CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mgarr. I have arrived quietly and alone. Its narrow, pre-car streets harass my search but eventually, and with luck, I find the address I’m looking for - a ground floor apartment in a three storey block. And now, what now? Knock the door and what? Force? Explain? Charm? At this hour, eleven at night? The curtains are drawn, and a gentle light contained within. I could wait then break in, but if she woke, what would I do to shut her up? Is she alone? Could she be, in a street as densely packed as this? This isn’t right. Not now. I start the engine and pull away.
Oakley’s house. Black without light. I park, tuck the car into a field then walk up the lane to the house. Reaching the grounds, I stand and listen. Silence, more than before, not even the sound of falling water. With gun in hand, I walk to the door. Finding it locked, I ring the bell for a good twenty seconds. No sound or movement answers back, so I kick the door open and let myself in.
I stand, listening. Again silence. The darkness washed by the light from my torch. No alarms have sounded, not here, not to scare, but maybe elsewhere to warn and inform. My plan is simple, look for his phone. I find it, one handset at least, neatly placed on a bare kitchen table. Scrolling through the menu, I find the phonebook and then what I came for, two numbers assigned to Rosemary, her home and mobile numbers.
Does the phone send and receive text messages? It does. I call Rosemary’s mobile. After a dozen rings, the call is answered,
‘Hello,’ a female voice, soft and nervous, but then her phone is telling her a ghost is calling.
I cancel the call. Then quickly write and send her a text message, which reads:
"The envelopes. I need them, tonight. By Oakley’s request."
Less than a minute later, I receive a reply.
"When? Where?"
I reply.
"Your house. 10 minutes?"
"Yes"
"I’m coming."
Could the house offer me anything more? Possibly. Time though dictates my action. Back to the car and then, again, to Mgarr.
I park opposite her apartment. Nothing seems to have changed. Other than a group of male youths hanging out on parked mopeds, the streets are empty.
Stepping out of the car, the sound of a helicopter, distant but nearing, disturbs the sleepy peace. Holding the envelope from the safe, and displaying it as some sort of ID, I quickly approach the apartment. Reaching the door, I gently knock. It opens immediately, shy and mistrusting. Hunched behind the dark, narrow opening I glimpse an elderly woman who I assume must be Rosemary. Without looking at me, she passes a canvass holdall through the gap and drops it on the ground.
‘Go, quickly. People are watching,’ she says, hushed and impatient.
She pulls the door firmly shut. I take the bag, which is heavier than I expect, and return to the car. People, who? Neighbours?
Inside the car, I put the envelope back in the rucksack then unzip the holdall to check inside. There are at least twenty, well-packed, A4 envelopes, sealed and addressed. Not wishing to linger I start the car and pull away.
Once clear of the town, I accelerate hard into the countryside. As far as I can tell I am all alone. Nobody is watching or following, at least not from the road.
Slowing the car, I give in to curiosity. I take an envelope from the holdall, rip it open and pull out the paper. The front page is blank. Page two and three, blank. Flipping through, every page is blank. This means?
I slam on the brakes, grab the rucksack then, with the speed dipping to forty, open the door and throw myself out. I hit the road hard, with the rucksack cradled protectively between my chest and my forearms. Crunched in the fetal position, instinct gives me the sense to roll my body over the scraping road. A flash of light explodes into my eyes; a shockwave smashes through me and a sound wave stabs at my ears. A dry stone wall stops me dead. Breath and energy collapse from within me. I hear shrapnel hitting the ground around me, but I have no movement to protect me. The car, raging with fire and spinning like a demented firework, drags to a halt in the middle of the road. A flashing light in the sky, the helicopter, catches my eye. Is it them, here to watch? Well, let them see me dead. I toss the rucksack over the wall, as gently as I can, then haul my leaden body towards the burning car. If they are watching, they must use thermal imaging cameras. If so, let me vanish into the heat print of the car. I crawl through the dense, hot air as close as I can then a metre more. Turning my back to take the lashings of heat, I lay on the rapidly warming asphalt. My lungs, spared the fumes, which rise vertically into a windless sky, burn with every timid breath I take. The helicopter continues to hover. My hair and clothes, full with heat, begin to burn and singe. Several minutes pass until I hear the sound of a siren approaching. Finally, the helicopter speeds away.
I scramble to the side of the road and leap over the dry stone wall. In the field, I recover the rucksack. A flashing blue beacon rapidly nears. I turn and run. My injuries queue to take a scream. Having cleared fifty plus metres, I hurdle the wall and take to the road.
Am I dead? Do they celebrate my death, the killing of a problem?
With a good mile already banked, the whining sound of a moped engine catches me from behind. I turn and look, a single headlight jostles my way. As it reaches me, it slows. Two male youths, the rider and passenger, are amused at my current situation. They pull up beside me and mouth some words of discouragement. It takes no thought at all. I lash out and knock them from their ride. With the moped floundering, I free it from the ground and take it as my ride.
Am I invisible? How long before they know? If they celebrate my death, then I have time. Time to disappear or time to move closer?
Make a decision then pursue it without fear. Once again, I hear my mother’s voice. Once again, I see her, full of fear. Full of fear but never, not once, did she cower. Never broken. Let all fear in. Take it. Absorbed it. Accept all consequence.
The Research Centre, what else is in there? What else can I take and learn? Would they expect me to return? Would they expect me to never run away?
Come, Time Page 18