The Walking Dead

  We could see him. He ran with those others off our hill and down a slope and started to climb towards those murderous guns. All of their attention was now on this raiding party and we could lift our heads from whatever cover we had and watch. He was hit.

  I saw it. He seemed to be spun round and to fall, but then he stood again, and he followed those who were unhurt, and then was hit again. I saw Daniel go on to the bare ground a second time, and I saw also the spurts of earth of more machine-gunfire. Just once he screamed. It was as f, at that moment, the battle had stopped–no bombs, no shells, no bullets, and I heard Daniel's scream, then nothing. Then that moment of quiet was over.

  I asked Captain Wintringham if I could look through his binoculars. Daniel did not move. It was finished.

  A brave, good life was gone. Because darkness has come, the Moors now will be out in the no man's land between our hill and their machine-guns, and we know what they do. They mutilate the bodies, slash the private parts of their enemy, and they steal anything of value from the dead…It is what they will do, or have already done, to Daniel.

  He and Ralph are the best friends I ever had.

  We cannot get to him to bring him back and bury him. Ralph and I said a prayer for him. Ralph said it clearly and I mumbled it. I could not control my tears. I thanked God for the darkness that hid my weeping. The prayer, Ralph said, was from Psalm 137, and he has a beautiful voice. It was clear and bold against the guns.

  By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept

  When we remembered Zion…

  How can we sing the songs of the Lord

  While in a foreign land?

  I hope I never forget Ralph's prayer–as I will never forget my friend and brother, Daniel.

  The political officer came an hour ago. He said that, we had held the line. He told us that the front was stabilized. We will be pulled back before dawn.

  So, we shall have left Suicide Hill when first light comes, and I do not believe I shall ever again see where Daniel lies–and so many others, us and the Moors, who have charged our position, and there are many who are not dead and who moan and cry out.

  If I had known what it would be, I cannot say I would have come.

  I do not know now why I am here. I do not know now for what I fight. I feel despair, and I dread the next day that comes 'in a foreign land'.

  It is so cold–for Daniel it is worse. Ralph and I, when the candle is finished and I can no longer write, will be together, body against body, for warmth, but we cannot warm our brother, our friend.

  They had gone. Probably, Banks thought, they were now in the stand-by room and had taken over the bar-billiards table. He had hardly noted their going and doubted that anyone had glanced at him. He put his marker in the notebook, an Underground train ticket, and dropped it back into his pocket. He was haunted by what he had read, and sapped…but would have felt shame if he had not stood shoulder to shoulder with Cecil Darke, and had not refused to make the negotiated apology that was asked of him.

  He felt the wet in his eyes.

  It was the Nobbler's moment. He had sat in the car for three hours and his eyeline had given him a decent enough view of the white-painted front door, and the wheelie-bin; the little wicket gate was askew on its hinges. The house reeked neglect, financial hardship and lack of pride, which was as Benny Edwards wanted. He had read a newspaper from cover to cover and eaten a sandwich; the last dregs in the coffee Thermos were cold. He shifted in his seat to look through the sunlight blazing on to the windscreen and knew that the wait was over.

  The buzz ran in him–excitement, adrenaline, expectation. It was always the same when it was his moment. The day was long past when he had worked for money and what money bought him. Today or yesterday he could have gone to an agent–he could go tomorrow–and bought the airline tickets for Faro or Malaga, have done the electronic cash transfers and bugged out to the southern sunshine, could have found the place–with a wide patio, a pool and a view–where he would spend the rest of his days, but he would be without the buzz. He craved it, could not exist without it.

  They came out of the door. The Tango first, then a girl who had a holdall in her hand. The wife followed her daughter to the step, kissed and hugged her, but had nothing for her husband. The Nobbler had allocated the whole of that day, and Sunday, to searching out the optimum moment for the approach. It was never an exact science, needed the flexible thinking on which he prided himself. The only place that an approach, first time up, never worked was at the home when the juror's partner was there, and the doorstep was the poorest option. He wanted the Tango alone and off his beaten track. In his car, on the back seat, a canvas satchel held the carrot, and in his pocket was the photograph that would be the stick. For some Tango subjects the carrot or the stick was quick, for others slow, but the Nobbler had the two days of the weekend to make his approach with carrot or stick.

  They were off down the pavement. He couldn't know where the Tango would lead him.

  He liked what he saw of the scrote, his Tango. The girl was ahead of her father, as if she couldn't wait to be shot of him. He had those daft sandals on and bright socks that the sunlight caught, old trousers and the windcheater from court. He read the shabbiness that was the same as the front door, and the gate on to the pavement that was half off its hinges. He did not believe that the Tango would need the stick on his back, just a bite at the carrot–but he'd show the stick. It was his way and well practised, and he rehearsed the opening words: told his own boy, who would take over the trade when he was past it–not bloody yet–that the first words of the approach either sold or sank a deal. He nudged his car after them.

  They went out of the road on to the main drag and were on the far side of it from the Nobbler.

  They went to the station, crossed the forecourt and stopped where there was a rank for buses to pull in. He understood. The dutiful dad was doing his family bit, escorting his girl, maybe aged fourteen, to the bus and was going to stay with her till it came. He would see her off and would say, doubtless, 'Have a good time at your friend's, don't drink tonight and don't get shagged.' The Nobbler parked on a double yellow, nowhere else, took the Disabled card from the glove box, displayed it and waited some more.

  The bus came.

  As if it was a chore, the girl pecked the Tango's cheek and was away up the step and inside.

  The bus left. The Nobbler noted that the Tango watched it go across the forecourt, raised his arm and waved, and was still waving when it was round the corner and gone, as if he didn't want to let it go.

  The car door closed quietly after the Nobbler. He straightened, his hands flicked over his clothes, smart casual with a decent jacket, as if to smooth creases from them. Important to look good–a grin swept his face–and respectable.

  He came behind him.

  He said pleasantly, 'Excuse me, isn't it Mr Julian Wright? It is, isn't it?'

  He spun awkwardly. 'Yes, that's me. I'm Jools Wright.'

  'I was hoping to meet up with you. Actually, I was trying to.'

  He had been far away in a cloud of thoughts. His daughter and Hannah. Bad thoughts and good thoughts. The little cow, cheekier by the day, sided with her mother…Hannah, whom he'd be with that night. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if it would rid him of the cloud.

  'Do I know you?'

  J don't think so, but..

  'Are you a parent of one of my students? I have to tell you–sorry and all that–I cannot discuss school affairs here.' A new cloud had formed: suspicion.

  'Steady on, Mr Wright. Nothing about school.'

  'About what, then?'

  'About something that might be of advantage to you, Mr Wright.'

  'I'm in rather a hurry I have to get home–I have to–'

  'Considerable advantage, Mr Wright.'

  'Well, some other time. If you'll, please, excuse me.'

  He wanted to run but felt caged–as if he were fettered. A hand was on his arm. The grip tightened. He kne
w it then: he would have to fight to be free…but Jools had never fought in his life. Had never struggled, never kicked, never eye-gouged. He felt panic rising.

  'Nothing for you to worry about, Mr Wright. What I said, something of considerable advantage, and that's going to be worth a few minutes of your valuable time–yes?'

  'I don't know, I really don't.'

  'Let's go and sit in my car for those few minutes. Where's the harm in that?'

  His arm was held vice tight. Jools said limply, 'I can't be late home. I've got to go out again.'

  'So I'll drop you. Now, let's go to my car. No problems, are there?'

  He was walked to the car, his liberty gone. Only when a passenger door had been opened was the grip on his arm loosened. He sagged down into the seat, the door was closed on him and the man walked round the front, then sat behind the wheel. Jools realized that this was the first time he had registered the man's appearance: middle age, average height, average build, average hair, a jacket of a neutral grey, and a shirt with a light check in it, slacks that were a darker grey. But the eyes burned with authority and the grip had been fierce on his sleeve. Under that veneer of reasonableness, almost charm, there had been the implication of violence. Jools sat hunched and taut; his teeth bit into his lover lip. The radio was turned on and there was a low babble of voices from the speakers.

  'Now then, Mr Wright, I hope you'll listen very carefully to me. You will?'

  'Yes.'

  'And you'll hear me right through till I've finished?'

  'I'll hear what you have to say.'

  The man leaned back and edged himself more comfortably into his seat.

  'You, Mr Wright, are currently sitting as a juror in court eighteen at Snaresbrook, right?' His voice was quiet.

  Oh, God…He understood. Jools sighed. What chance of getting clear of the car and running? None. His head dropped and he whispered his answer: 'Yes, I am.'

  'I represent some friends of friends, Mr Wright. The friends of my friends are the Curtis brothers, and you are hearing their case. Now, my friends say that you look to be a reasonable, fair man, one with an open mind 'and not prejudiced. You see, Mr Wright, the Curtis boys have been stitched up by the Crime Directorate. They have been subject to lies and untruths. They are good family men and they are honest, straight businessmen, but you wouldn't know that from the perjured evidence of the police. They are also, Mr Wright, men of exceptional generosity, most of which is directed towards local charities–a child with leukaemia near where they live was sent to the States for treatment, a Boys' Club needed premises, which were funded–but a substantial example of their generosity would be directed towards anyone who stood up for them against all that untruthful police evidence. It's why I said, Mr Wright, that meeting me could be to your advantage. No, don't say anything, just listen, please. To be rewarded with that generosity, you would have to guarantee that your vote would go to a not-guilty verdict, and that you would give your best effort to persuading others on the jury to follow you. Your advantage, their generosity, adds up to twenty-five thousand pounds, Mr Wright, cash in hand. I think you'll agree it's an attractive offer…and I am aware that your financial circumstances are not healthy. It would be a new start, a fresh page. It's on the table.'

  His breath came in little gasps. Under his windcheater, his shirt was soaked in sweat. The man's hand dropped into his jacket pocket.

  A photograph was lifted out. Jools saw the face of his daughter Kathy, her grin and wink to a friend. It was held in front of him, his eyes lingered on it, and then it was back in the pocket.

  'Very pretty girl, Mr Wright, and long may she stay that way. Good complexion, unblemished skin, not a mark on it…I wouldn't, and neither would my friends, want the generosity of the Curtis brothers abused. It would be very sad, with consequences, if a considerable trust were broken.'

  Jools sat very still. Kathy wanted to train as a hairdresser, but no one would want to employ a salon girl whose face had been slashed.

  'You might think it's possible to sit on a fence and play in both sides of the field–that is, to take advantage of the offer and go to the police. Don't consider it. We know where you live, we know where your daughter goes to school. There's an old saying about running but not being able to hide, and I think it comes from American boxing. There would be nowhere to hide. My friends have long arms and longer memories…Now, so that we understand each other, you have two choices, Mr Wright. You can straighten out your finances and pay off your debts and forget about it, or you can spend every minute of your day looking over your shoulder, wondering whether there's a petrol bomb coming through the front window, concerned if your daughter's face is going to stay unmarked, whether what's done to your legs will let you walk again…But I don't think you're an uncooperative man. I reckon you'd realize when generosity was shown you.'

  Could he have stood up to them? He couldn't even meet the gaze, from the dock or the witness box, of Ozzie Curtis. Just looking at the man, with half an army of security and court staff for protection, terrified the wits out of him. And Jools thought of the new credit-card statements and the bank's overdraft letters and the builder's invoice that would be landing on the mat behind his front door. The voice dripped on, and he thought himself shafted. Why not bloody moaning Peter, or that toff Corenza? But it wasn't them who was trapped in the car: it was 'Jools bloody Wright. The blood' surged to his face…Yes, damn right, they'd chosen well.

  'It's half down now, and the other twelve and a half thousand will be in your bin the night the verdict's given, you've voted against conviction and the jury's hung…I almost forgot. If you turn out to be the Great Persuader and talk the others round to an acquittal, it's another twenty-five. Nice money, if you can get it…and, Mr Wright, you can. So, what's it to be?'

  He hesitated. 'How do I know that…?'

  'That the secret stays…? Of course it does. My friends have made an art form of discretion. You'll never hear from us again, believe it.'

  'I do have some financial worries.' Jools grimaced.

  'All in the past, Mr Wright. My advice, use the money in small amounts, nothing big and nothing flash. Pay off the debts in hundreds, not thousands. Don't draw attention to yourself.'

  'I don't know your name.'

  There was a sweet smile. The man drew surgical gloves from his pocket, put them on, reached behind him and took a package from his canvas bag. It was wrapped in brown paper, sealed with tape, and it was dropped on to Jools's lap.

  The car brought him back to the end of his road, and the package was lodged inside his windcheater. He had already thought where to hide it, and he hadn't reached the half-fallen gate to his handkerchief front garden before the car had accelerated away and was round the corner…He didn't have a name and didn't have the car's number.

  Then the shock took him. His hands trembled and his legs shook.

  Chapter 8

  Sunday, Day 11

  Through the window, Ibrahim saw her in the garden. She hung washing on the line. He was not yet dressed and he kept himself half hidden behind the curtains but there was a sufficient gap between them for him to watch her. He ignored the voices and the sounds of the day starting and watched her, waiting for the repetition of her movements. She was bent over the basket and the jeans were tight against her buttocks and hips. She lifted out a shirt, a pair of underpants, or something flimsy that was her own, then stretched up to reach the plastic line that was suspended between two trees. When she reached up her T-shirt rode higher, leaving him a clear view of the skin at the small of her back, and sometimes the flatness of her stomach, the little indentation of her navel. At the moment that she fastened whichever garment it was to the line with pegs, she would arch her back, when the swell of her breasts was most pronounced, and then she would start again.

  He felt breathless. He could not comprehend that she was one of his own Faith. She contradicted everything he had been brought up to value in a woman, above all modesty. It was when she turned an
d lifted the basket, had her back to the line of clothing that swayed in the wind and the sun caught the intricacies of the items that were hers, that she looked–and he thought there was almost sadness on her face–at the windows, but she would not have seen him because he had ducked away. Those who had been his friends in Jizan would have sniggered at the long scar on her face, as if it made her worthless, but Ibrahim did not think it a blemish on her prettiness. When he was back, his nose and mouth close to the glass, she was gone, but he lingered to see the movement on the line of what was hers, what was worn under the jeans and beneath the T-shirt, and there was a tremor in his breathing, and…more movement, on the far edge of the grass behind the cottage.

  The man had no name that Ibrahim knew. He was the heavily built man, the sole member of the group to whom the Leader paid attention. Ibrahim understood what the man did, and the proof of it was in the hours the man spent shut away in his room. There had been the smell from under that door, and then under Ibrahim's, of the heated soldering iron. The man had not spoken to him, not a word, but when they were in the main room together the man seemed to watch him…and Ibrahim thought it was with the care that a customer in his father's shop behind the Corniche gave when he evaluated the most expensive, most prized wide-screen television.