The Walking Dead

  He did the arithmetic in his mind. Ibrahim Hussein, wearing the T-shirt of The Threatened Swan had gone through King Khalid airport, had flown out of Riyadh, seven days before. Ibrahim Hussein, still in that damn shirt, had come off the Eurostar five days before. Hegner leaned back, groped, found Mary's arm. 'That boy was met at that train station.'

  'But we didn't have a face for the greeter, only the boy.'

  'Describe the build of the greeter.'

  He heard the snap of the lock on her shoulder-bag. He had already decided on the body shape. He sought only to confirm his status. She was rifling among papers. Another question was put, was met by the same silence.

  Mary said, 'Big, heavy and filling an anorak, over six feet in height, and two thirty–could be two forty–pounds was the estimate.'

  Hegner stood; in doing so he kneed the groin of the officer beside him, did not apologize. He swung his stick ahead of him, hit the leg of another officer and the table's. 'I find the air kind of suffocating in here,' he said.

  He shook Mary's hand off his arm. From the door he called, 'Thank you for your welcome,' and he murmured, too softly to be heard, 'Keep going the way you are and you might break him by Christmas.'

  He set off down the corridor at pace, and Mary Reakes was skipping to keep up with him. He remembered exactly each step he had taken into the building, and the route to get clear of it. Hegner stopped, stood in the yard, and the rain lashed him. He said, 'They're going nowhere, and fast. That was a joke.'

  He heard Naylor: 'Quite predictable, they never talk–all of them have had the training on resistance to interrogation.'

  'That was no interrogation, that was like a PTA conversation.'

  He heard Mary Reakes: 'In the gathering of evidence to go before a court it is not permitted to suggest that cooperation will be rewarded with a reduced sentence. It would be what we call "offering an inducement". It's not admissible–would most likely lead to acquittal.'

  'Mary, you're a great lay but this is old men's work and you'd do well to go sit in your tower, dream moralities and stay clean.' There was a gasp, a choke, then a clatter of her heels, and he heard their car door open, then slam.

  Naylor said, hoarse, 'Spit it, Joe, get it out.'

  'Do you want to crack this guy or not? Do you want to listen for the bang, then scrape up the bits on the pavement and up the buildings' walls to stay clean? Who's going to go the extra mile? Where I work, we do that mile, get the mud on our boots, then they talk. You got hang-ups, Dickie? Are you in the lady's camp, waiting for the explosion? Think I got you wrong, Dickie. Maybe you're a man to go slack on me. Do you have people who'll do the business, do what's necessary?'

  'I'm not her cheer-leader but what you said to her was out of order. She's in the car now, sobbing. Please, make your peace…Yes, I do have such men and I've put them on stand-by.'

  'Get them here–talking is wasting time. Trust me, Dickie, you ain't got time.'

  Hegner went to the car.

  Naylor stood in the centre of the yard, the rain coursing down his face. He dialled.

  He thought it was about duty. About, of course, the carrying-out of a verbal instruction–no minutes taken, nothing on paper…no. He covered himself in those two frail cloaks. It was the right thing to do, and it was an order given him.

  His call was answered.

  Dickie Naylor understood the effect of a bomb blast: the hammering detonation, the sound coming faster and louder than an express train from a tunnel, the orange- and yellow-tinted flash that almost blinded, the leaping column of acrid smoke and the slower climb of the debris, then the pressure wave of heated, dirtied air. He understood also the injuries of a bomb blast that killed and mutilated men and women and children thrown down with their bladders and sphincters loosened, pieces of concrete, glass, stonework and roofing tearing into their chests and stomachs, heads and limbs and shredding them. For many only tiny fragments of their humanity remained–the fingers on a severed fist or a shoe still worn on a foot; the spinal column often survived intact but lungs collapsed fatally from compression and so did spleens and livers; entrails were exposed and heads cast off…and if it was a cold day, or a chilly night, when a bomb exploded, steam exuded from the cut-open bodies of the dead and the living…And then there was quiet. Dickie Naylor, the nearly man, could justify his call to an island of the Inner Hebrides.

  He spoke briefly, concisely, said what would happen and what should be done–and heard the gulls, the sea, the bloody gale's whine, and rang off.

  Still, it rained; still he stood in the centre of the Paddington Green yard. He dialled again. He could not see into the car, did not know whether the old goat comforted Mary, or whether she, too, now received a lecture on martyr cells and motivation–maybe on the virtues of the legitimate weapon of torture…His call, into a personal line, was answered.

  'Tristram, it's Dickie…Yes, I'm fine, yes…I'm at the Green. Our boy is sitting in an interview room and looking at the floor or the wall or the ceiling, saying nothing. Tristram, we need to move on a stage, on to areas we discussed…Yes, they're coming, but I need transport for them. I can't authorize, at my level, RAF flights. That has to come from you. I suppose we need a helicopter and a lift to a fast jet, an executive, for the leg down here…No, Tristram, I haven't a clue where the helicopter should pick them up, but there must be somewhere that isn't bog. When you've done the necessary, get the boys in blue to call me and I'll have the phone number they can liaise with…Tristram, I doubt I have to stiffen your resolve, but the clock's ticking. There is no alternative…I'm grateful, Tristram, for your appreciation of what needs doing. I'm on my way in and we have a mountain to clear, know what I mean?…Yes, "obfuscation" is an apt word for it. Be with you in an hour.'

  He felt a burden was now shared and was relieved for that. He .strode to the car, brushed the rain off his coat.

  Mary Reakes sat bolt upright in the seat beside the driver.

  Hegner was saying, '…I accept there are no stereotypes for activists, but what is a common factor is the sense of brotherhood, family, .tribe that exists inside the cell. It has taken over the role of parent and sibling. He might, after a few days of gentle probing persuasion, betray his father, mother, brother and sister, his cousins.

  He will not, unless under extreme pressure, betray the cell…Dickie, you look like hell., You gotten things moving?'

  He nodded bleakly, and slipped into the car. He could not get out of his head the quiet voice on the line, the birds' cries, the waves' roar and the gale's song.

  They walked together, bent against the surge of the wind, to the McDonald farm.

  At the door, declining politely an invitation to come inside for a pot of tea, Xavier Boniface told the farmer that they had business on the mainland, and would be away three days, or four.

  Donald Clydesdale, and he knew there would be no hesitation from the farmer, asked if care could be taken of the cow, Marigold, and the heifer calf, Daisy, born in the lee of the hill that was close to the cliff of Cnoc nan Gabhar.

  They would be attended to, and their sheep, goats, fowls and geese.

  Boniface asked the farmer if he had seen the sea eagles up over the cliff and hunting in bad weather, and the farmer said they must hunt because the young in the eyrie had hatched. And he wished them well and did not ask what was their business off the island.

  They trudged back to their house to pack their bags and make ready the gear they would take south. The light was failing and the weather worsening. It would be a rough flight for the helicopter's pilot, and there would only be the bright lights of their flash lamps to guide him in, but neither Xavier Boniface nor Donald Clydesdale had considered refusing the summons to come south.

  His voice torn away by the wind, Clydesdale said, 'It'll be a hard nut to crack if Mr Naylor's called us.'

  'Hard or soft, it'll be an important nut and needing to be cracked quick,' Boniface said. 'Nuts–hard or soft–with the right treatment, they all crack.'
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  The camera lens, like a fierce eye, caught him. He had the sheet of paper on his knee. Ibrahim Hussein, the drop-out first-year medical student, thought that at last he had memorized the text given him. He sucked in air, waited for the dropped finger to tell him to begin and felt a tightness through his body…He was told the bulb was blinking, that a new battery was needed, and the tension subsided, the text vanished from his mind. He heard the hiss of annoyance from the darkness behind the light that beamed on to him.

  He knew now that Ramzi, the muscle, had run. Knew, too, that crisis engulfed the cell. Knew, also, that time was precious. It was to be his fourth attempt to speak the words written for him, and on three attempts he had stumbled and the thread had been lost. The filming of the video had first been held up by an argument between Faria, who had written it, and Jamal, who operated the camera: what language should be spoken? The Arabic, with the dialect of Asir Province, that was easiest for him and most suitable for the Al Jazeera satellite audience? The English that she had composed and that was aimed at the Crusaders' society? But Ibrahim Hussein did not have the depth of vocabulary to translate from English to the Saudi tongue, and Faria and Jamal had the taught Arabic of the Book, which was insufficient…The argument had been resolved by the Leader's cutting response to the delay: 'It is not important. He will speak what is given him.' Then more bickered problems.

  Should he, or should he not, wear the waistcoat?

  The martyrs in Lebanon, Palestine and occupied Iraq wore robes when their video statements were recorded, carried weapons and had slogans in praise of God painted on to the wide bandannas tied across their foreheads. There were no robes in Oakdene Cottage, and no Kalashnikov assault rifles. She denied it had been her responsibility to provide robes that fitted him. Jamal criticized the lack of a weapon, even a replica. The Leader had said, 'Again, it is of no importance. He does not want to wear the waistcoat, he does not–he does and he wears the waistcoat. Ask him.' They did. Ibrahim had said he would wear the waistcoat and, taking great care not to dislodge the wires between the sticks, the batteries and the button switch, the girl had eased his arms into it, then settled it on his shoulders.

  The waistcoat's weight was on him. The girl sidled close to him, took the sheet of paper and he saw, momentarily, her smile–as if she encouraged him. He tried, in desperation, to remember what he would say–and why.

  The finger dropped.

  Ibrahim gulped.

  The light bored into his face and the lens was bright.

  He recited what he had learned. 'I would like to say to you that I have come to Britain to strive in the path of God and to fight the enemies of the Muslim faith. I am the living martyr. God, be He exalted. At this time when the oppression of the Crusaders and infidels destroys our people in all of the world where we live, I look for martyrdom as a sign that we–believers of the true Faith–can never be defeated. I…'

  The voice from the darkness was guttural, cold. 'You sound like a parrot. A parrot is taught words that have no meaning–they are just spouted. Do it with feeling, or forget it.'

  He cringed. The waistcoat constricted his breathing and lay heavy on him; in his nose was the stale smell of the filth in the bags. She came from the side, slipped into his vision. Her hand was on his neck and her fingers massaged the tightness of the muscle–where the pressure from the waistcoat's weight was.

  She said, 'We love you and we admire you. Nothing can stop you, no one. We are privileged to walk in your shadow. The sun shines on you and God's hand is on you and will guide you. In this country, in little streets and in homes and in all holy places–wherever Muslims live and gather–your name will be spoken and God's greatness will be glorified. You give us an example of dedication that we will strive to follow. Believe it1 and say it.'

  He believed it. Her hand loosed his shoulder. Where there had been a listless struggle to remember, there was passion. She slipped back and was beyond his vision. He said it: 'I give my life readily because the British authority attacks Muslims where they are weak and cam-tot defend themselves. I avenge the wrongs done by the British, and many more will follow me. I go, God willing, to Paradise. Pray for me.'

  The voice from the darkness growled, 'It is satisfactory. Save it and box it.'

  He slumped. Light flooded the room and the curtains were pulled back.

  The girl helped him out of the waistcoat. He thought there was tenderness in the motion of her fingers. We love you and we admire you. It was as if, Ibrahim Hussein believed, she alone had time for him…Then a stark truth hit him. There was now no retreat. He must walk.

  His testament was recorded. He had said: 'I go, God willing, to Paradise.' His own words condemned him.

  He carried his tray away from the counter. He skirted the tables and made a target of the one furthest away from them. Into Banks's ears came the bleat of the one called Peter: 'This stuff might be all right for strapping young soldiers needing their strength built up–not for us. Sausages and chips. A pork chop that is more fat than meat and chips. Fish that drips with batter and chips…Someone might have told these people about cholesterol levels. What's this going to be doing to our hearts? Frankly, it's a disgrace.'

  Food did not matter to him. At work and at home in his bedsit, he ate what was fast and convenient. He would have reckoned his fitness levels compensated for the rubbish he swallowed, snatched when he had time.

  A plate loaded with sausage, bacon, beans, fried bread and chips was on his tray, with a can of soft drink He sat at the table, distanced from them. He ripped back the ring-pull, swilled the drink and started to eat.

  He had not dented the plate's heap when he heard the shuffle of feet, loose sandals, behind him. 'Mind if I do? Is it permitted?'

  He emptied his mouth. 'Please yourself.'

  It was hardly a welcoming invitation, but enough for his Principal. On Wright's plate there was a chop in a pond of gravy, peas, but no chips.

  'Not much to write home about, is it? The food…'

  'It's what's on offer,' Banks said curtly. It had been his intention to sit quietly, alone, at the table, clear his plate and then submit to the addiction–open that bloody notebook, take his fix if he could find a vein to lance the needle into.

  He kept his eyes on his food, listened to his Principal eat.

  Banks had meant it, what he had thought in the courtroom, the hatred. But the guy was in his pocket, in his mind, and the bloody place where the guy was…There should have been a photograph. Maybe an outing from work, before he'd travelled, down to the coast; a group of young men in suits and shirts with collars, ties knotted below the stud. Without a photograph, he could hate but could not ignore the damn man. He was thinking of Cecil Darke's food: no meat, no fat, no fried chips served up in the forward positions on Mosquito Hill.

  'Well, Mr Banks, what sort of day have you had?'

  'Just a day, a day's work.'

  'Me, I've had a good day.'

  'Pleased to hear that, Mr Wright.' He mouthed it, hoped that his lack of interest would register and be rewarded with quiet. No bloody chance.

  'See that Vicky, sat behind you?'

  He didn't turn.

  'I reckon anyone, and wouldn't take too much patience, is in there with a chance, a damn good one. Shoving her curves out for everyone to see. She's rather lovely, don't you think?'

  He lied: 'I hadn't noticed her.'

  There was a grin opposite him. 'Don't you do women, Mr Banks? Don't you have time for them? God, I'm telling you, it's an empty world without women–specially women like that Vicky. You married, Mr Banks? That why you don't do women?'

  'Divorced, actually.'

  He didn't have to–could have put his head down and gone on clearing the plate–but Banks broke the rules of his trade: he told his Principal about Mandy, about Mandy's adultery, about the dispute on the money share-out, about the collapse of any reasonable post-marriage, post-divorce relationship. It was no business of his Principal's but he was given it, chapt
er and verse, as if that was a way to lose a load that had festered. Couldn't have justified it, but he spilled out confidences on Mandy.

  'Sorry to hear that, Mr Banks…Never mind. Look on the bright side. You're free, can play the field.'

  'Things seem to get in the way,' Banks said. He felt inadequate and squirmed deep in his gut.

  He looked up into Wright's face, and took the full-impact force of a smile.

  Wright said, 'I don't suppose we're exactly a roller-coaster of thrills. Are you usually with people like us, life's flotsam?'

  'The people I'm usually with would not appreciate the description "flotsam",' Banks said, and warmed to it as if the smile chipped at his natural reserve. 'What's normal for me, as a Protection Officer, is minding royals, diplomats and politicians. You see, Mr Wright, we're a finite resource, and by the time the big cats have been looked after there's not many of us left to look after–I'm uncomfortable with the word–"ordinary" people. Don't you see us on TV? We're jumping out of cars, opening doors, heaving back the great unwashed so they don't get too close. We're part of the scene of pomp and circumstance. Those people, they judge their importance by the number of Protection Officers assigned to them. There's a pecking order. The actual threat, well, that's a whole different argument. Take Churchill in the war, see him walking through the East End after a bad blitzing, and look for how many men there are around him with Sten guns–none. How many men in long raincoats with a Smith & Wesson in a shoulder holster? Two, maximum three. Now a junior minister in Northern Ireland, where there's supposed to be a ceasefire, has a whole busload of them. We open the doors and close them, we book restaurants, we do the shopping. They're the elite, and we're an integral part of the panoply. Odd thing, but they need us to massage their vanity, and we need them to show how important we are…A crowd of jurors, you and them, or a Protected Witness is damn lucky to get us for more than the bare minimum of days.'