Reaper

by Hurley, Graham

  “This is a fantasy,” he said, “and you’re the au pair.”

  After breakfast, Eva washed the dishes, sluiced the sink with bleach, wrote Buddy a shopping list, and told him they were going to Portsmouth. Buddy looked at her across the kitchen, recognizing the shape of the relationship, yet another order masquerading as simple conversation.

  “Portsmouth,” he said wonderingly. “What a surprise.”

  They took her car. She drove. Portsmouth lay thirty miles to the east, at the end of the coastal motorway. It was a big city, a naval city, nearly a quarter of a million people packed onto a low, flat island, a city of terraced streets, and chimney pots, and flat-capped men on bicycles. Buddy knew the place well. He’d learned his diving there, way back, at the Navy’s school at HMS Vernon, and the city had felt familiar from the start. In some ways, it reminded him of his own childhood in Camberwell Green. The place seemed instantly recognizable, a chunk of inner London transplanted to the south coast. It was scruffy, and working class, and quite poor. The people had no side, and little money. At nights, the going could be rough, but there were plenty of laughs, and the locals had a kind of stoic cheerfulness. Just like home, Buddy thought.

  Ten miles short of the city, Eva signalled left, taking the motorway exit for Gosport. Gosport was over the water from Portsmouth, duller, slightly more genteel, a smaller town that had also made its living from the Navy. Between Gosport and Portsmouth lay Portsmouth Harbour, a huge expanse of water reaching five miles inland. The upper reaches of the harbour had become an anchorage for moth-balled warships, but the seaward end remained what it had always been, home base for the Navy and the dockyard, and the dozens of warships that returned from duty for overhauls and resupply.

  Eva drove the VW down through Gosport, and parked a hundred yards from the waterfront and the ferry terminal. The ferry ran a regular service across the harbour, connecting the two towns, and Eva bought two return tickets. Buddy followed her down to the pontoon, gazing around, remembering the countless times he’d used the ferry before, runs ashore to Gosport’s wilder pubs, evenings with an agile divorcee who’d tired of her ever-absent submariner husband, and found aerobics no substitute for the real thing. Waiting for the ferry, Buddy smiled at the memories. On a good night, no beer, he could keep up with her for a couple of hours. After that, she’d give him the fruit bowl and tell him to keep at it. She had a limitless appetite, and no shame, and Buddy had avoided bananas ever since.

  The ferry arrived, and Buddy and Eva joined the queue as it shuffled forward. On board, Buddy gestured at the upper deck. Since yesterday, in the cottage back home, he’d been waiting for this, the chance to explain why – in principle – the plan might seem a great idea. And why – in practice – it would never work.

  The ferry cast off and nosed into the harbour. The tide was at full ebb, the water racing seawards, tugging the red and green buoys against their mooring chains, lapping against the side of the ferry as it crossed the tidal stream. Buddy stood at the port rail, Eva beside him. A couple of hundred yards away were the first of the dockyard berths, the grey warships double-moored, side by side. The dockyard stretched up-harbour for about a mile, berth after berth, hundreds of acres of repair sheds, workshops, warehouses, dry docks, and the huge grey cranes that dominated the skyline. Today, there were perhaps a dozen warships tied up alongside: frigates, a couple of destroyers, one of the new mini-carriers, HMS Invincible, and the familiar shape of the warship she’d soon replace, HMS Hermes, an ancient aircraft carrier newly tarted up to take a squadron or two of helicopters, and the Navy’s latest fighter, the vertical take-off Sea Harrier. Buddy gazed at it all as the ferry butted across the harbour. He’d loved the Navy, loved his years aboard these ships. They’d been home to him, more important than any other place he’d ever lived, and it was bizarre to be here, thinking of them with anything but affection. To do what they wanted, to turn his working life on its head and sink one of the buggers, was out of the question. Now, he thought. Now is the time to bury it. To expose the plan for what it is. Pure fantasy.

  He glanced at Eva. She had a small camera. She was taking photographs. He tapped her on the shoulder. She lowered the camera.

  “Listen,” he said, nodding down at the tidal stream, the slate grey water foaming past the ferry, “number one, the current. You’re looking at four knots of tide. That’s a joke, for a start.” He looked up, redirecting her attention to the dockyard, the massive cranes, the incessant clank of heavy metal. “Number two, the place is sealed as tight as a parson’s arse. They guard it night and day. You have to have passes. Special permission. You can’t just walk in there …” He paused. “OK?”

  Eva nodded. “OK,” she said.

  Buddy paused for breath, working steadily down his mental check list.

  “Number three,” he said, “I’ll need gear. Loads of it. Specialist stuff. Closed circuit breathing sets. Explosives. Detonators. Timing devices. This stuff doesn’t grow on trees. You can’t buy it at Woolies.”

  He paused, looking over his shoulder, down the harbour towards the sea. The harbour mouth was narrow, barely three hundred metres across, guarded on the eastern side by an old fortification, the Round Tower, and on the other side by HMS Dolphin, the Navy’s submarine base. Eva was following his eyeline, keeping up with the arguments, saying very little. Buddy looked at her.

  “They want it done when the ships are leaving,” he said. “Isn’t that right?”

  She nodded. “Yes,” she said, “that’s the whole point. There’s bound to be television. Press. All kinds of coverage. He wants the whole world to see.”

  Buddy looked at her a moment.

  “That means radio detonators,” he said briefly, “button job.”

  “Of course.”

  “You think that’s simple?”

  Eva shrugged, saying nothing, and Buddy let the silence speak for itself before gesturing at the dockyard again, closer now.

  “OK,” he said. “Let’s imagine I get hold of all this gear. Get it into the dockyard. Wait until they’re looking the other way. Get kitted up. What then?”

  “You swim.”

  “Sure. But there’s a war on. Remember? That’s what I’m told. I’m told we’re off to beat the shit out of the Argies, and the Navy’s going to do the job, and half the world’s going to watch it all on television:” He paused. “That’s the plot … isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you think they’re just going to leave me to it? Not take precautions?”

  “What precautions?”

  Buddy gazed at her. “Are you asking me?” he said.

  “I thought you were in the Navy.”

  “I was. It was a while ago, though. Things change.”

  “So …?” she shrugged, “how did they used to protect their ships? When you were there?”

  Buddy frowned. “That’s classified,” he said.

  “You mean they didn’t.”

  “It’s classified,” he repeated, knowing only too well that she was right.

  The ferry began to turn for the run in towards the Portsmouth terminal. Buddy turned to talk to Eva again. Her camera was back up to her eye. She was taking more photos. He watched her for a moment, shot after shot, then shrugged. The thing was impossible. There was nothing left to be said.

  Five minutes later, the ferry cast off again, nosing back out towards Gosport. Eva put the camera away and took Buddy by the arm, walking him around the deck to the starboard side. From here, on the return journey, they had the same view of the dockyard. She settled him against the rail, and he realized yet again how businesslike she was, how organized.

  The ferry gathered speed. She nodded down at the water.

  “The tide,” she said, “is slack for eight hours a day. Two hours either side of high water. Two hours either side of low water.” She looked at him. “OK?”

  Buddy nodded, said nothing. She reached in her bag and took out a tide table. She showed him the tide table. She
put it back in her bag, very patient, very methodical. Then she looked up again, back, towards the dockyard.

  “Number two,” she said, “you’ll never need to be in the dockyard in the first place.”

  Buddy gazed at her. “You want me to swim? From Southampton?”

  “No.” She pointed to a marina on the Gosport side of the harbour, a forest of yacht masts. “You swim from there.”

  “It’s private,” Buddy said automatically.

  “You’re right,” she smiled, “but they hire out berths. To visiting yachts. At a price.”

  “So?” Buddy shrugged. “What does that solve? You need a yacht.”

  She smiled again, reaching in her bag for the third time. “I’ve got one,” she said.

  She produced a packet of photographs. She slipped off the elastic band and quickly sorted through them. Towards the bottom of the pile she found what she wanted. She gave it to Buddy. Buddy looked at the photo. It showed a three-quarter stern view of a yacht. The yacht was white, tied up alongside a river pontoon. It had a cockpit aft, and a small three-rung ladder over the stern. The sails were furled, and a woman of about forty was beaming at the camera. Eva looked at Buddy. “Note the ladder,” she said.

  Buddy nodded. “Who’s the woman?”

  “She’s the owner’s wife. The yacht’s up for charter. We’ve chartered it.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me.”

  Buddy looked at her, then shook his head.

  “You can’t have,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “You need a certificate to do that. A yachtmaster’s certificate.”

  “I’ve got one.”

  Buddy blinked. “You know how to skipper a yacht?”

  Eva shook her head. “No,” she said.

  “Then where does the certificate come from?”

  She looked at him, saying nothing. There was a long silence. They were half-way across the harbour. Buddy looked at the water bubbling past.

  “Where is this yacht?” he said at last.

  “On the Hamble. At Warsash.”

  Buddy nodded. The Hamble was a river about ten miles away. It ran into Southampton Water, and Warsash was at its mouth. Sailing from Warsash to Portsmouth would be a doddle. They could do it on the engine alone. They need never raise the sails. It would take a couple of hours. Three at the most. Buddy looked at the picture one last time and then gave it back to her.

  “OK,” he paused, “so who supplies the gear? The explosives? The set?”

  There was another long silence. The ferry began to turn again, the skipper juggling the throttles, bringing the hull beam-on to the approaching pontoon. Tricky manoeuvre, Buddy wanted to say. Needs a real expert. Just like any other boat on the harbour. Eva looked at him for a moment, then produced the article from the local paper. She unfolded it. Buddy glanced down. Jude. On Duke. Eva was still looking at him. She didn’t need to check the small print. She’d been word perfect for a month.

  “You said you’d do anything to get your wife back on her feet,” she said, “you said you’d go to the ends of the earth.” She paused. “It also says you’ve been diving for most of your working life …” She began to fold the article. Then she looked up. “I can’t believe you don’t know where to find the gear,” she said slowly, “and I can’t believe you don’t know how to handle a boat.”

  Buddy leaned over the rail. He looked across at the dockyard. At the great cranes. At the big diving tank at Vernon where he’d done his first emergency ascents. At the long line of sleek grey warships. There was a matelot aboard one of the destroyers. He was scrubbing down the afterdeck. After a while, he disappeared.

  “OK …” Buddy said quietly, “suppose the plan’s possible. Suppose it might even work. How do you suggest I handle the rest of it?”

  Eva frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Rest of it?” she said.

  “Yeah …” Buddy looked round at her, “me?”

  They came for Connolly at twelve o’clock. He’d been waiting in the cold, bare flat off the Ormeau Road for over an hour. He’d phoned the number Scullen had given him at nine. The man at the other end had grunted. He’d given the man his address, and the spot where the hit was to take place, and the time, and the barest details. It felt mechanical, cold, like ordering a pizza.

  There were two of them, both unfamiliar. They were young. They didn’t say very much. They took him down to the car and put him in the front, beside the driver. They checked the gun, and told him the way it was to be.

  They would park in the street, upstream from the travel agency. They’d scouted the street already. There was a spot that would do, single yellow line, waiting permitted for half an hour. The target would pull in at the kerbside to pick the girl up. They’d stop alongside, hemming the target in, trapping him behind the steering wheel, making it impossible for the man to get out. Connolly would be nearest to him, in the front passenger seat. He was to keep firing until the man was down. He should aim for the head. When the man was down, he should fire through the door. The big automatic took a fourteen-shot magazine. Fourteen shots should do it. Easy.

  The briefing went on, the older of the two youths, fish and chip complexion, greasy skin lightly crusted with acne. He had a low, flat, toneless voice and didn’t look Connolly in the eye.

  After the hit, they’d drive out of the city. After a mile or so, there’d be another car waiting for them. There’d be a driver at the wheel. They’d swop cars again, a third driver, on the way down to Armagh. If the thing went right, he’d be over the border in time for tea.

  The other youth asked Connolly whether he understood it all. They went over the details again, and Connolly got it right first time, all of it. They told him he was bright, unlike others they could name. He said it was simple, a good plan. He smiled at them, complimenting them. They didn’t smile back.

  At half past twelve, they set off. Connolly sat beside the driver. The driver gave him a black balaclava. He held it for a while, then stuffed it between his knees. Whatever he did, he couldn’t stop his hands shaking.

  They turned down Donegal Place, watching carefully for the RUC and the Army. The car was stolen, the theft only hours old. They’d taken the car from the station car park at Dunmurray. With luck, the owner would still be at work in the city. With luck, he wouldn’t report it until the evening.

  They stopped at the junction with Great Victoria Street, turned right, and drove the brief two hundred yards to the place they’d chosen. The driver parked up, killed the engine. They both had newspapers. They opened them, heads tucked well down, faces invisible from the street. Connolly didn’t read the paper they’d left at his feet, didn’t bother. He’d not be back here. He knew it. No matter what happened, how careful they were, how lucky, he’d not be back. He’d left a note for Mairead. He’d given her an address to write to, his mother’s telephone number. He’d told her he loved her. He’d promised they’d be together again one day. He’d said what he’d done was for the best. For her. For them. For the Movement.

  He looked at his watch. Five to one. He looked down at the balaclava, wondering who’d worn it last, what his face had looked like, what had happened to him, what he’d done. He looked up again, curious at the way the world outside the car windows had ceased to be real any more. Lunchtime. Pretend people. Shadows hurrying by in dresses and coats. A film without a soundtrack. Make believe. He blinked. A tan Ford Escort was coasting slowly past them. It was indicating left. It stopped outside the travel agency. Connolly lifted the gun from the floor, holding it out of sight. He’d never lifted anything so heavy. He could smell the oil.

  He nudged the driver. “He’s here,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Why don’t we do it?”

  “He’s looking at us in the mirror.”

  Connolly glanced up. He was right. The driver in the Escort was studying the mirror. He could see him. He was looking directly at them. Connolly began to panic.

  “Wha
t do we do?” he said.

  “We wait.”

  “How long?”

  “Until he stops looking.”

  Connolly nodded. Of course, he thought. Of course that’s what we do. He swallowed hard, wondering about the balaclava. When should he put it on? Now? In a minute or so? Under the dashboard? So his head wasn’t visible? Looking straight ahead through the windscreen, trying to think it through, he saw Mairead. She was a figure from a dream. She was hurrying along Great Victoria Street. She was wearing the coat he’d bought her for Christmas. She’d seen the Escort, Charlie, and now she was looking round. For him. For Connolly. He watched her, scarcely daring to breathe. She’d slowed down. She was trying to hang it out. She obviously wanted him there, needed him there, believed he’d do as he’d promised, turn up.

  The car’s engine started. The car began to move. The driver wasn’t looking at him.

  “OK?” he said. “Are you fucking ready for it?”

  Yes, thought Connolly. Yes, I am. Yes, I am ready for it. For the man Charlie. Killing him. Doing it. The Escort nosed into the road. The driver was looking at the approaching traffic. He’d need a U-turn in a minute, a space to swing the car round and head back out of town. He was planning ahead, the deed done, the target dead.

  The car began to slow. Connolly watched the Escort drifting towards them. It seemed disembodied, quite unreal. The man inside, Charlie, was looking at Mairead. Mairead was ten yards away. He must like her, Connolly thought, he must fancy her. He’s smiling at her. There now. A little wave, even. The car stopped. Mairead paused. Charlie looked round. Connolly gazed at him.

  “Do it,” the driver shouted. “Fucking do it. Shoot the bastard!”

  Connolly raised the gun and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening bang. The glass in the window shattered. Charlie pitched sideways across the width of the car. His face wasn’t there any more. Connolly pulled the trigger again, and then again, smelling the cordite. Someone began to scream. Charlie had disappeared and Connolly lowered the gun, putting the last six bullets through the door, just as the man had said. He felt the car pitch forward, then swerve violently to the right. He heard the scream of the tyres biting on the tarmac, and there was a new smell, burning rubber, along with the cordite. A bus loomed up. It blocked the street. The car hit the kerb. He saw people diving for cover, an old woman, slower than the rest, her body tossed onto the bonnet, her face pressed against the windscreen, looking at death. Then she was gone, and they were back on the road again, the speedo way up, sixty, seventy, the traffic scattering in front of them, bicycles, vans, cars, a lorry.