’re two minutes and thirteen seconds late,’ he tells me.

  ‘So not bad?’ I ask.

  Rory frowns at me and gives one slow shake of his head. ‘Not bad,’ he says mechanically.

  We make our way to his room. For the past few months I’ve been paying for Rory to have a private room off the ward. He’s really made it his own with a pea-green duvet, four white towels and the latest MacBook.

  ‘The doc tells me your therapy is going well,’ I say.

  Rory doesn’t answer. To be fair, I haven’t asked a question.

  ‘He says I can take you out for a few hours if you’d like that.’

  Rory’s tongue protrudes through his lips like a big, wet, pink cushion.

  ‘Would you like that?’ I ask.

  ‘Where would we go?’

  ‘How about the beach?’ I suggest. ‘I know a deserted stretch of sand a few miles from here. Would that be okay?’

  ‘I have to come back for lunch,’ he says.

  I nod. ‘I’ll make sure you’re back for one o’clock precisely and if we get hungry in the meantime, I’ve brought a snack.’

  I pull out an opened family bag of peanut M&Ms.

  ‘No red ones,’ I say.