Survive

by Tom Bale

  ‘Borko wishes to see you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He shakes his head: Not that. ‘Come now, please.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  An impatient twitch of his eyebrows. He starts to move away.

  ‘Hold on. I need to get dressed.’

  She closes the door and makes a point of locking it again. Into the bathroom to freshen up, then she puts on the dress she wore the last night. She knows Naji will be pissed off by the delay, even if it’s only a couple of minutes. Part of her is aware that she shouldn’t be doing anything to antagonise these men, but she’s in such deep trouble already that it has brought out the reckless side of her character.

  He knows how much your father is worth, Gabby.

  He thinks he owns you.

  His promises could all be lies, and there isn’t a single thing you can do about it.

  61

  Hussein is quietly fuming when Gabby emerges. In silence they hurry to the small viewing room at the back of the house. It’s the nerve centre for the operation, although at present all the screens are blank. The single technician on duty is hunched low in his seat, as if hoping to go unnoticed.

  Borko sits behind him, in a high-backed office chair, anchoring himself with one foot while swivelling restlessly from side to side. Gabby takes in his dejected air and knows at once that something bad has happened.

  The girl was ill, she remembers. An insect bite, as far as they can make out.

  Borko looks up. His gaze is distant, distracted. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to disturb you, but I decided you’d want to be informed.’

  ‘Why? What’s gone wrong?’

  He waves her to a vacant chair, then signals to the technician.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gabrielle. I don’t think any of us could have anticipated this.’

  The main screen blinks into life: an infra-red view of the clam-shell shape of the family’s shelter. But for the gentle shimmer of moonlight on the water, it could be a still picture rather than video.

  They watch for thirty seconds. Nothing happens. Gabby wants to say something but the atmosphere of foreboding robs her of the will to speak.

  Then movement. The camera zooms in, framing the boat and the indistinct shapes of the family beneath it. A slight ridge in the sand above the boat means the figures are not fully visible. It’s a ghostly scene in infra-red: the dark grey sand, the lighter grey of the human forms. Gabby leans forward in her seat, identifying Jody on the outside, with Grace next to her and then Dylan. The children are lying on their sides, presumably asleep.

  It’s Sam who has moved, rising carefully in the confined space. He crouches over his son, his arms each side of Dylan’s head, his face so close that he might be whispering in the boy’s ear. Sam is bare-chested, and there’s something in his right hand – a balled-up shirt, maybe. That hand appears to be touching Dylan’s face.

  Weird.

  He stays frozen in place for what feels like a very long time, then moves across to Grace and assumes the same stiff pose. It brings to mind a vampire poised to strike. Again the bundle in his hand is right next to her face, and Gabby can only think of how it must reek of Sam’s sweat.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ The question slips out, regretted the moment she speaks. The men in the room ignore her.

  Eventually Sam lifts himself over Grace and kneels beside Jody. They have a clearer view of him now. Gabby registers the tension in his body, the oddly blank expression on his face. He stares at the shirt for a few seconds then tosses it aside, leans over Jody and grabs her throat with both hands.

  Gabby lets out a yelp. Finally she understands what she is witnessing.

  The children first; now Jody.

  She sinks back in her chair, afraid she might pass out. On screen, Sam is trembling with the effort he’s putting into his task, the muscles in his arms and back standing out in rope-like cords. Below him, Jody hardly moves at first, then she spasms violently. One of her feet starts drumming against the sand; an arm comes up, flailing against Sam’s body, but he is far too strong. A few more seconds and her arm flops back on the sand and she is still.

  So that’s it. In the viewing room there is a silence so intense that Gabby can almost hear the cold sweat popping from the pores on her forehead. She realises she isn’t breathing, and has to make a conscious effort to start again.

  To think she genuinely believed she could ensure their survival. After all, she’d made a deal with Borko. She’d stayed close, using her influence to argue in their favour when she could have sloped off and had nothing more to do with it.

  This, she sees now, is simply what she told herself to counteract the guilt at betraying them in the first place.

  Sam climbs off and rests back on his knees. His shoulders slump and his head droops forward, as if waiting for the executioner’s blade. Then he rises to his feet and removes one of the wooden props, bearing the weight of the boat while he takes out the other prop and gently – almost tenderly – lowers the upturned craft, setting it down over the bodies of his family.

  ‘Entombed,’ Borko murmurs. He doesn’t sound happy about it, but he doesn’t sound all that troubled either.

  Gabby knows she will require every atom of self-control to keep a lid on her feelings. In that sense it’s almost a relief to go on watching, not having to face Borko or Naji until she’s had time to compose herself.

  Sam stands over the hull with his head bowed and his hands pressed together. The picture isn’t clear enough to see if his lips are moving, but it’s a safe bet he’s saying a prayer. Then he picks up one of the stakes and sets off along the beach. The camera follows him until he disappears from its range, then clicks back to the upturned boat.

  The tomb.

  62

  Borko has viewed the footage several times. On this replay his attention is reserved for Gabby. He watches her surreptitiously and notes how well she conceals her grief. After a suitable period of reflection, he clears his throat and says, ‘I truly didn’t think he would react in such a way.’

  She exhales through her nose. ‘As you said, it’s just a lot of poor quality DNA that won’t now get passed on.’

  The bitterness stings, so he doesn’t have to pretend to look hurt. ‘Perhaps I was too harsh. The manner of their deaths has upset me, particularly as there are young children involved.’

  ‘So you’re admitting it was a mistake, taking a family and… torturing them, basically?’

  Naji grunts in a way that communicates his displeasure at her insolence. Borko’s calming gesture is intended as much for his aide as for Gabby.

  ‘In the light of these events, I would have to say yes, it was.’

  The admission throws her off balance. She nods vigorously, then looks back at the screen. ‘So where is he?’

  At Borko’s command, the technician brings up footage from a camera on the next bay to the west. It tracks Sam as he climbs down from the ridge and staggers halfway across the beach before weaving towards the sea. He looks like a drunk on his way home from a party, gesticulating in a manner that suggests he is arguing with himself.

  After stumbling through the shallows, he returns to the sand and makes for higher ground. Another camera follows him into the next bay, where once again he heads for the water. This time he trips over and is submerged for a few seconds, hauling himself out as if unsure where he is. On he goes, floundering across yet another bay. A final close-up shows him briefly turning back, his face contorted by what appears to be an agonised scream. Borko catches Gabby wincing at the sight, as if for a moment she can set aside what Sam has done and feel his pain, his grief, as keenly as if it were her own.

  But that’s impossible, of course. She can’t begin to appreciate Sam’s state of mind, any more than Borko can.

  ‘We lose him after this,’ he says. ‘There are no more cameras at that end of the compound.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘If he’s intent on harming himself, there i
s little we can do to stop him.’

  ‘Haven’t you sent anyone in?’

  With a sigh, Borko checks his watch. As much as he admires Gabby’s strong character, he wonders if perhaps Naji is right. He’s too indulgent where attractive women are concerned.

  ‘Not yet. At first light we’ll retrieve the bodies.’

  ‘But what if… I mean, say one of the kids is still alive?’

  Borko shakes his head. ‘You saw the footage. Sam was a man possessed. He will have made sure.’

  Borko’s right. Gabby wishes he’d woken her earlier. Perhaps she could have persuaded him to dispatch a medic straight away.

  She wants to rant and rave at Borko, but her attitude already has him bristling, and Naji keeps shooting venomous glances in her direction. Borko suggests she goes back to bed, promising to fetch her when the boat goes in.

  There’s no point in refusing. What she desperately needs is privacy. Sanctuary.

  She returns to the room and locks the door, stands under a hot shower for several minutes and bawls her eyes out. And that’s when it hits her – the reason why Borko brushed off her suggestion about the children.

  After what’s happened, there’s no way that Dylan or Grace could be permitted to survive. If Sam hadn’t done the job properly, Borko’s men would have had to finish them off.

  Gabby dresses again before lying face down on the bed. She doesn’t sleep, doesn’t want to sleep: she’s too afraid of her dreams.

  It’s slightly less than an hour when she’s roused again, this time by a softly spoken member of Borko’s security team. No sign of Naji in the viewing room. Perhaps he’s coordinating the clean-up operation, or perhaps he’s just gone to bed, disgusted by the way his boss permitted Gabby to talk back at him.

  The same technician is still cowering in his seat, but otherwise she’s alone with Borko. She takes a seat to one side of the main console, leaving two empty chairs between them. Borko recommends a coffee to wake her up, and Gabby can’t think of a good reason to refuse.

  Outside, a few birds are chirping and squawking. The room’s single window shows a pale sky, with a distinctive peachy glow to the east that she associates with the exhaustion of the weekly graveyard shift, the airport run to collect the bleary-eyed passengers from a Manchester flight that arrives at two a.m.

  The surveillance cameras have switched to daytime vision, yet somehow the scene looks less real now: the beach cold-washed by the blue morning light; a raw image of churned-up sand and a few seabirds circling and always the dreadful stillness of the boat, like a coffin washed up on an alien shore.

  One of the birds swoops down to land on the hull, where it nuzzles at the wood. If Sam hadn’t thought to cover the bodies, the bird would be pecking at their eyes–

  Gabby retches, swallows down bile. Borko regards her with concern.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Something caught in my throat.’

  A servant brings the coffee, to which Gabby adds plenty of sugar, and sips it with gratitude. On screen, the camera picks up the motorised dinghy as it races towards the beach. There are only two men on board, leaving plenty of room for the grim cargo which will accompany them on the return journey.

  ‘What about Sam?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve stepped up security around the perimeter, and sent another patrol to look for him.’ A little shrug. ‘If he ended up in the sea, it’s possible he’ll never be found.’

  The men are dressed in boiler suits. They trudge up the sand, clearly not relishing the task ahead. Halfway up, one of them abruptly straightens, perhaps remembering that their boss will be watching on camera.

  Gabby steels herself as they stand alongside the boat. She doesn’t want to see them moving the bodies, but nor can she bring herself to look away. This feels like retribution for her part in their deaths. She has to face it.

  The men squat and try to lift the boat, but it barely moves. They let go for a moment, seemingly puzzled. Is it stuck, somehow?

  From Borko, a growl of displeasure. ‘What’s stopping them?’

  As they set to it once more, a figure bursts from the trees, swinging a lump of wood which strikes one of Borko’s men on the side of his head. He collapses against his colleague, who struggles to stay on his feet while also fumbling for something on his belt, but the attacker is in a frenzy, driving the fatter end of the club into his stomach and then butting him full in the face. The second man trips, falls, and takes another couple of blows while he’s down, his hands raised in a plea for mercy.

  When he is satisfied that neither of them poses a threat, Sam Berry turns to stare at the camera, slowly raising his arm and jabbing his index finger, several times, as though thrusting a knife.

  Gabby isn’t sure if it means: You did this. Or maybe: You’re next. But what’s clear is that everything has changed once again.

  63

  The red mist. Sam’s brother has a way of making it sound like an excuse. I can’t be blamed for kicking some guy’s head in, because the way he looked at me brought on the red mist.

  It isn’t an excuse, but at least Sam now understands what Carl meant – and why his brother is currently serving a four-year prison sentence for grievous bodily harm. While Sam’s in this mood he feels like he can do anything. There’s no question of right or wrong, no limitations or laws that matter: just a crystal-clear purpose and a determination to do what needs to be done.

  Well, now it is done – the first stage, anyway – and he can let that mist start to clear. There’s still a good supply of rage inside, ready to fire up again when it’s needed.

  The first man took a hell of a whack. As Sam crept back through the trees, moving slowly in near total darkness for what felt like hours, he had plenty of time to weigh up whether he should use one of the stakes as a weapon. Swung with full force, he knew it was capable of killing a man, and by the look of it that’s what has happened here.

  He checks the other guy first. He’s got a bashed up nose, maybe a cracked rib or two; semi-conscious but not permanently out of action. Sam grabs one of the bungee cords, rolls the man on to his belly and ties his hands behind his back. The man starts whining and moaning, until Sam slaps him on the head.

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  The first man still hasn’t moved. He’s all twisted, a trickle of blood leaking from his ear. Sam doesn’t even check for a pulse. He grabs the man’s feet and drags him away from the boat.

  Pausing a moment to catch his breath, he’s aware of the adrenalin rush fading, leaving him exhausted – disheartened, even. He stares at the upside down boat and reflects on the risks he took. Has it been worth it?

  Then comes a knocking on the inside of the hull. A worried voice calls out, ‘Sam? Is that you?’

  To Jody the fight is a succession of brutal, sickening noises, sending her imagination into overdrive. When it falls quiet, she has no idea whether it’s Sam out there, or whether his plan failed. She pictures him being subdued by men with guns; after lifting the boat and finding her alive, they raise their weapons and open fire…

  This terror only adds to the hellish quality beneath the boat. Sam had warned her it would be tough, that it could be hours before anyone came to investigate, but she never dreamt that the close confinement would affect her so profoundly.

  A rehearsal of her own death, that’s how it seemed. Try as she might, she hasn’t been able to shake off the effect of being throttled. Sam kept his hands as loose as possible around her throat, but for the sake of realism he’d pressed down with all his strength, his face contorted with a viciousness that looked too intense to be faked.

  Her last glimpse of him, before she shut her eyes and played dead, convinced Jody that he could be doing this for real.

  Thankfully the kids stayed asleep during the charade. She had been desperately afraid that one of them would wake while Sam was pretending to smother them, ruining the illusion in the minute or two before the boat was lowered and they were hidden from view.

&
nbsp; She had expected that to be a relief, but instead the claustrophobia gathered in her chest like smoke. It quickly grew stifling, despite another of Sam’s clever ideas – earlier he’d nudged a couple of small rocks into position beneath the boat, keeping it propped a few centimetres off the ground at the lower end, where it couldn’t be seen by the cameras. Jody was forced to waggle her feet to try and stir the sluggish air. She moved as much as the cramped space allowed, tormented by the insects that made their home in the sand.

  Grace and Dylan were equally disturbed, writhing and itching in their sleep; whenever they started to wake, Jody did her utmost to send them back off before they could register where they were. It worked, just about, except for one occasion when Dylan briefly opened his eyes and grumbled: ‘Don’t like this room.’

  ‘Ssh, your sister’s asleep. It won’t be for long.’

  Sam’s final brainwave was potentially the most important one. When Jody heard someone approaching, she was to wrap her arms around the seat above her head and place her feet on the seat at the other end. That way she was adding her body weight to the boat, making it heavier to lift. The idea was to disorientate whoever came to investigate, giving Sam a better chance of taking them by surprise.

  But has it worked? Unable to bear another second, she knocks and calls out: ‘Sam? Is that you?’

  No answer; just a creak of timber as someone nudges against the boat, taking hold of it.

  Then a voice: ‘Jode, you can let go.’

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ But she’s thinking: Why didn’t you answer straight away?

  She understands a little better when she catches sight of him. Sam looks a decade older, hollowed out with tension and fear. Groaning with the effort of lifting the boat, somehow he finds the strength for one mighty heave which rolls it right over, thudding down on the sand. Beside her, the children jerk at the noise, but neither of them is fully awake yet.