It Never Goes Away

by Tom Trott

  He was listening attentively, but sceptically.

  ‘Here again, I know something you don’t know,’ I continued. ‘As well as unsuccessfully lobbying the council, and McCready in particular, to approve fracking on the Downs, Mr X also successfully lobbied them to approve Stevenson’s new housing development. And why the hell would he do that?’

  The neon clock changed to 00:00 and the tubes shifted hue from red to blue, draping the room in a new, cooler light. The waves continued to crash. The helicopter hum had died.

  ‘How could you crash a company like Tessafrak?’ I asked rhetorically. ‘Simple. Where fracking is concerned there are a lot of scare stories, we’ve all heard stories of methane from the taps, but thankfully there’s not yet been a major case in this country of irradiated ground water. It does happen though. How simple for Max and Mr X to inject something into the Downsfoot water supply, kill a few families, a few young children. A lengthy investigation might lead to the truth, but in the meantime Tessafrak’s stock would crash, inquiries would be started, support for all projects would be withdrawn, there would be public panic. All Max has to do is bet his millions against it, maybe invest in other fracking companies too, but I’d steer clear personally, it would taint the entire industry. Maybe he’ll invest in wind power, it might even be a good thing in the long run. But not for the people who are going to die.’

  He sat silently in the blue light. It aged him, or maybe that was the conversation.

  ‘Then I won’t do it,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll call off the deal.’

  I smiled wanly. ‘That’s the bit that really upsets me: you get to get away with it. But then your type always does.’

  His eyebrows raised in anticipation, even hope.

  ‘All you have to do is draft a statement coming out against fracking on the Downs, on behalf of Tessafrak of course, and calling for government regulation to protect areas of outstanding natural beauty.’

  He considered it, then nodded. ‘Fine, I’ll do it.’

  ‘I know you will, now.’

  ‘Now?’ He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘Right now. Before the board can say anything, before anyone can stop you.’

  He didn’t like those words. He looked concerned.

  ‘You’ll get incredible press,’ I assured him.

  ‘Really?’ he asked, hopeful again.

  ‘“Fracking company executive comes out against drilling on National Park, advocates regulation”, you’ll be a hero.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Absolutely. But it has to be tonight.’

  He frowned again. ‘Why?’

  ‘Before Max plays his hand, it’s the only way to protect you. And your family.’

  He glanced at the photos on the mantelpiece.

  ‘There’s nothing they can do if it’s already done.’

  He checked the time on his gold Rolex. ‘The paper won’t print it tomorrow, it’s too late.’

  ‘Yes they will. Write it now, tweet it before the print deadline, and send them a copy. They won’t have a choice. It’s front page news.’

  ‘Not tomorrow, a bomb went off in the city today. No, we’ll wait until this blows over.’

  ‘This isn’t going to blow over. This is it! That gun won’t protect you, but this will. And years from now, when you’re sitting on the board of a leading renewable energy company, on the deck of your yacht, with your wife, arguing about your teenagers and whether or not you should buy them Rolls Royces or Bentleys for their fifteenth birthdays, you’ll think back to this moment, you’ll think of me, and thank whatever god there isn’t that Joe Grabarz came to save you.’

  ✽✽✽

  I sat with him whilst he drafted his short statement. I even contributed the odd word, making it unequivocal. It took twenty minutes. I watched him send the tweet, watched him email the Argus. Then I convinced him to give me whatever he had in his wallet. Two-hundred quid! And once again I concluded that I was in the wrong fucking job.

  28

  Acceleration

  The phone purred in my ear. I looked around at reformed meat slowly browning on the hot plate. There was the unmistakable smell of oil and sweat, and of the owner who eyed me, imagining that every second I was using his phone cost him another order as a customer failed to call through. He had let me use the phone as a courtesy for ordering, and finishing, a large lamb doner with all the trimmings (even the chilli) and garlic mayo, a large portion of onion rings, and large chips with burger sauce. I hadn’t eaten so much in one go for ages, but tonight I needed it.

  Finally, the connection opened.

  ‘Joe!?’ Thalia gasped.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘They’ve arrested Stephanie!’ she shrieked.

  ‘On what grounds!?’

  ‘They found Tidy’s bike in her garage, they’re threatening her with aiding and abetting.’

  Bastards! ‘They’re just trying to scare her, scare all of us. And put me in a vice. How are you?’

  ‘I’m ok. I’m waiting outside for when they decide to let her go. I was screaming the place down a minute ago.’

  I smiled to myself. ‘I’m sure you were.’

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘No, don’t answer,’ she added.

  ‘It’s ok,’ I said, ‘a kebab shop. They’re already listening, they’ll have your phone monitored. The second I called it they got the number and all they have to do is Google it to find out where I am.’ I could imagine the radio call going out to all cars. Church Road, Hove. ‘I’ve got about two minutes.’

  ‘They’ve got helicopters out.’

  ‘I know. Listen, I asked Stephanie to do a favour for me, I really need it done.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘She’ll have to tell you. I need it done tonight, then meet me...’ I thought, ‘...you know where to meet me.’

  ‘Have you seen the news?’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘About Tessafrak.’

  ‘Some of it.’

  ‘There are pictures.’

  I racked my brains. What pictures? ‘Pictures of what?’

  ‘The drilling. They’re all over the internet, some anonymous source leaked images of them test drilling on the farm. The photos are from over a month ago.’

  Shit, shit, shit! I had played my hand and they had beaten it. They had taken photos and kept them as a trump card. They saw Hillerman’s statement and released the photos in response. Now it didn’t matter what Hillerman said, his statement was just an attempt to cover up his own dodgy dealing. The galling part was it was true.

  It meant they were mobilising tonight. Tonight! Test drilling couldn’t do any damage, it was only digging some earth out, but the public wouldn’t know that, not with anti-fracking attitudes as fervent as they were. Ice shot through my veins. I knew Max: he would go all-in.

  ‘I’ve got to go! Good luck.’

  ‘Right back at you!’

  I smiled. ‘I’ll see you later.’ For some reason it felt like a lie. Then I hung up.

  I ran round the counter, out the door, to Stephanie’s Volvo. The snow was laying now and there was already slush in the gutters. I fired up the engine and got round the nearest corner and off the main road, into the backstreets of Hove, weaving my way toward Nevill Road.

  They would be looking for the Volvo by now. I counted myself lucky it didn’t have a built-in satnav or they could access the live telemetry. Not that it made much difference, as soon as I passed through a set of lights the ANPR cameras would catch me. I had to join Sackville Road to get under the train tracks and that meant I had to go through a huge twelve-lane junction with lights and definitely cameras. It was red and all.

  I slowed to a stop at the front of the queue and looked opposite at Nevill Road, waiting for the lights to turn amber. The efficient Volvo engine rumbled smoothly. Traffic flowed from the left and the right, some queueing in the middle to turn. Through it I could see a police car was stopped opposite, waiting
on Nevill Road. My hands started to sweat on the steering wheel. I looked at the blurry shapes in the dark of their car, rendered ghostly from the glowing screens and other electronics on their centre console. Hands were moving, pressing buttons, conversation was being had, but the driver never moved his head, eyes on the lights.

  The flow of traffic stopped. Those queueing in the middle turned. The junction cleared. The lights turned amber and at the moment I released the clutch and rolled into the junction the sirens came on opposite and the driver cut across, trying to block me. I swerved to the right, round him, and onto Nevill Road in the oncoming lane. I swerved back to the left. I looked in the mirror; the siren was blaring as he wheeled round in the middle of the junction and set off in pursuit. I put my foot down, the engine wheezed. I zipped through the roundabout by the greyhound stadium, then took the sweeping left at speed, swerving in and out of traffic. Then the road curved to the right and suddenly a sharp left when it joined Hangleton Road/King George VI Avenue.

  I braked but still hit the raised pavement, sending me up onto two wheels as I careened across both lanes and almost into the railings. I hit the tarmac and straightened up, heading north. There were blue lights behind me now, and then the drone of a helicopter. The only advantage I had was they didn’t know where I was going.

  Hitting the barrier had dislodged one of my windscreen wipers and now it danced back and forth through the air, leaving only the passenger side one to fight the flurries of snow as we climbed up the hill. I squinted through the building powder but all I could make out were lights.

  We were approaching the roundabout where Mill Road, Dyke Road, and the actual Devil’s Dyke Road meet, and where you join the bypass. Normally I would take Mill Road, but it would be too easy for them to block the one lane under the bridge at the bottom of the hill, so I swerved left, clipping the roundabout, over the bridge, then swerved right over the opposite lane to go the wrong way round the roundabout, over the verge, onto the slip road. I put my foot down again.

  I joined the bypass at a hundred miles-an-hour as it opened up down the hill. The lights fluttered overhead. In my mirror I could see two panda cars in pursuit, the big BMW’s they use when they mean business. The helicopter was above me. It wasn’t too much. You can do this! I ignored the first exit, the one to London, and moved instead to the right-hand lane, preparing the manoeuvre I had used on the way back from Chichester.

  We crossed the bridge over the A23 and I slowed to let them kiss my tail. The Patcham exit opened to the left, I ignored it, heading onwards. But then I slammed on the brakes, swerved left, over the white chevrons, over the grass, onto the slip road.

  They didn’t have a chance to follow me, they shot out of sight to my right, along the A27. I braked as I approached the roundabout, but it wasn’t enough, and as I yanked the wheel to the left I hit the traffic island and crashed through the plastic bollards. I was thrown up, my head hit the roof of the Volvo, then my face hit the steering wheel. The rubbish from the glove compartment was flying everywhere, then it all flew up and hit the roof. I had made the turning, but I was in a hedge, and upside down.

  The seatbelt felt like it was strangling me as I hung from it, my neck crooked so that I was staring up at my feet and couldn’t move it. I dribbled up my face, past my nose, toward my eye. I groped for the door handle, found it, pulled it, and the cold night air rushed in, followed by the snow. It swirled around me like a drunk Father Christmas trapped in a smashed and upturned snow globe. I couldn’t hear the helicopter, but I couldn’t hear much beyond the blood rushing in my ears. My only chance at getting the time needed to extricate myself from the car was them thinking I had turned right to enter Patcham. It was the logical thought. Only a madman would turn left to evade the police: all that gave you were the choice of three dead ends; Braypool Lane, the farm track, or Downsfoot.

  I found the seatbelt release and my legs fell toward me, then I crawled out onto the snowy tarmac. I lay on my back, drawing piercingly cold breaths into my lungs, staring at the snow that fell from the endless void. After a minute I moved my head around. The Volvo’s lights were still on, pointing to the heavens. I didn’t care. Then I looked ahead. There was the sign: “Welcome to Downsfoot Village”. I rolled over onto my front, then pushed up onto my knees, and finally onto my feet.

  I tried to run down the road but I didn’t have the breath. I tried to jog but I my right foot was in agony. So I settled for limping quickly. I could hear the helicopter, but there were no sirens.

  I reached the welcome sign and the strange neighbourhood was revealed in front of me. Twenty houses: twelve half-built black shadows, four without windows, four finished, no lights in any of them. I ran for number 1, over the bushes, past the bins, scattering a fox that was sniffing around, across the front garden. The door was open, I kicked it wide, launched up the stairs. I could hear muffled screams. The children’s bedroom was in front of me, I launched through the door, and there was Mr X, holding a small girl to her bed, what looked like a breathing mask over her face. I sent my full force into him, we hit the wall. The mask rolled away. The girl started coughing. Mr X swang a picture frame at me. I punched him in the stomach. The picture frame glass smashed against my cheek. I stumbled. He grabbed the bed and yanked it into my shins. I grabbed at them, he kicked me in the side, pulled down bookshelves that slammed on my back and pinned me to the ground. I saw there was a boy on the other bed, his sister now on top of him, shaking him to wake him up. He wouldn’t wake, but he was breathing.

  Mr X tried to run. From under the bookshelves I grabbed at his feet. He fell down on the landing, missing the stairs. I crawled out, climbed on him, he swang the mask at me, its metal canister caught me on the shoulder. He kicked at me, kicking out a baluster instead. He got up, turned away, I jumped on his back, we fell through the door into the master bedroom. He kicked the door into my hand, pulled my hair, arching my head back, then punched me in the throat. I crumpled to the floor, choking. I stood up, fell back against the wall. I could see the dull dad and rock-chick mum from the newspaper, tied to the bed, gagged. Mr X placed the gas canister between them on the bed and turned it on. I retched at the smell. He marched from the room, stamping on my injured foot. I screamed. I heard his footsteps down the stairs. I pushed up onto one foot, reached for the canister, turned it off, then jumped out the open window.

  By luck I landed on him. He sprawled, I rolled. My head was in a bush. I howled. He climbed on top, wrapped his hands around my throat, squeezed hard. I felt my eyes bulge, my tongue was forced out of my mouth, my face was hot, my ears thundered with blood. I groped at his face, trying to scratch him, but he simply leaned his head back out of reach: his arms were longer than mine. My vision was going blurry. Pink fog began to fade in around me, irising in on his manic face: his cheeks popping in and out as he panted, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth could crack, his red eyes boring into mine. A smile cracked across his face. Victory. It was all I could see now, the pink fog consuming everything else. I groped around me for something, anything. At my sides all I could feel was snow, and the perfectly trimmed grass beneath. I reached above my head, into the bush, felt sharp twigs, tiny leaves, soil, and... finally something solid. Cold. A rock maybe, but larger. Much larger. And lighter. I didn’t care, I simply grasped it and swang it over my head as hard as I could.

  It came down on his forehead and smashed like a vase. He fell backwards, howling. He clutched at his face, I clutched at my throat. Then we both heard sirens. He shot to his feet and ran blindly toward the unfinished houses. The sirens were close, heading down the road toward us. I pushed up onto all fours and looked down at the smiling face of a smashed garden gnome. Then I was up and limping.

  I followed his snowy footprints toward the windowless brick shells. They disappeared between houses. I followed them into the darkness just as the snow flashed blue. There was shouting and doors opening and slamming. I kept my eyes on the dim footprints and my mind off the pain in my foot.

&
nbsp; I limped down the alley between the soon-to-be-houses and emerged onto the farmland behind. The footsteps led up the white blanket of a field, and halfway up it was the black shape of Mr X marching into the flurries of snow, barely visible through them. I set off in pursuit.

  Pretty soon he disappeared over the crest of a hill, leaving only his rapidly erasing footprints to follow. Occasionally I would look behind me at the houses down in the valley. I could glimpse the blue lights through the now heavy snow, they were growing in number, but there appeared to be no one after us. It was up to me.

  I pushed myself harder, cresting the hill five minutes later. Mr X was only a speck down in the next valley. I set off down the hill, shivering, numb hands tucked into my pockets. I tripped, rolled in the snow, almost screamed with the pain and the cold. I pulled my face up from the powder. The speck had vanished, lost in the blizzard.

  I kept limping. Down into the valley, another five minutes, footprints almost gone, back up the other side toward the Ditchling road. Where this all started. After ten minutes my legs buckled. I hit the ground. Recoiling from the cold, I squatted, hugging my knees, teeth chattering. There was nothing now, no footprints, no sign of him. He was gone. I had lost him. Now I was just fighting not to die of exposure.

  Ankle deep in the frozen grass, I clambered up the hill in what I thought was the right direction, another five minutes, maybe more, finally reaching the road, climbing over a wire fence, collapsing on the hard tarmac.

  My foot was agony. Gingerly, I unlaced my shoe and pulled it off. My sock was wet with blood. I peeled it halfway off, making a noise I’d never heard before: it felt like treading on the third rail. Aborting the operation, I carefully pulled it back over my ankle. Then I grabbed a ball of snow with my hand and stuffed it into my shoe. Then I pushed my foot in and laced the shoe back up.

  I stood up, still in the middle of the road, blinking, squinting. There were headlights careering toward me. I froze. Brakes screeched. A van skidded, sliding on the ice, stopping diagonally across the road, inches from my face. Its engine burbled. Then there was a pregnant silence, almost as though the van was catching its breath. It lasted twenty long seconds. Then I heard the side door roll open, and there was a bright light in my face, a man wielding something black and heavy on his shoulder and a woman shoved something in my face. It was a fucking news crew. I bet they couldn’t believe their luck.