by Chris Ryan
A number of people were milling around, waiting for loved ones or looking impatiently at their watches. Will ignored almost all of them. There was only one person he was looking for right now and he realised his heart was in his throat at the prospect of that person not having made it. He scanned the crowds around the statue, but there were no familiar faces.
A Tannoy announcement echoed around the station and a few people moved away from the statue. Will checked his watch: 11.30. Shit. She should be here by now.
11.31.
He'd told her not to be late.
11.32.
She knew the risks. He couldn't stay here for long.
And then he saw her.
Latifa Ahmed seemed to appear from nowhere, walking out of the crowd with a slight limp, but with a steady determination in her gait. She wore a heavy coat against the cold and a headscarf that covered her hair. As she grew near, Will saw that she had applied a little make-up to her face. It disguised her well; but it also, he noticed, enhanced the natural prettiness that he had never noticed in her before.
'I thought you weren't coming,' Will said, abruptly.
'I almost didn't,' she replied. Her voice was sad.
'You don't trust me?'
'I don't trust anyone. But coming with you is better than sitting and waiting for the Americans to—' Her voice trailed off.
Will nodded. He knew what she was trying to say. They were both in the same boat.
Now Latifa was here, he started looking around again. He knew what he was after: a man by himself, probably not in a suit, so as to stand out to anyone who knew what they were looking for. There was such a guy on the other side of the statue. Just standing there. Waiting.
'Don't move,' Will told Latifa and he sauntered around to where the man was standing.
Their eyes met, and the man seemed entirely comfortable with a stranger staring at him. Will sidled up to him. 'You got something from Pankhurst?' he asked.
The man said nothing; he just nodded and handed Will a white, padded envelope. Will glanced inside. Two passports, just as he'd asked for; and a thick wad of euros, which he hadn't requested but was pleased to see. He looked back up at the man. 'I'll watch you leave,' he said.
The man didn't respond. He just walked away, out into the crowds of St Pancras, and didn't look back.
Will returned to Latifa, who was just standing there, expressionless. 'Is it time?' she asked.
He nodded.
'And we will be safe, once we have left the country?'
He shrugged. 'Safer. The world's a big place. There are lots of places to hide. You could even go back to Afghanistan, if you wanted.'
Latifa shook her head. 'No,' she said. 'I do not think I will do that. There are too many memories for me there.' A vacant look passed across her face.
'You can't escape your memories, Latifa. They travel with you.'
She looked straight into his eyes. 'You are right,' she said, sadly. 'Thank you for doing this, Will. I know I do not deserve it, after what my brother did.'
Will took a deep breath. He knew how much it took for Latifa to say that. 'You're not your brother, Latifa,' he replied. 'You're not your brother.'
She inclined her head. 'You are leaving a lot behind, Will. Are you sure this is what you want?'
'You're wrong,' Will replied. 'I don't have anything to stay for.' He smiled. 'Only memories. And like I say, memories -'
'- travel with you.'
'Exactly.' He took her lightly by the arm. 'The train for Paris leaves in ten minutes. We need to be on it. Are you ready?'
That distant look crossed her face again and for a moment she didn't speak. But when she did it was clearly and firmly, with a confidence that Will didn't expect.
'I'm ready.'
Will nodded and together they walked away from the statue into the teeming crowds of St Pancras.
And into whatever the uncertain future held.
EPILOGUE
Christmas Eve
Snow had fallen.
Father Jack Butler had a tradition. Every Christmas Eve he would walk around the cemetery of the Hereford churchyard, spending a few seconds at each of the many graves. He was not a young man and each year it took him a little longer to pay his silent respects to the dead. Today it chilled him just to look at the thick snow, but it was a tradition and a worthwhile one at that, he thought. He braced himself against the cold and started his annual round, shuffling through the white powder with creaky joints.
They were like old friends, some of these tombstones. Constant. Ever-present. They grew increasingly elderly with him, each year a little more marked and decrepit. But he drew a kind of comfort from the knowledge that these blocks of stone, these memorials to life - each of them holding their own secrets and stories - would outlive any of the visitors that came here for moments of quietness and reflection.
He found it more difficult to be so philosophical around the newer graves, however. This was a sadder part of the churchyard and seemed even more so today, covered with the silent blanket of snow. His eyes were caught by the fresh mounds covering the graves of the two men he had buried in the past week. Soldiers, both of them - it would be a good six months before their stone memorials were erected. Addressing their families had been difficult. No one had been informed of the circumstances of their death and Father Jack Butler had been the incumbent of a Hereford church for long enough to know what that meant. He nodded respectfully at the two mounds of earth before turning back towards the church.
His route through the snow took him past that bit of the churchyard that always saddened him most. A single grave, but home to two bodies: a mother and daughter. They had been buried here for a couple of years now and each time he passed this stone he felt his very faith being questioned. He remembered their deaths; he remembered the horror of it. From time to time, after the funeral, he had seen, from a distance, a man at their graveside. The priest had watched him, watched how he stood, immobile and hunched, for such long periods of time. Such terribly long periods of time. Now and then he had considered approaching and talking to him. But when you have been a priest for as long as he had, you developed a kind of sixth sense, an intuition that tells you whether words of Christian comfort are likely to be of help to certain people.
Father Jack Butler's intuition had told him he would be of no help at all to that man.
As he passed the grave, he noticed something. Propped up against the tombstone, covered with a delicate dusting of snow, was a flower. A single flower. For some reason it caught the priest's heart and he walked a few steps nearer. He bent down to take a closer look and picked the flower up with his pale, shaking hands.
Tied to the rose with a piece of gold ribbon was a card. It was damp from the snow and he held it lightly, not wanting to damage the paper. In the corner of the card was a small, florid illustration, but it was not this that caught his eye. It was the writing in the middle. The blue ink was slightly smudged, but he could still tell that the handwriting was firm yet spidery - not like his own flowing copperplate. It crossed the priest's mind that it was written by someone not used to holding a pen.
A single word. A simple word.
Goodbye.
Father Jack Butler blinked and he wondered what on earth it could mean. What story could possibly lie behind this plain, poignant message?
For a long while he stared at the card, but finally the cold got to him and he realised his hand was shaking more than usual. He gently replaced the flower, stood up and nodded respectfully at the tombstone that always reminded him of the violence there was in the world. Then he turned and slowly trudged back towards the church.
It was Christmas. A time for peace. There was a family service that afternoon, and he had much to do.
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