by RR Haywood
‘No.’ Her turn to give the one-word, stubborn answers now, and they reach an impasse with her driving that finger into his chest and him pushing against it.
‘Get away from me, Safa. Get Harry. Get the other men and come back with the drugs. Do me in the neck and take me back because that’s better than being here.’
‘No.’
‘It’s not your choice.’
‘No.’
‘Stop saying no. It’s my life and my choice.’
‘No, you’re staying.’
‘I am not staying. GET AWAY FROM ME . . .’ He screams the words into her face but she doesn’t flinch. ‘I don’t know what you think I am. I’m not a cop or a soldier. I’m a fucking nobody . . .’
‘You aren’t a nobody.’
‘I am. I am a fucking nobody that did something weird once—’
‘Twice.’
‘Fine . . . I did those things, but the second one got me killed and I ended up here . . . that’s failure. I failed. I cannot be what you want me to be.’
‘Be Ben Ryder.’
‘Safa . . .’
‘Just be Ben Ryder,’ she says in a voice quavering with emotion. ‘This isn’t Ben Ryder . . . this isn’t you . . .’
‘This is me,’ he says in exasperation. ‘This is who I am . . . I want my life . . . I want to be with Steph and I don’t need a mercy fuck in the . . . holy fuck, what was that for?’ He reels back from the stinging slap delivered hard across his face, but the next one comes faster and harder than the first. Everything she has done for him. The support she has given him. The belief and energy and offering herself to him last night all so he can say that whore’s name and lash out with hurtful words. She batters him back into the wall with open-handed hits, striking him over and over.
‘Do something . . .’ she pleads. ‘Fight back . . .’
‘No,’ he growls and stands upright to take the next slap that stings to hell. They lock eyes. Hers dark and full of rage and his full of self-pity. She hits him again and he takes it. Again and he takes it. The sound of flesh on flesh rolling down the corridor. She purses her lips, furious at the lack of reaction. She hits. Something inside him snaps. When her hand comes at him again he catches it mid-swing and grips hard as he pushes her back with forceful steps.
‘You don’t know the impact you had on people . . .’ she whispers angrily. ‘The whole world knows your name . . . you meant something. You are something.’
Still the rage in him builds and rushes through. Her eyes change from angry to imploring to a glimmer of hope that offends him. The trite bollocks spilling from her mouth and that earnest look trying to goad him into reacting like he is something special that deserves all this treatment. He hates it. He hates himself for what she did last night. He hates himself for feeling this way. The self-loathing consumes him and makes him hate everything. The repugnance at his own existence renders her words meaningless.
‘You’re more than you know. You gave hope to so many. You meant courage and decency. I saw you . . . I saw you, Ben. Be that man now. Be Ben Ryder . . . for fuck’s sake . . . BE BEN RYDER . . . BE MY BEN RYDER . . .’
‘What?’ He stops suddenly with the shock of her words banishing the hate-fuelled anger from his mind. In that second he becomes very aware of the grip on her hand and slackens it off as a crimson blush grows in her cheeks.
‘Safa . . .’ He blinks at her in confusion.
‘Fuck yourself,’ she snarls, stepping away from him with a look of disgust on her face. ‘You’re not Ben Ryder . . . go fucking die . . .’
‘Safa.’ He starts after her but she goes fast. Marching back down the corridor, leaving him in a silence that rings in his ears and feels like the sting in his cheeks.
He heads outside and grabs a pistol from the table. Safety on. Magazine out. He feeds rounds into the top and slams it back into the butt. Be my Ben Ryder. He moves to the line. Safety off. Arms raised. Firing. Be my Ben Ryder. He empties the first magazine before realising he doesn’t have ear defenders on but it feels nice. Like the recoil and noise are blotting the thoughts out from his head.
He reloads, but this time he loads several magazines and pistols at the same time and carries them over to the table next to the firing line. Be my Ben Ryder. He fires. His mind replays every word they just said and the look in her face when she told him to go and die. He deserved it. He is a selfish, horrible man. He fires into paper targets and changes weapons to feel the difference in weight and recoil, adjusting to aim so he can get the holes nearer the centre. Safa is carrying him. She’s done everything to get him through this and for what? For someone she glimpsed once dragging a corpse down a train track?
He fires faster. Plucking the trigger to fill the air with the booming explosions and feeling the jolt carry through his body. He sees Safa’s face imploring him and the feel of her hand within his grip as he pushed her down the corridor. His cheeks still sting but he deserved it. He fires and switches guns to fire again as Steph’s image fills his mind. The last time he saw her was in their bedroom. They had sex that night. Fuck me, Ben. Fuck me harder. She took her towel off then got cross with him when he got turned on. He will never see her again. He will never go back. He is dead. He fires and fires. The bullets hit the centre. He twitches and aims for the outside rings, striking home. The depression rushes back in. He turns and aims for Safa’s target. Firing at an angle and finding he can still hit the bit he is aiming for and feeling irritated that he is good at it. He shouldn’t be good at anything.
It goes black inside again. Safa’s face morphing with Steph’s who was cross with him that morning.
He becomes lost to his own misery and slides down to a darkness of mood that doesn’t abate but gets deeper and worse and he can’t stop it. He wants to stop it. He does not want to be here but he doesn’t want to fail Safa either. Why did she offer herself like that last night? He fires with tears tracking down his face and he fires until the sobs threaten to come and for a second he wants them to come so he can let the emotion out.
Except the emotion doesn’t come out. It goes away and he becomes numb once again.
I hate it here.
I can’t stay here.
I don’t belong.
Twenty-Eight
She wakes naturally from a body clock honed from years of discipline. That and the tablet device bleeping softly on the table next to her bed.
She gets her legs over the side and reaches down to slide the screen, silencing the alarm. Another day. A new day. She stands and stretches, feeling the pull of muscles worked hard and the pay-offs of good food and solid sleeps. That she is in the best physical shape of her life is not missed, but the sadness inside overshadows everything else.
It was two days ago when the words fell from her mouth in the corridor and she winces at the thought of it. Be my Ben Ryder. She has tried everything. I want to be with Steph. Of everything, that hurts the most. Ben doesn’t know what Steph did though. She wanted to tell him right then at that point but still she held back.
They haven’t spoken since and the awkward silence grows by the hour. Ben stayed outside the rest of that day. Firing hundreds of rounds until there was nothing left of the paper targets. He did the same the next day too. Stripping weapons. Cleaning weapons. Loading and firing weapons.
‘You ever seen that before?’ Safa asked Harry later that day.
‘No,’ Harry admitted honestly.
Ben’s ability to place the shot was outstanding. Truly exceptional. He was a natural at firing and that just made it worse. He even went further back to extend the distance but still learnt to hit where he aimed.
Harry said something else too. He said it was time. Cut the apron strings. Let him be a man. Give him his dignity. Simple words spoken honestly.
She didn’t wake Ben yesterday. She wanted to and still felt that instinct to protect and nurture. Instead, she and Harry ran the course outside, did circuits, practised firing, did unarmed combat and ate food. She knows
they are ready and she knows it will just be her and Harry doing the work now. That still leaves the problem unresolved.
She goes into the main room and looks at Ben’s door. Maybe she should wake him this morning. Maybe he’ll be different. Changed. Ready to work. She moves towards it, lifting her hand as Harry opens his door behind her. He doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t need to. She holds still, her hand inches from Ben’s door, and turns to look at Harry, who shrugs and goes into the bathroom.
He is Ben Ryder. She knocks and waits. He saved hundreds of people. She knocks again and waits. ‘Ben? You up?’
Nothing. She knocks again and frowns at the door. ‘Ben?’ Still nothing. She feels the first tremor of worry and pushes the handle down to crack the door open an inch. ‘Ben?’ She opens it fully to stare at the bed and the empty sterile, austere room. ‘Oh no . . . no no . . .’ The bed is made. Unslept in. His clothes folded neatly on the floor.
She’s away in an instant. Running down the corridor to the main room, which is empty. Nothing touched or used. No cups on the tables. The chairs all pushed under the tabletops. She goes on, running with fear in her heart through the door and down the corridor to the room holding the device. It’s locked. She goes on, checking Roland’s office but knowing with a sinking sensation exactly where he will be. She runs hard. Bare feet pounding the concrete to reach the exit door and out into a driving rain that soaks her clothes in seconds.
‘BEN?’ she shouts, heading round the end of the bunker to the tables and the containers used to hold the pistols. One of them is partially open. She wrenches the lid off, seeing the empty space where the Glock should be.
‘BEN?’ She screams his name. Her hair plastered to her scalp. She runs down the slick grass past the end of the bunker as Harry runs out from the bunker. ‘BEN?’ she shouts harder, louder, desperate and worried sick. The rain drives hard. Pelting against her face and drumming noisily on the concrete sides of the bunker. He isn’t here. She goes to the edge and peers down. Nothing. She spins round, searching for anything. Wet tracks in the grass going up the bank. ‘BEN?’ She runs up, planting her bare feet into the grass to gain traction to reach the top. She slips and slides. Cursing but working furiously to gain the crest. Please no. Not this way. Not like this. He doesn’t deserve this. To die alone like this.
She reaches the top and spots him instantly. A grey figure on his knees with his back to her. The pistol held in his right hand at his side, resting on the ground.
‘He there?’ Harry behind her coming up the bank. She waves for him to stop.
‘BEN.’ She runs hard, heedless of the sharp stones digging into her feet. She spots his chest heaving with sobs. His head bowed in submission to life. ‘Oh God . . . Ben . . .’ She reaches him as he turns to look at her and never before has she seen such misery in a person. His eyes red from sobbing with thick bags underneath. His hair straggly and plastered down from the rain. A picture of abject dejection. He goes to speak. His jaw working silently. The pistol lifts an inch then drops.
‘I can’t . . .’ he sobs.
‘Oh Ben.’ She drops behind him, wrapping her arms round his shoulders.
‘I can’t,’ he whispers with pain driving through his heart that she feels pounding within him. His left hand reaches up to grip her arm as it holds him close. ‘I can’t, Safa . . . I can’t do it . . .’
‘I know.’ She sobs, tears spilling from her eyes to roll fat with the rivulets of rain pouring down her face. She grips him harder, kissing the side of his head and feeling the heaving sobs travel through his body. ‘Not like this . . .’
‘I’ve got to . . .’ He sobs again. His hand on her arm. She feels him pushing back into her. Desperate for human contact.
‘Not like this,’ she whispers into his ear. ‘Ben . . . not like this . . .’
‘Let me . . . help me . . . I can’t . . . I . . .’
‘Not like this,’ she cries into him, pressing her cheek into his head. Her arms wrapping and holding. Rocking him as their knees soak into the mud. Harry watches from the edge of the bank. His face as impassive as ever.
Ben tries to speak but breaks off to let the sobs come thick and fast. An outpouring of grief and loss and utter dejection. He tries to lift the pistol but she grips his arm, forcing it gently back down and sliding along to take the gun from his hand that gets flung towards Harry.
‘I can’t . . . let me go home . . .’
‘Okay,’ she whispers, remembering the man she saw on the track that day. His right arm comes up to touch her shoulder. His hand gripping with emotion.
‘Go home . . .’ he sobs. She turns him slowly, easing him round to draw him close so her arms can go round and hold him tight.
‘Okay,’ she says again.
‘Send me home . . .’
‘I will.’ She lifts her head, sobbing as much as he. Rocking back and forth in the mud and rain. The man on the tracks was decent. This was that man. This is Ben Ryder.
‘I’m so sorry.’
She whispers down with a hand on the back of his head, pushing him into her. ‘It’s okay . . . you can go home.’
‘Home . . .’
‘Home, Ben. You can go home.’
Give him his dignity. Give Ben Ryder his dignity. Let him be a man. Let him choose death over life. There’s honour in that. There is. She nods and kisses his head as the tears soak into his hair.
Twenty-Nine
‘Where is he?’
‘In his room,’ Safa replies.
‘Christ,’ Roland says, walking to the table to grab the flask and several cups, which he carries over. ‘Is he okay?’
‘No he isn’t,’ she says darkly.
‘Why didn’t he shoot himself?’ Roland asks softly. Harry shakes his head, his mouth turned down at the ends. Malcolm and Konrad watch on, unsure how to act in the charged atmosphere of the meeting.
‘Still a survivor,’ Safa says, lifting her head to look at Roland.
‘Of course,’ Roland says, nodding with understanding. ‘Poor chap . . . I wish there was something we could do. Is there anything we can do?’ he asks the group.
‘Did you ever see the footage?’ Safa asks, looking round to Malcolm and Konrad.
‘Course,’ Malcolm says softly.
‘Konrad?’ Safa asks.
‘Years ago, when I was young,’ Konrad says.
‘I want you to see it now,’ Safa says to them all. ‘To remember him as he was and not like this. So we know who we’re . . . who he is. We owe him that.’
‘Course,’ Malcolm says again. ‘I can get it.’
Silence at the table. Coffee poured and cups lifted. Konrad swallows and draws breath. ‘How do . . . I mean . . .’
‘I have no idea,’ Roland says. ‘I never planned to have to take someone back.’
‘Fuck,’ Safa mouths and looks away.
‘Sedate him,’ Harry says after a pause. ‘I’ll carry him back.’
Another silence. ‘If you think that is best.’ Roland breathes the words out.
‘Aye,’ Harry says firmly.
‘We’ve still got his clothes,’ Malcolm says. ‘We can time it so you arrive just after we’ve taken him.’
‘Fuck,’ Safa mouths again at the idea of it. It felt right outside but now it feels wrong again. This can’t be it. It can’t, but it is. It’s what he wants. ‘Malcolm, can you get the footage?’
‘I’ll do it now.’ Malcolm eases from the table, leaving them in a silence broken only by swallows and throats being cleared as coffee is poured and cups are lifted. A few minutes is all it takes and Malcolm rushes back with a large-screen tablet, which he places on the table. He thumbs the screen while the others wait and drink coffee.
‘It’s ready,’ Malcolm says. ‘Er . . . you want 3D or . . . ?’
‘Stick with normal,’ Safa says. Malcolm nods and turns the device so the others can see the front.
Harry stares at the image and the weird triangle showing in the middle that Safa lean
s forward to touch lightly. The image changes, showing pin-sharp, high-definition, real-time footage of a train platform. Dense crowds waiting and, despite the years between them, Harry immediately recognises the unique style of the London Underground and the sign emblazoned with ‘Holborn’ on the back wall.
‘That’s Ben,’ Safa says, pointing at Ben walking out of a side door at the end of the platform. ‘He’d just had a meeting with the works manager and Ben being Ben he’d pissed the bloke off enough to get kicked out in the middle of the Underground. See, the door slams in his face.’
‘That’s Ben,’ Harry says in shock at recognising Ben so easily.
‘Yeah.’ She freezes the image of the footage she’s watched so many times. ‘See this woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s one of the environmental activists. This guy here, the tall one with ginger hair, this woman, this man at the back . . . there’s one behind this crowd kneeling down and another one over here. They’re all wearing I Love London T-shirts and rain jackets.’
‘Pretending not to be together,’ Harry says, clocking the distance between them.
‘I’ll play it through. Keep your eyes on Ben.’ She presses the ‘Play’ button and watches the famous footage she has seen hundreds of times, but now the impact is even greater. She’s met this man. She’s met and spoken with Ben Ryder. She held him as he sobbed and asked for death over life. She knows every second of this video clip but watches it with fresh eyes as if seeing it for the first time. She knows his voice now, the tone in which he speaks and his humour. The way he walks and that genial manner that masks the utter brutal capability of the man. She was the last person to see Ben Ryder alive. They locked eyes and in that second she saw a man full of honour and integrity. A man who would never grope her, force her to do things or take what he could through power. His was a power restrained that was ready to be used when it was needed. She knew Ben Ryder would laugh easily and be full of humour and fun.