Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  Gerry’s voice was firm. ‘No way.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, this place is crawling with peelers. They must know something—’

  ‘It could be for a hundred reasons.’

  The man was getting more agitated by the minute. ‘It could not! I’ve never seen it like this. Never.’

  ‘I said no, and that’s it. We’ve come a long way with this and we’ll see it through.’

  ‘For God’s sake —’

  Gerry leaned forward and sunk his fingers into the man’s forearm, his voice laced with menace. ‘I said no, you hear me? I said no. Now get a hold of yourself. Give me the guns.’

  The man could see from Gerry’s expression that further argument was futile. He looked carefully about him and then passed the small black shoulder case under the table.

  ‘Now something has obviously happened to get these people excited,’ Gerry said quietly, ‘but it’s only just happened, so I think they’ll still be off-guard, We’re going to bring everything forward and go in now. Understood?’

  The man looked as if he would strangle himself on his nerves. ‘For God’s and Jesus’ sake, we’ve got to abort this. It’s madness. The whole area is crawling.’

  Gerry’s voice was firm. Colette noticed that the muscle in his cheek had stopped twitching. ‘It will be all right. They can’t possibly have any specific knowledge, so we’ll be all right. The security in the underpass won’t be so tight.’

  ‘You haven’t a hope. You’ve no chance.’

  ‘It will work. We’ve just got to hold our nerve – you’ve just got to hold your nerve.’

  The man clearly couldn’t believe what he was hearing and he paused for a second before continuing. ‘But even if you get in, you’ll never get out.’

  Gerry looked at him with contempt in his eyes. ‘You leave that to us. Just get the boat there.’

  ‘The river will be crawling with police; there’s a helicopter up there, for God’s sake.’

  Gerry raised his voice for the first time. ‘Just get it there.’ He looked around. The room was still empty. ‘Get it there, or I’ll kill you myself.’

  The man got up, the threat still hanging in the air, and Colette wondered if her legs would move, but Gerry put his hand underneath her arm again and almost pulled her from her seat. He stared at the man, grim-faced, and then took her towards the stairs.

  At the bottom he eased his grip on her, and as they turned out onto the street she considered running for it, but why and to where? She felt weighed down by inertia and fatalism.

  She was beside Gerry as they descended the steps to the underpass and she hesitated for a second as she saw the peelers at the gate to the Commons. There were two of them and she felt the fear return. She watched Gerry as he strode confidently towards them, half a step ahead of her, and, as he fingered his pass and lifted it slightly, she did the same. Gerry was smiling – Christ, she thought, he could charm the devil if it came to it – and she looked at him and not the men ahead of her.

  ‘Morning,’ Gerry said, still smiling. His accent was all right, but she knew if he had to say more …

  They were level now and she looked up into the men’s faces. They were both elderly, or ageing at least, both with white hair and both looking relaxed. The one with the glasses stepped forward a pace to take a closer look at their passes, but Gerry continued to edge slowly ahead, as though indicating the examination of the passes was routine and he was in a hurry.

  The man glanced at them only briefly and then looked into their faces – an uncomplicated look that seemed to lack suspicion.

  And then they were through and Colette was conscious of the inertia receding. Perhaps it was fear and adrenalin, or perhaps – hard to admit – excitement.

  They were walking under the arches and to their right was the cobbled circuit where the cars came sweeping into the Commons. A man crossed ahead of them and Colette felt another stab of fear and excitement as she realized she recognized him. A minister, certainly, though she couldn’t remember the name. A taxi pulled in to the right of them and a large man in a suit and a handsomely dressed woman stepped out. She felt a little stab of hatred.

  They passed through a door and entered what seemed to be some kind of turret. They started climbing a narrow stairway, the walls a dirty yellow and the carpet a faded green, and Colette quickly grew out of breath. The staircase turned and turned and seemed to go on and on – and then they were on a landing and she saw a sign saying ‘Lower Reporters’ Gallery’. There was now a door ahead of her and Colette could see the room was lighter and she could hear voices. Gerry suddenly turned, taking her arm, and began descending the stairs. When they had walked down two of the flights, she whispered, ‘What is it?’

  He stopped. ‘Fine – just checking. Don’t say anything.’ As he went ahead, Colette couldn’t help admiring his professionalism once again. He seemed to know where he was going and what he was doing, or at least that was the impression he gave. A man in a suit and a well-dressed woman in a mauve jacket and cream blouse passed them, but didn’t seem to take any notice. At the bottom of the stairs, they came out and turned left, going deeper into the House. They passed a small car park, where Colette noticed that a van was being turned round on an ingenious rotating metal drum in the floor. There clearly wasn’t enough room to turn any other way.

  To her horror, Gerry turned left again and walked past a series of cashpoints. They crossed what seemed to be some kind of road and then walked out onto the terrace that ran alongside the Thames. It was more or less deserted and they turned round and walked straight back into a steward. Gerry mumbled an apology and the man looked at him snootily. He stepped aside to let them pass. ‘This is for members only, sir.’

  They retraced their steps and began to climb the stairs again. Another man in a suit flashed past them and said, ‘Morning,’ but he was gone before she could consider whether or not to reply. Colette could feel the sense of excitement slipping away.

  As they reached the sign saying ‘Lower Reporters’ Gallery’, two men came out of the room ahead of them, both clutching bits of paper. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry and their eyes fell casually on Colette. Her insides felt like they were disintegrating and she tried to manage a smile. Gerry paused to allow them to climb the next flight of stairs and one of them looked over his shoulder at her again. It was inoffensive – curious, perhaps admiring.

  They reached another sign with the words ‘Upper Reporters’ Gallery’ written on it, and this time Gerry went straight ahead. The two men went on up the stairs and she saw the same one look over his shoulder again as they turned the next corner.

  Then they were in a darkly lit corridor. She saw a tiny poky office to her left, with newspapers piled in its window. The door was half open, but she couldn’t see anyone inside and the corridor was quiet. Gerry was standing still, as if unsure of what to do. He took her arm again and led her to the end of the corridor, towards a door with the word ‘Gentlemen’ written on it in gold. He paused for a brief second and then took her in. It was a small room with two urinals and a single cubicle. ‘Perfect,’ he said. He took her into the cubicle, pulled down the top of the loo seat and motioned for her to sit. He shut the door and leaned against the wall.

  They were silent and she bent her body and put her head in her hands. She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come.

  ‘If anything happens to me,’ Gerry said, ‘that is where the boat will be to get away – that terrace we just saw. That is the way to it. Just remember that route and run like hell. The boat will be waiting and, if needs be, just jump into the water and he’ll pick you up.’

  For a brief second, she was almost tempted to admire the audacity of what he’d planned, but other instincts prevailed and she felt anger. It was suicide, without question. It was risky under normal circumstances – her head had cleared enough to gauge that – but today it was suicide. She wondered what had caused the increased peeler presence and struggled for a moment to
think of a rational explanation, but it defeated her. She wondered if they had been watched, if there had been surveillance, but in that case what were they doing here? How had they come this far? It didn’t make sense. How did they know anything anyway? She’d told them nothing. No-one else knew anything at all. Except Gerry. And Paddy.

  Paddy. The name exploded in her head now and she felt the tears welling up in her eyes.

  She imagined the moment they had come for him. Would he have been surprised? Would he have fought? Would he have been frightened, or angry, or both? Would he have cried and begged?

  She wondered what she’d have done. What if it had been me, she asked herself. The thought came to her that, even if it had been an open choice, even if Paddy had been aware of all the facts, he’d still have gone in her stead. His courage was decent, just as Gerry’s was evil. Or so it seemed now.

  She wondered what they’d have done to him. For all the intimacy of her knowledge and association with the organization, she couldn’t actually have said what they did to you. Not many people did know. Perhaps it was deliberate. That was part of the fear.

  She imagined the final moments. She knew about that and could imagine it vividly. Would he have cried then? Can there ever be courage at the moment of … ?

  She imagined him being dragged. She imagined the fear in his body and the hood and the damp and cold of the mud. She imagined the loneliness and the cruelty and the hatred and the darkness…

  She wanted to scream.

  She screwed her eyes shut.

  She imagined Gerry standing above her, his groin at the level of her head. She wanted to punch him.

  She realized she’d crossed a barrier. She’d betrayed them, sure, but her instincts were human – to protect Mark and Catherine. Even before – even before the betrayal began – she wouldn’t have executed someone for touting. Dislike them, maybe, hate them even. But she would not have condemned her own brother to death for it. She didn’t believe Paddy would have done so either.

  She thought Gerry was a monster. Her eyes were dry now. She looked up and saw he was staring impassively at the wall behind her. ‘What’s the time?’ she asked.

  He looked at his watch. ‘Nearly there,’ he said, and she hated him some more. ‘Stay here,’ he added. ‘I’ve got to make a final check. I’ll knock three times.’ He opened the cubicle door and was gone, the bag still resting at her feet.

  She pushed the lock back.

  The room was silent. She looked at the bag and pulled it towards her. She picked it up and felt the heaviness of the metal.

  She thought of little Mark and his toy gun and then felt paralysed by the sudden clash of hope and fear.

  The room was silent, but for the dripping of the cistern behind her.

  She stood up and eased back the lock on the cubicle door, opened it a fraction and listened. She could hear nothing. She wished now that she had a watch. She stepped gingerly forwards and caught sight of herself in the mirror. She wondered idly if it would be the last time she’d ever see her own image. She walked across to the lavatory door, opened it a touch and peered out. The corridor was empty and quiet.

  She stepped out. The door closest to her was half open and she stopped outside. She couldn’t hear anyone inside.

  She pushed open the door gently and went in. She saw two desks, two chairs, two telephones and several piles of newspapers. She closed the door a fraction and sat down at one of the desks. Fear almost prevented her from picking up the phone, but, after a moment’s hesitation, she found the courage.

  She called the Freephone number and a man answered, her world suddenly slowed, as if she were living in a dream. She told him it was Shadow Dancer and she needed to speak to the young man – the spook – now, urgently, this second. It was life or death, she said. The man said he was sorry, but the young man was away, would the other do? She said no, it must be the young man, it had to be Ryan. Life or death she said.

  He asked her to wait. She was terrified, waiting for the tap on the shoulder and the turn to see Gerry’s face, puzzled and inquisitive. She couldn’t bring herself to look round. More waiting. Waiting for what seemed like for ever, then the man again, saying he had a number if she had a pen. Fumbling in her handbag, still like a dream, and trying to find something to write with, to write on.

  She got there eventually and then cut the connection and dialled again. There was no tone. She tried again and then a gentle tap on her shoulder sent a giant shock through her system.

  It was the man she’d seen earlier – the one in the suit who’d been looking at her.

  She recovered. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, somehow managing to smile. ‘I just desperately needed to use the phone, a personal call.’

  He frowned for a second and then shrugged his shoulders and half smiled. ‘I’ll be back in a second,’ he said.

  She didn’t stop to think. She dialled again and this time heard the tone. She almost wept when she heard his voice. ‘Shadow Dancer?’

  ‘I’ve no time. I’m in London.’

  ‘I know.’

  His voice was calm and her nerves settled further. ‘Will you get us out?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘All of us. Me, the kids, Ma if she wants to come?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You swear?’

  ‘I swear. I said we’d look after you.’

  ‘Saying’s not enough.’

  ‘I promise you – on everything that matters to me.’

  ‘Bring the kids out now. You’ll do it now?’

  ‘We’ll do it now. Today.’

  She paused for a brief second before plunging on. ‘It’s now, any minute. We got in through the underground press entrance at Parliament. We’re in the press gallery. The prime minister, as he stands up—’

  ‘Thank you. I won’t forget.’

  She put down the phone and stood up, suddenly feeling triumphant. The door opened and the man stepped back in. He looked as if he expected an explanation, but she smiled broadly and walked past him. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  She stood in the corridor again and looked both ways. How long to go? She wondered if the man in the office behind her would hear or sense her going into the loo at the end, but she thought she had no choice. There was no ladies’ to be seen and anyway Gerry had told her to wait. She opened the door gingerly and was relieved to see the room was empty. She walked across to the cubicle and tried to go in.

  It was locked.

  She turned away from it. She walked over to the basin and turned on the tap, wetting her hands briefly. She went over and pulled down a stretch of white towel and dried her hands.

  She thought she heard someone outside, but whoever it was quickly passed.

  She stood in the centre of the room. It was quiet. She crouched down to peer underneath the door, but she could see nothing. She didn’t understand.

  She walked up to the door and rested her knuckles on the outside. She paused for a second and then knocked, three times.

  The door opened. Gerry climbed down off the loo and she saw the anger in his face.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he asked, pulling her in savagely.

  She kept her head down.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I was worried about you,’ she said, looking up into his eyes and seeing the hostility, anger and uncertainty. Doubt me, she told herself. Doubt me and ruin your shitty fucking plan.

  She wondered what he’d heard. She wondered if he’d listened. How could he not have heard? Perhaps he went and came back the other way. She wondered if he would kill her. Could you, could even he, stoop that low?

  He looked at his watch. ‘It’s three thirteen,’ he said. ‘Two minutes to go and then the bastard will be on his feet.’

  It was so close. She’d had no idea. She wondered if they could ever make it in time? How would they get here, or who would they tell and how … ?

  Gerry unzipped the bag and took out the guns. He checked the ammunition cartridge i
n hers and then handed it to her. She put it in the pocket of her jacket without looking – without even looking at him.

  He opened the door and led her across the room. It was unreal now and, as they stepped into the corridor, she no longer considered running. The sense of fatalism that had been with her all day enveloped her again and it was not uncomfortable. As they came towards the stairs a man and a woman ran past them, armed only with notebooks.

  They hovered in the recess, waiting, and Colette was suddenly conscious of the truth of this. This was not, as she’d once thought, part of Gerry’s leadership ambitions. It went beyond that. This was suicide, or close to it. It was martyrdom, a place in history.

  Death or capture.

  I hope they shoot you, she thought.

  Back at Millbank, Ryan ran down the corridor into the incident room and threw open the door.

  ‘Shadow Dancer called. It’s today. It’s now.’

  He was out of breath, but they were all staring at him dumbly. ‘They have forged press passes and are somewhere in the press gallery. They are going to shoot the prime minister as he stands up in the Commons.’

  For a moment there was a stunned silence, and then Ryan saw Jenkins recover and pick up his phone.

  Then he turned and ran, taking the stairs down to the lobby in giant leaps. Jenkins would have passed the information to the control centre up at Scotland Yard, but Ryan was running on instinct.

  The hall was full of people coming back from lunch and he barged through the middle of one group, waited impatiently as he cleared himself through the space capsules that acted as security barriers and careered into the swing doors and out onto the street.

  Then he was running again, his knees quickly sore from the impact of the road. But he barely noticed. He imagined her slowly walking down the steps, a gun in her hand. Would she still have murder in her heart?

  Suddenly, he had fixed in his mind that moment on top of the Mourne Mountains, when they’d both been aware that their emotions were leading them somewhere quite different. He asked himself why he hadn’t acknowledged it, why he hadn’t given her some indication.