by John Gardner
‘About a mile either side of we here. Probably a little more.’
‘And they’re moving really slow?’
‘About the speed you’d go if you was beating to put up birds on a shoot.’
‘They’re beating then?’
‘Yes. Some’ve got sticks. But they haven’t put anything up yet. ’Bout one in three’ve got sticks. The others’ve got rifles.’
‘With live ammo?’
‘Oh, yes. They got the order to put one up the spout before they set off. They’re sort of dragging behind the first lot, the ones that went from the far side of Old Basing. Now, you’ve got to dismantle this roadblock. Set it up again about a mile up the road. Mile, mile-and-a-half. That’s what they told me.’
It was while they were packing their stuff into their fifteen-hundredweight truck that Golly moved, just an inch or two and the cramp bit into him like some animal sinking its teeth into his leg. He was in terrible trouble, didn’t know how to control himself. Almost gnawed through his lip with the agony that knotted up the muscles in his right leg.
How will I manage? How am I going to get out of this ditch? He was in real agony. The fifteen-hundredweight went off up the road, loaded with the equipment, full of the soldiers and police who had manned the roadblock, its engine noise dying as it got further away.
He rolled over and pulled himself out of the ditch, hauling himself up, clawing at the grass with his hands. In unbelievable pain he got on to his feet and hopped about, trying to undo the cramp. He jumped on one foot and then the other. Then his foot seized up, the left foot, bent down, arched down and locked so that you could almost hear the pain and couldn’t move. He moaned and grunted. But slowly it drained away, leaving a kind of after-pain, so he could hobble about for ten, fifteen, minutes. Then he was exhausted, tired out, drooping.
It was while he was hobbling around that he heard the advancing second wave of beaters, searching as they went, so Golly forced himself to run up the side of the field, then across, to the left, further and further away from the road. A mile, perhaps two miles. In the end he stopped running, breathless, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
Then he turned to face the noise that the lines of men made going through the fields. Even though he had run at least a mile to the side of them he was only about twenty or thirty yards from the left-hand end of the line.
They’re going to have aircraft up tomorrow. Searching.
In the end there’d be nowhere for him to hide, so he stood still as a gravestone and waited until the second line of searchers had gone plodding up the field and into the next field, on and on to the horizon.
Slowly now, Golly made his way back towards the road. Had to have a road to know where he was going. He reached the hedgerow and the ditch he had sheltered in before, and decided to wait until morning. Wait in the ditch. Then, maybe, he’d see somewhere for him to hide up for the day. They’ve searched this bit, he reasoned. They’re not going to search it again. He gathered some sticks and bracken together, thick with rime from the frost, then lay down on them in the ditch. Cold, dreadful cold, he felt, and for a while he drifted off into a lovely dream where Frost Maidens came out of the hedge and ministered to him. Golly didn’t really know what that meant — ministered to him — but he had his own ideas, and even in the cold it seemed to work and warm him.
*
She was standing by the sink peeling a large onion. She held a sharp knife in her right hand and was using it to prise and scrape away the onion’s outer skin. The scent of it filled her nostrils, rising up, making her eyes sting and water. Then, like a wind, Golly was suddenly in the kitchen. So fast that she cried out.
She saw his plundered face, rent in two, and the eyes slanted, one high above the other. She saw his sharp, glinting teeth bared, and heard the animal growl from deep in his throat.
He wore leather gloves and held a shining, thick silver loop of wire, and he was hurling himself towards her throat.
She screamed with the dread of it, then screamed again, loud and piercing. He had come to do the deed of darkness, so she screamed once more, shrieked in terror.
She was still screaming as she woke, and was thrashing about in the dream as Dandy Tom, her lovely man, put his arms around her, restraining her, holding her down, shushing her, calming her as she went on shouting hysterically.
‘Suzie, darling. It’s alright. It’s okay. Shush, angel. Shush, heart. Shush — my darling, shush.’
Twenty-Four
Gypsy Petulengro was probably right, Golly thought, waking from a dull, uncertain sleep, lying in the ditch. Gypsy Petulengro was on Children’s Hour and he talked about nature and the country. Golly liked Children’s Hour with Uncle David and Uncle Mac. He was particularly fond of Toytown with Larry the Lamb and his friend Dennis the Dachshund. Last week, Gypsy Petulengro had said all the signs in the countryside pointed to it being a hard winter. Not quite as bad as last year, but still wretchedly cold. The signs were strong enough — the preponderance of berries and the amount of food animals were storing away. ‘Going to be a cold winter,’ Gypsy Petulengro said.
And that’s how it’s looking, Golly thought. For a few moments he imagined his own body had started to freeze. There were parts of him he could not feel, and in the icy darkness the cold burned into him. He sat up, could hardly move, then he managed to clamber out of the ditch again. He had no idea what time it was. ‘Always darkest before the dawn,’ he said to himself, that’s what his mum would say. But it seemed to be getting light. He looked down and his duffel coat was rimed white with thick frost. Can’t stay like this, Golly. Got to try and move. So he began trudging along the ditch. He didn’t want to stay in the field in case he left footprints in the thick frost. His legs were hard to move, and his feet were locked freezing, so he couldn’t feel them. But as he plodded on, so his feet seemed to return. Blood, he thought, flowing again. Under his breath he started to mutter, ‘When icicles hang by the wall, and Dick the shepherd blows his nail.’ He remembered the bus and the conductor singing, and the young girl in the house out in the countryside, near Stratford. How she screamed. ‘When blood is nipped and ways be foul, then nightly sings the staring owl.’ Good memory, Golly. ‘Birds sit brooding in the snow, and Marion’s nose looks red and raw. When blood is nipped and ways be foul.’ If he set his mind to it he would be able to remember them all. All the pretty girls. Pretty maids all in a row, and he could see the bodies, lying side by side.
‘Ways be foul.’
Golly pulled up the hood of his duffel coat, pushed his head back and covered most of his face. He needed warmth more than anything in the world. More than the girls even: the lovely girls who did not fight back and were not repulsed by him.
He came to the top of the rise and saw the copse, trees running right up to the hedge, so he turned to the left, into the trees and barrelled on through them. He cut his hand on a trailing branch, barked his shin on a stump, but that didn’t matter. Among the trees it was a bit warmer. He needed somewhere to curl up — and he found it. Just enough light to see. A little hide on the tree line, where hunters or birdwatchers could nestle down and wait for game to fly into their sights. There was a door on one side and there had been a padlock but it was broken off, leaving the door swinging. The beaters.
The two long lines of beaters, he decided. They’d gone through the copse like a dose of salts and looked inside to make sure Golly wasn’t hiding in the hide. He giggled to himself, slid down and into the snugness of the place, got out the last of the sandwiches his mum had made for him. Ate them up, but left the crusts. Then he curled up. Warmer. Much warmer. Golly curled up and, out of the breeze and the frost hanging in the air, he became more comfortable in no time at all. Then he drifted off to sleep again, and dreamed of long grass and children laughing and their big sisters watching over them. He preferred the big sisters with their long legs and the softness, unprepared for him. Unprepared for death, which was the only way he’d have them.
He slept until the funny aeroplane turned up.
*
They woke very early, nuzzled each other’s hair, then turned their attention to mouths and other interesting parts. Suzie was quite amazed at her unembarrassed lasciviousness. She had now dived deeply into the experience she had wondered and worried about since her early teens and found that, instead of uneasiness, there was a sense of amazement and comprehension.
Eventually they calmed down and she asked him about his theory — the bottled spider thing: the puppeteer pulling Golly Goldfinch’s strings, lighting his touch paper, sending him, furious, towards a selected target.
Tommy said he still didn’t know, but Jo Benton couldn’t possibly be random: her murder had been thought out, the house watched and the deed done at a particular time. ‘That one was picked,’ he said softly. ‘She was an undisputed target, and so were you, heart. I’m sorry.’
Suzie became upset and wept a little. She had yet to grieve fully, for the job got in the way of the anguish. But Dandy Tom was kind, careful, considerate, turning their conversation into a childlike game: about how they could dupe the Spear Carriers, not let them know how they’d spent the previous night.
He made all this into a kids’ game, laughing and larking around, just as she used to do with Charlotte. It amazed her that this senior, revered police officer could act the fool and become immersed in plotting such a trivial thing as travelling together to work in a taxi and one of them bailing out in Whitehall as they approached the Yard.
‘So which of us is going to jump clear, heart, eh?’ He was like a little boy planning to avoid some disliked teacher at school. ‘Which of us is going to ride in style and which walk?’
He devised a game whereby they dealt out two packs of cards to each other — ‘First one to collect all the aces rides,’ he told her bossily, then, she was pretty sure, he cheated to let her win.
When they actually did it, he made a great thing about watching for other colleagues on the pavement as they drove along Whitehall and he finally got the cabby to pull over so he could descend on to the cold streets.
Suzie turned around and watched him as he quickly disappeared into the trickle of hurrying civil servants all heading towards their boring government jobs. Not as many as usual because it was still the Christmas holiday period, but she saw him vanish, almost melt away, his breath hanging in the cold December air, there for a second, then gone. Dandy Tom, she thought, you’re a wizard. Someone on the team — she thought it was Laura Cotter — had told her that Tommy was capable of turning into a brick wall when he put his mind to it. She hadn’t taken her literally, thought she meant he was stubborn, until now.
Suzie walked into the Reserve Squad offices with an outwardly severe frown and the smiling inner knowledge that she had achieved womanhood in the space of the last few hours.
Shirley was hanging around waiting for her. ‘Skip, you had a chance to talk to the Guv’nor yet? About Big Toe and the Balvaks?’
‘Not yet, Shirl, but he’ll be in any minute, so why don’t you talk with him yourself?’ How do I know he’ll be in shortly? Now she felt guilty and wondered if Shirley was looking at her in a suspicious way.
Molly Abelard was leaning against Tommy’s door. ‘We’ve got the gymnasium for the whole day. Set aside for our personal use. Billy’s coming down later on, but I thought we should have a workout first. Eh, Sister Suzie?’ The unpleasant edge was back in Molly’s manner.
‘Sure. Love to. I’ve just got to make a couple of telephone calls.’
‘Well, be quick, then.’ Abelard had a bit of a sneer in her lip that said, ‘I want to take you apart.’
Suzie took out her notebook, found the number for Daniel Flint in Kensington, asked for it from the switchboard and heard it ring around fifteen times. If it’s a business, the operator told her, it might not be opening again until next week. The New Year. She looked up Jewell, Baccus & Dance and asked the operator for GERrard 341, and when she was through — to a listless Miss Holroyd — she asked to speak to Mr Dance.
‘Who’s on the line, please?’
‘WDS Mountford. Susannah Mountford from Scotland Yard.’
‘And what’s it in relation to?’ The clumsy sentence, the vowels mispronounced or overstressed.
‘I’d just like to speak to him, please.’
‘One moment, caller.’
Then he was there. ‘Josh Dance.’ Pitched low, intense.
‘Mr Dance.’ She made it sound as though it was making her day just to hear him.
‘Miss Mountford, what a nice surprise.’
‘I hope you had a good Christmas, Mr Dance.’
‘Quiet, you know. Very quiet. What can I do for you?’
‘I was thinking of taking you up on that meal. You said any time.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded surprised, a little taken aback. ‘Oh, how delightful. Yes indeed. That’d be lovely. Any particular day in mind?’
She said any time that would suit him, and he said how about Sunday? He was free Sunday night.
‘Lovely. What time shall I come?’
‘Let’s say, five. I know it’s early, but it’ll give us a chance to have a drink. How would that suit?’ A lot of people in London were eating much earlier in the evening because of the raids.
‘Fine. I look forward to it.’
‘So do I. I’ll leave the business door open, so just ring and come in. I’ll come down and meet you. Okay?’
‘Right.’
‘See you then.’
She was tempted to say she hoped he didn’t think her too forward. No, bugger it, we live in a changing world. Keep him in relaxed expectancy, then hit him with a book full of innocent sounding questions.
Tommy had just come in. ‘I’ve fixed Dance. Sunday evening, Guv. He’s cooking dinner for me,’ she told him with a sickly smile.
‘What about Flint?’ he replied, all business.
‘Not answering, sir. May not be back at the treadmill until next week. He was going to stay with relatives in the West Country.’
Huge house, she remembered. Tradition. Big tree in the drawing room. Carols, mince pies, Father Christmas arriving with the local hunt.
‘Keep trying him.’ She didn’t like it that Tommy was being curt with her. Overreacting, she thought. Wouldn’t hurt him to drop me a ‘heart’ now and again.
‘Heart,’ he called her back. ‘Would you like me to do Flint?’
‘As you please, sir.’ She avoided temptation and didn’t add, ‘You’re the boss.’
She went out being shadowed by Molly Abelard, who, as she left, told Dandy Tom that they’d give Suzie a good going over, which she thought was a bit cheeky.
They went down to the basement and drew standard issue PT kit and Abelard led her into the gym and over to the changing room. The Yard had yet to get around to having separate changing rooms, so there were never mixed workouts in the gym. It was the same in the nearest swimming baths.
Molly Abelard, Suzie noticed, wore sensible underwear with a leaning towards athleticism. On the other hand Suzie was embarrassed because she had dressed in full fig, mainly for Tommy’s delight — the white parachute silk French pants Shirley had given her for Christmas, with the suspender belt and nice bra in ivory silk, a present from Charlotte.
‘Tart’s delight, eh?’ Abelard sneered, needling her. What had Tommy said about her?
Have you on your back with a flick of the wrist.
She wondered what Molly Abelard’s aggression was about, then thought it didn’t matter because she was obviously bent on having some kind of set to. Abelard pulled four large exercise mats into the centre of the gym, making them into a square.
‘How much d’you know about self-defence, Suzie?’ Bouncing about on her toes like a tough little rubber ball. They both wore shorts and singlets, and Molly’s muscles were obviously well toned.
‘Oh, just the usual stuff,’ she lied, because she had done the advanced course when she was on the beat in Piccadilly and
Soho. She reckoned that would help but had no illusions about beating Abelard in a one to one.
Now Abelard had a nasty smirk on her face.
‘Okay, just to test your reactions. A few defensive throws.’ She moved to the right, then ducked the other way and came in low, hands going for Suzie’s right wrist. Tough, I know that one. Suzie lifted her arms, locking her hands together to bring them down behind Abelard’s neck. Be careful, you can break someone’s neck, she heard an instructor from the past whisper in her ear, then the world turned upside down and she was low flying over the mats. When she shook the fuzz out of her brain she couldn’t get up because Abelard was standing over her with a foot in the small of her back.
‘Not a good idea to use that two-handed thing,’ Abelard laughed. ‘You leave yourself open and unprotected — as you’ve just discovered.’
Suzie turned over as Abelard stepped back, then rolled and made a grab for her foot, intent on twisting and flooring her opponent. But Molly was too fast for her, turning on one foot and catching Suzie as she tried to flip herself on to her feet again. Before she knew it, Suzie was face down with her arms held in a lock behind her back, causing her a nasty stab of pain that went right into her shoulders.
‘You’re here to learn, Mountford,’ Molly snarled, ‘not to try half-arsed tricks you haven’t mastered properly. And you’re too slow by half. Now listen to me and I’ll teach you a couple of things.’
How easy it was to make an error, to misread a person or a map and take the wrong turning, make the inaccurate decision as she had done now. She had not seen Molly Abelard’s needling for what it was: the spur for anger. She knew the rules, Suzie, and she’d strayed from them, and so been humbled. Now that was over they could start the real work.
First Molly taught her a number of throws and body moves that were not in any of the manuals. Soon she recognized the path they were taking: how not to be caught napping, or off guard.
She still didn’t particularly like Abelard, but now met her halfway, acknowledged her superiority in matters of attack and defence, without any weapons except hands, feet, elbows, knees, or anything that came to hand, like the thin splintering wood of a Bryant & May match box. The outer sleeve of a wooden matchbox would break a person’s nose if you hit them correctly, but so would a blow from the elbow, administered as you turned and struck sideways on. There was jubilation in it, hitting the right place, manipulating the attacker’s body, felling the foe.