After five minutes or so, everyone was suited up, standing in small groups, self-conscious and sheepish. The face masks, a separate operation, had yet to go on. People hated them. They were the ultimate state of readiness. In theory, said the text books, you could wear them comfortably for days. In practice, those who’d ever worn them knew different. Within an hour, you were claustrophobic to the point of panic. Within a day, you’d probably go mad.
Quinn blew the whistle again. Two short blasts. Goodman was buddied with Davidson. He’d never worn a Noddy suit before, but Davidson talked him through it, and he was pleasantly surprised at the trousers and jacket. They were hot, certainly, but by no means unbearable. The face mask, though, was very different. He’d had a horror of rubber masks since early adolescence. He’d nearly drowned one hot day off a beach in southern Crete snorkelling with a friend. His face mask had filled with water, and he’d been lucky to get to the surface before blacking out. As a direct consequence, he’d never touched one since.
Now, half a lifetime later, he looked at the object on the desk. Outside, in the Bunker, his staff were pulling the straps over the backs of their heads, unfolding the masks over their faces, keeping their hair from spoiling the air seal, taking their first exploratory breaths through the big round filter on the side. Davidson handed him the mask. He swallowed hard.
‘What about my glasses?’ he said. ‘Can I still wear them?’
Davidson shook his head.
‘Afraid not,’ he said. ‘Wrecks the air seal.’
‘Then what do I do?’
Davidson paused, frowning, an oversight in the Master Plan.
‘We normally have special glasses made,’ he said. ‘They fit in here. Like mine.’
He showed Goodman his own mask, the lenses held in place by a special clip across the rubber bridge between the perspex eyes. Goodman nodded.
‘I have no special glasses,’ he confirmed. ‘So what shall I do?’
Davidson smiled, genuinely amused.
‘You’ve got a choice,’ he said. ‘Blind or dead?’
Goodman looked at him for a moment, not even wanting to pick the mask up. The thing repelled him, the big empty eyes, a skull in the making. He glanced at his watch. In ten minutes or so, Evans would be driving him back down to the city, to call for Suzanne, and take her to the dock. He gazed up at Davidson, weighing up the choice, glad of the excuse.
‘Dead,’ he said, ‘thanks all the same.’
Gillespie drove fast through the city towards the dock. He’d stopped briefly at a call-box, dialling his own number and waiting for the phone to be picked up. Sure enough, someone had answered. He’d heard a shallow breath or two.
‘Annie?’ he said, ‘Annie?’
There’d been no answer. Just the silence, and then a ticking on the line, the tell-tale signature of the cheap equipment they were having to use, recording all calls. He’d put the phone down, his own house a prohibited zone, occupied territory, and got back in the car.
It had taken him a minute or two to break out the camera from its polystyrene mouldings, and fit the batteries, and load the film and the long zoom lens. Then he’d resumed his journey to the dock, using back roads, but knowing they’d be looking for the wrong car anyway, and that he was moderately safe.
He parked several streets from the dock, stepping lightly into the shadows, the camera in his hand. It was half-past nine. In half an hour, it would be curfew. But by that time, he’d be in place, a niche in the dock, a perfect view of Cartwright’s scam, officially blessed, figures in the viewfinder, faces on film. One nation, he thought bitterly. One bloody nation.
Evans drove Goodman away from the Bunker, down the slip road, out towards the motorway. The guards in the sandbagged emplacements at the foot of the slip road saluted as they went through. Like Goodman, and like Evans, they too were wearing the bulky Noddy suits, the hoods thrown back, their faces clear.
As the big car settled on the motorway, a steady eighty-five, Goodman felt some of the tension begin to ease. Twice in the last three hours or so, he knew he’d come close to cracking up. It was an instinctive recognition, an almost physical awareness that his mind might soon split open, fracture, like an over-ripe fruit. In some ways, he suspected it might be a release. Deep inside, he almost welcomed the prospect.
Evans slowed for the roundabout, and Goodman eyed him in the mirror. He’d known the man for two days now, forty-eight busy hours, maximum stress, maximum demand. Circumstances like these were meant to bring men together, to bridge gaps, yet the quiet Marine was no less of a stranger now than when they’d first met, at the kerbside, with Davidson’s careful introductions. Evans had rebuffed Goodman’s attempts to open conversations, to start a dialogue. Instead, he’d remained sternly apart: cold, watchful, somehow disapproving. Goodman couldn’t pin it down, couldn’t cite a particular incident, an exchange of words that he could quote verbatim, but he knew the man had drawn his own conclusions, made his own judgements. Evans didn’t like him. It was as simple as that.
Up ahead now, he could see the lights of Suzanne’s flats. The next few minutes he knew would be difficult, perhaps even painful. But he was certain, at last, that it had to be done. He could no longer lead two lives. Otherwise he would go mad.
The car stopped. Evans glanced over his shoulder. They’d been here already today. He knew the drill.
‘Fifteen minutes, sir?’
The question had the faintest edge of insolence. Or perhaps contempt. Goodman ignored it.
‘Five,’ he said briskly, getting out.
He took the lift to the ninth floor, fumbling inside the NBC suit for his keys. The material of the suit had already left a greasy black deposit on his hands, and he’d become aware of a faint smell, like charcoal. He let himself into the flat, and closed the door behind him. There was music coming from the lounge, a CD he’d given her in the early days, the Fauré Requiem. His step faltered for a moment. This was going to be worse than he’d anticipated. He shook his head, dismissing the thought, walking through to the big lounge.
Suzanne looked up, startled. She was sitting in the armchair by the picture window. The doors to the balcony were open. She’d obviously been outside. The room was cold. Goodman stood by the mantelpiece, looking round for the bags she should have packed.
‘You’re not ready,’ he said.
She got up, unsteady, and then he saw the gin bottle beside the chair. It was nearly empty. She looked at him and laughed, a strange slow laugh.
‘You look ridiculous,’ she said, ‘quite ridiculous.’
He began to walk towards her, but she turned away, keeping him at arm’s length.
‘No,’ she said, ‘oh, no …’
He frowned again, and looked at his watch.
‘Darling, the boat leaves –’
‘Darling?’ She let the word hang in the air. ‘Whose darling?’
Goodman hesitated. ‘You’ve been drinking,’ he said shortly. ‘You’re drunk.’
Suzanne nodded, a big extravagant nod.
‘You’re right,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve been listening to your wife. Poor bloody cow.’
Goodman stared at her. ‘My wife?’ he said. ‘Jo? Here?’
Suzanne nodded again, coming closer. He could smell the gin on her breath.
‘Yes, my love. Your wife. Your precious Jo-Jo. Here. In my flat. Telling me the odd home truth.’ She paused, a terrible concentration in her eyes, measuring every word, utterly sober. ‘Listen …’ she said, ‘I have no idea whether or not you ever fell in love with a woman called Sheila. And I don’t even care any more whether you lied about putting your wife and kids on that bloody boat of yours. But just tell me one thing. One thing. Will you …?’ She was very close to him now, the accusation softening into a plea. ‘Will you …?’
Goodman nodded, swallowing hard, losing touch, watching it all disappear, the whole thing.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes.’
She reached out and touched him lightly on the hand, his arm, this strange cloth, his face.
‘Just tell whether one word …’ she said, ‘one sentence, one single thought, was ever bloody true.’ She paused. ‘Well?’
Goodman closed his eyes. He felt dizzy. He felt physically sick.
‘Suzy …’ he began.
‘Yes?’
‘Suzy …’
He started to cry. She watched him, cold, not helping, no comfort, no sanctuary, no place to hide.
‘Suzy …’ he said for the third time.
She turned away from him, walked to the window, gazed out through the open door. Then she came back. Her face had hardened. Her hands were flat across her belly. She was close to him again, inches away.
‘You cowardly, callous bastard,’ she said slowly, ‘you’ve lied to me. And you’ve cheated. And you’ve taken what you want. And now you’d quite like it to end.’ Her voice began to rise. ‘But even now you can’t tell me. Even now you haven’t got the guts. Even now it’s me who has to say it. Just like it’s your poor bloody wife has to come to take you home.’ She took him by the shoulders and began to shake him. ‘Look at me, for Chrissakes. Do something honest in your life.’ She paused. ‘Can you do that small thing? Can you open your eyes? Dare you?’ She stared at him. Well?’
Goodman opened his eyes. There was something very strange there, remote, almost autistic, but she was too far gone to see it. She hit him twice, as hard as she could, across the face, her right hand. He felt the ring on her finger scoring his flesh. He lashed out, catching her high, across the temple, sending her crashing into the armchair. The armchair tipped over. She looked up at him, sprawled on the carpet.
‘You bastard,’ she said. ‘You bastard.’
She got up and reached quickly for the heavy glass ashtray on the table. It caught him high on the forehead, cutting him badly. He wiped the blood from his face, and shook his head, grunting, a hideous, primitive noise from way, way down. He turned towards her, the room closing in on him, a narrow tunnel, directing him remorselessly onwards. She backed away, seeing the expression on his face, a stranger in green, knowing quite suddenly that this was life and death, that she’d gone too far.
‘No,’ she said softly, ‘no.’
He closed with her, hands around her throat, her neck, and she tried to fight him off, kicking and biting and clawing at his face. He wrestled her backwards, towards the big plate-glass windows, towards the open door. She tried to wriggle free, to throw herself sideways, but it was hopeless, he was too strong, and they were out on the balcony, the music distant, shredded by the wind. She felt the chill on her body, the hands around her waist. She felt her whole body rise, her feet part company with the concrete, and she smelled the sea. She had time, a second perhaps, to whisper a name, to say goodbye, and then, quite suddenly, there was nothing.
Gillespie had been at the dock for nearly an hour and a half by the time the Timothy Lee sailed. He’d found a tiny recess behind one of the smaller warehouses, the perfect hide. There was a pile of sturdy wooden boxes that gave him the height he needed, and the angle of the two buildings cast a deep shadow. From a range of fifty metres, he could acquire all the detail he needed.
For an hour, he took shot after shot, men mostly, fathers, husbands, fat cats from the city’s world of business, men who’d cashed in their assets and their influence to save their own skins. A lot of the faces he recognized, well-known figures in certain city circles. Others were less familiar. But each shot, he knew, told the same story. Bags. Chattels. Kids. Pets. All outward bound. Courtesy of their bank accounts. And blessed by the city’s Controller. The same old story. What you’re worth. And who you know. The scene disgusted him.
By eleven-thirty, the trawler was preparing to leave. A minibus had arrived, only minutes earlier, another thirty or so people, more faces, more shots, but these evacuees evidently qualified for another boat, moored alongside. The tide was too low for Gillespie to be sure, but what he could see of the hull and upperworks looked much smarter, some kind of motor yacht. The party from the minibus filed aboard, down a steep gangplank, each of the women carrying a suitcase, or a child, sometimes both. In this party, there were no men, and Gillespie remembered Suzanne telling him the original plan, a discreet evacuation, Bunker personnel only, strictly women and children. Gillespie took a handful of extra shots, beginning to understand. The one boat providing cover for the other. The official mercy mission disguising a multitude of other sins.
He glanced down at the camera. He had ten shots left. He looked at his watch. At this rate, the boats would soon be out on the harbour, pushing south towards the open sea. He’d risk one last shot from the top of the Round Tower at the harbour mouth, the conclusive evidence he might one day need. Then he’d be on his way. He stepped carefully off the boxes, hugging the shadows, reminded irresistibly of Belfast. A good night’s work, he thought. The bastards well and truly slotted.
Goodman got out of the car and walked slowly across the gravel towards his front door. Evans watched him carefully from behind the wheel, watched him stumble and fall. He got quickly out of the car and ran across to help, but Goodman was already back on his feet, pushing him away. The wound on his forehead had begun to bleed again, and the scratch marks on his face looked livid in the light from the street lamps. He gazed at Evans, uncomprehending.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, ‘fine.’
Evans helped him towards the door and rang the bell. He heard a door open inside, then footsteps down the hall. A shadow fell across the frosted glass. The door opened. He nodded at Mrs Goodman. They’d talked several times while he’d been waiting for her husband. She’d given him cups of tea. He’d given her a Marine beret for her son. They’d got a relationship of sorts. She stared at the figure beside him, her husband, the strange outfit, the face bloodied for the second time that day. Evans coughed apologetically. He could offer her no explanation, because there wasn’t one. When he’d emerged from the flats, Goodman had said nothing, getting into the back of the car, telling Evans to drive him home. Evans had offered him a handkerchief, asked him what had happened, but he’d shaken his head, ignoring the question, slumped against the leather seat, holding his face, the blood showing black between his fingers. Now, Evans smiled at Joanna, trying to make light of it all.
‘Been in the wars, ma’am,’ he said, ‘needs a bit of a wash.’
She looked at him, catching something in his voice, some tone she didn’t quite understand, something jarring, something not quite right. Goodman blinked at her. Familiar wallpaper in the hall. Familiar smells. His wife. His house. He looked at Evans.
‘Ten minutes,’ he mumbled. ‘Not five.’
Gillespie took only one shot from the Round Tower as the two boats nosed out through the harbour mouth. It was almost pitch black, no light at all, and the wind off the sea was too strong to risk a long exposure. Even 1000 ASA wouldn’t penetrate that darkness.
He watched the boats leave, bow waves in the inky blackness, and then pulled his jacket around him, and retraced his steps down the Tower, unaware of the sudden activity in the darkness on the other side of the harbour, the footsteps running along the wooden jetty, the powerful inboards stirring into life, the hands on throttles, the heads already bent to radar screens. The first of the pursuit boats was already in the tidal stream by the time he was back on the ground.
Gillespie had parked the VW half a mile away, and now he was running fast, hugging the shadows, working the warmth back into his body. First call would be Ocean Towers, where he’d collect the girl. Then he’d pick up Sean and head for his own boat. By daybreak, with luck, they’d be riding at anchor, off the back of the island.
He got back to the car within minutes, stowing the camera on the floor, checking the roll of exposed film in his pocket. Then he drove back along the seafront, no lights, wary of the curfew. Ocean Towers was ahead of him, off to the left. He parked Suzanne’s car under the trees, removed the camera, and ran
across the road.
Upstairs, on the ninth floor, he found the right key first time, a big heavy Chubb, and let himself into her flat. He smelled the liquor at once, and smiled. He called her name, softly, not wanting to alarm her.
‘Miss Wallace …’
There was no answer. He walked quickly through to the big lounge. One of the armchairs was overturned, and there was blood on the carpet. He put the camera down on a small occasional table, and picked up the empty glass. He sniffed it. Gin. He saw a heavy glass ashtray, upside down, on the carpet by the wall. He picked it up and examined it closely. There was blood, congealing on one lip. He looked around again. The room was cold. The door to the balcony was open, and the long velvet curtains were bellying in the wind. He drew his revolver and walked slowly out, checking left and right. The balcony was empty. He walked to the edge, and looked over. It took a second or two for his eyes to penetrate the darkness. Then he saw her. A bundle of rags on the concrete below. One leg splayed at an awkward angle. One hand outstretched. He felt the old, familiar chill of sudden death, and stepped inside the flat again, pulling the door shut behind him.
Quickly, he searched the other rooms. In the bedroom, under the pillow, he found a half-written letter. Big loopy script. Darling, darling … it began, what can I say? He read no further, sliding it back in the envelope, and replacing it under the pillow.
He returned to the lounge again, and picked up his camera. Then he turned up the dimmer switch on the wall, adjusted the exposure ring, and took two shots of the room, exactly the way he’d found it, the armchair upturned, the ashtray on the carpet. Then he went to the balcony again, and hung over the edge, winding the zoom out, pulling the body towards him. Another shot.
Back inside the lounge, he shut the door, turned the key in the lock, readjusted the dimmer, and left. Outside, he followed the concrete path round the corner of the building.
Suzanne was lying on the path, face down. Her eyes were open, and there was blood on the concrete beside her ear. She looked startled, surprised, and strange, dark marks blotched her neck and shoulders. Her upper lip was split. He bent closer, smelling the alcohol again. Gin, he thought. He glanced up at the balcony. He had one shot left. He backed away, until he could frame the whole body, then pressed the shutter.
Rules of Engagement Page 32