Touching the Dark

by Jane A. Adams

  “You were there, weren’t you?” he had asked finally, half ashamed of how much he resented this distance that appeared between them whenever Tally reviewed her past.

  At first, she did not reply. Did not in fact even seem to hear.

  “Are you listening to me?” Simon had demanded.

  “What? Oh sorry, I was miles away.” Years away.

  “I could see that. It doesn’t matter. I just asked if you recognised this place.”

  Tally nodded. “Oh yes,” she breathed the words quietly. “We were there. One of the last times I worked with Jon. Time Magazine ran a four page feature. It barely scratched the surface. It was bad, Simon. The worst of times.”

  Simon had waited. Sometimes Tally would be willing to talk, other times she’d give a tantalising glimpse of her past and then shut down.

  “We were running,” she had told him. “It had been raining and the street was soaked from the downpour. The rains were coming This storm had lasted just a bare fifteen minutes, but it had soaked us to the skin and the packed earth of the road was so hard baked that the water sat there, like hot ice.”

  Simon, drink in hand, watching the early evening meetings between friends and lovers recalled that he had hardly dared to breath. That he had wanted so badly to touch her, but had been too afraid that it might break the spell. Tally, leaning back against the bed head, knees drawn up to her chest and her shoulders hunched as though against sudden cold.

  He could almost feel, come close to seeing the memories replayed behind her tight closed eyes.

  “I skidded into Jon O’Dowd and he reached out to stop me falling. He never even broke his pace or looked my way. The gunfire was growing louder by the second and the rumours had been spreading all that day that foreign film crews were being targeted by both sides now. Two journalists had been killed in the past three days.”

  One, Simon recalled, was a soundman with a Scandinavian TV company, another was a photographer that Tally had trained with. Caught in crossfire, it was claimed, but no one believed that. O Dowd’s team had been ordered out hours before and even Jon himself was now ready to comply. If they could reach the rendezvous point.

  They had spent the past three weeks, she had told Simon, reporting on the worsening situation. Rival warlords making the UN troops look like children as they tried to keep what they hoped was order. “Good intentions,” Jon had commented as the scenes of carnage replaced the optimistic images of only weeks before of UN troops being cheered by the locals, even greeted with some enthusiasm by the gang leaders, all of whom convinced themselves that fate had brought them a certain ally.

  “Good intentions. What do they say about the road to hell?”

  Tally had been short of breath, her chest tight and the sweat running down into her eyes and pooling in her bra and at the base of her spine. She was scared. She’d been in tight corners before with Jon O’Dowd, but this was by far the worst. On foot in an unfamiliar town and separated from the main body of foreign nationals who were trying to make it to the airstrip, the three of them were alone, unarmed and too aware of their own mortality.

  They veered into an alleyway between two ramshackle buildings as the gunfire sounded again, closer this time and off to their right, followed by the sound of running feet as they dived for cover.

  Jon risked using his radio, praying that someone be still in range. The UHF sets were really little more than line of sight and there were rumours, that one side or another were routinely monitoring transmissions and using them to track down those they now called enemies.

  A low moan close by caused Tally to swing around.

  “Oh my God, Jon.”

  They pulled back the debris that covered him. A middle-aged man, badly wounded, the marks on his body easily recognisable by anyone who’d spent time in Mamolo, his body hacked with a machete, the man left to die.

  Jon shook his head. “Nothing we can do for him.” Then turned his attention to the radio now crackling into life. He spoke urgently, giving their position as best he knew and asking for advice. Tally raised her camera. Habit taking over, shielding her feelings as she surveyed the man through the lens, the knowledge in his eyes cutting her to the bone. For a moment she hesitated and then O’Dowd was cursing at the radio and forcing them all to their feet once more and the running footsteps they had heard before they hid were coming back, purposeful this time and accompanied by further gunfire.

  “They’ve got the base unit,” O’Dowd yelled as they ran. “And I just told the bastards where we are.”

  “There was this man,” she told Simon. “Old, I guess, but he was in so much pain it was hard to tell. I thought we were all going to die that day and when I looked into that man’s face I swear he thought so too. It was a kind of recognition; I can’t explain it any better than that. Simon, he’d been attacked with a machete. Someone had hacked off his arms and left him lying there in his own blood and you know what. I lifted my camera to take his picture and all I could think for a moment was just what a fantastic image it would make. How much it would shock.”

  “But you never used it,” Simon had commented.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t take the picture. I couldn’t. The man was dying and I’d taken pictures of the dying more times than I want to count. But that time was different. We were all there that day. Me, Jon O’Dowd and Jack and I thought that would be our last day on earth. I really did.”

  “Jack was there?” Simon had not been able to keep the surprise out of his voice. “I mean, is he a journo or something? You never said.”

  “Sound man. That trip he was Jon’s sound man.”

  “Is Jack still in the same business?”

  Tally had looked sharply at him as though surprised by the eagerness in his tone.

  “Not anymore,” she said. “He quit the same time as I did.” She leant back again and closed her eyes and Simon had known she was remembering the man whose picture she could not take and he had wondered then if she regretted it, missing that decisive moment. Deliberately setting it aside.

  Her images illustrating the article in Time Magazine written up from O’Dowd’s sharp, compassionate television reports. But she had lied to Simon, about the image. Not chosen to mention either how O’Dowd had pushed her so hard to publish that shot, but she couldn’t, knowing it was Jack who had pressed the shutter, caught maybe the most powerful image of her whole career. She could still see the man’s face in her mind’s eye, as sharp and defined as ever and still smell the stink of the dying as if she wore it like perfume.

  At work the day after they had watched the documentary Simon called an old friend he’d been with at University and who now worked for the BBC. Calum was known for his archival memory and his thorough knowledge of the industry and Simon asked him how he could find out more about Jon O’Dowd.

  “O’Dowd? God Simon there’s been reams written about the guy. He was practically a legend. Tell me what you need to know and I’ll tell you where to start.”

  “I want to know about his team. Who his sound man was on a particular trip. He was in Somalia on one of his last assignments. I know it’s a bit odd but...”

  “No, that one’s dead easy. He almost always used the same crew. Mick Perl was his cameraman of choice, sometimes he’s take a photographer along too. Always reckoned dedicated stills pictures were better than anything you could grab from video. And his soundman was Nathan Sullivan. Everyone calls him Nat. Little guy. Big shoulders. O’Dowd used to joke that the three of them could edit up a Pulitzer prize winner in the hotel broom cupboard. O’Dowd used the same team almost all the time. Especially late on when he had the clout to get what he liked.”

  “Almost,” Simon questioned. “And that trip, any chance he used a sub?”

  “Well, it’s always possible,” Calum admitted doubtfully Look, got to go but I’ll see what I can dig up. Might take a few days though.”

  Simon thanked him and hung up. It seemed unlikely that Tally would lie about such a th
ing so there must be an explanation. Jack must have been subbing for Sullivan. Jack what? Simon thought realising irritably that he didn’t even know Jack’s name.

  He took himself down to see the archivist and asked her to run a search on Jonathan O’Dowd for the six months prior to his death but he was already wondering exactly what he thought he might be looking for and why. When she asked him if it was urgent he told her no. It’s background, he said. Not urgent.

  “How’s it going with the famous Tally Palmer?” she asked him with a mischievous grin.

  Simon returned her smile.

  “Pretty good,” he had told her. “Really pretty good.” He walked away, wondering even then if that were really true.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Simon knew he’d had too much to drink when he stood up and the gallery threatened to swoop down and tip him fifty feet onto the flagstoned floor below. Somehow, he negotiated the spiral stairs that led down to the lower level, though twice his feet slipped on the iron stairs and the second time he landed unceremoniously on his backside. He was aware of people, of the crowd parting to let him through. Of a large hand resting momentarily on his arm and guiding him the rest of the way outside. Just as well, Simon had lost all sense of how to find the exit doors.

  “Just stand there a minute and get your breath,” a voice told him. The hand still rested on his arm. It was heavy and tattooed and, he noted the nails kept short and scrubbed very clean. He followed the hand up an equally impressive arm, to a face that was not unfriendly exactly, but wary and just slightly amused. Simon took a deep breath of cold damp air and nearly threw up over the doorman’s shoes.

  He found himself being pointed back towards the main road. “Take a walk that way,” the big man told him sounding a lot less friendly now. “Back towards town. By that time you might be sober enough to find a cab.”

  “What time is it?” Simon asked him.

  “Ten to eight, but if you ask me you’ve made enough of a night of it already. Get home.”

  Released from the man’s grip. Simon staggered forward, stumbling into a low wall and barking his shins before righting himself and shuffling off in the direction of the town centre. His mouth tasted foul, he knew that his breath stank. He could smell himself and it was not pleasant. Ten to eight, the man had said. It had taken him just over an hour to get this way.

  *

  Calum had phoned Simon at work with the answers to his questions about Jo O’Dowd. “The sound man was definitely Nat Sullivan,” he told Simon. “Look, if you want info on O’Dowd I could set up a meet. Nat’s in town just now and he’s a good guy, be glad to help out.”

  Simon agreed, though he felt like a heel going behind Tally’s back. “Thanks Calum. Oh, and ask him, will you if they had anyone on the team by the name of Jack.”

  “Jack what?”

  “You’ve got me there. He’d be a friend of Tally Palmer’s.”

  “Oh?” Simon could almost hear the cogs turn in Calum’s mind. “And how is the lovely Ms Palmer? Good for you bro.”

  Simon thanked him again and put down the phone very aware that the whole world seemed to be congratulating him on having won this beautiful, desirable woman and all the time Simon felt more and more doubt about holding on to her.

  *

  “Tally,” Simon muttered. He’d been talking to her, left his car there. He was dimly aware that he was headed in the wrong direction for Tally’s flat but could not for the life of him work out the correct way in which to go. Maybe, he thought, he needed a map. He’d have to find a map shop. A map shop and something else to drink. Sickness and cold air were combining to take the edge off and he felt less inebriated than he had even ten minutes before. He walked on, touching the low wall that ran along the canal bank with the tips of his fingers as though keeping in touch physically with something strong and solid might infiltrate his own physical state. “Not good,” he told himself. “This is not good.”

  He was almost as drunk as he had been that night with Nat Sullivan, that first time he had met the man. That had been a night to forget, Simon thought, wishing more than anything else that he could go back and wipe it all out, forget it for real. That had been the night his troubles had really begun.

  *

  Calum had called back to say that the meeting with Nat Sullivan would have to be the following day as Nat was off on another assignment.

  “Sorry it’s short notice. Maybe you could get together when he gets back,” Calum apologised.

  “No, no tomorrow will be fine.” Simon paused and drew a deep breath appalled at how desperate he sounding and unsure as to why. Calum had caught his tone.

  “Anything wrong?” He asked. Never try to con another journo.

  Simon laughed. “No, it’s fine. Honestly. Set it up for me will you?”

  Calum promised to ring him back with the details and Simon set about rescheduling his appointments for the following couple of days in case he should have to stay overnight in London.

  He had called Tally and told her he had to go out of town, half relieved that they had no plans to meet that night. He knew he would never be able to fend off her questions

  “By the way,” he asked her, “What’s Jack’s second name?”

  “Why?”

  “You never said.”

  She sounded amused, “why should I? Actually, it’s Chalmers. Jack Chalmers. What are you working on?”

  Someone in the background called to Tally and saved Simon from the trouble of reply.

  “Got to run,” she said. “Tell me all about it when you get back?”

  “Sure. Love you.”

  He lowered the receiver slowly as though reluctant to break the contact. Should he have told her? What was there to tell? That he was jealous of a friend and wanted to know more about this possible enemy?

  “Pathetic,” he told himself. “Utterly Pathetic.”

  *

  London was a nightmare for parking and Simon never bothered. He had friends at Edmonton with off road parking in front of their house and he abandoned his car there and caught the tube into the city. He was a little late for his rendezvous with Nat Sullivan, a noisy bar just off the Charing Cross road, crowded and stuffy after the cold outside.

  Calum must have given his description because he had no sooner squeezed himself through the door than a voice was calling his name and Nat Sullivan appeared, fighting his way through the cram.

  He was a small man, stocky and broad shouldered with an aura that preceded him by about three feet on all sides. Dark eyes gleamed in a tanned face and he exuded an energy that made Simon feel inadequate and slow.

  “Nat Sullivan.” The man extended a large square hand. “Come and have a drink.”

  Somewhat overwhelmed, Simon followed him to the bar. Nat seemed to know everyone and to be capable of carrying on about a dozen conversations at once without missing a beat. Simon found himself surrounded by a crowd of eight or nine who seemed to be in Nat’s immediate party. Nat was rowdy, noisy and very much alive and his companions seemed to have caught his mood. It occurred to Simon just how different Tally seemed by comparison. How fey and separate. If Calum was right and Nat had been with Jon O’Dowd in Somalia then Tally must have known him. What was she like when she was around the likes of Nat? Did she succumb to the man’s energy in the way Simon felt himself doing?

  They spent about an hour in the bar, Simon being interrogated by Nat’s friends about his work and inevitably – when Nat made the connection for them – about Tally. As the group slowly started to disperse Nat took Simon to sit in a quieter corner with a couple of rounds of drinks to keep them going.

  “Now,” he said, “tell me. Calum spun me some yarn about a feature on Jon, but that’s been done to death so I don’t go with it.”

  Simon smiled at the man’s directness. He guessed that the past hour had been so that Nat could sum him up properly, see if he was worth talking to or should be fobbed off. He figured he must have passed. He’d drunk far mo
re already than he was used to and hoped that his brain would hold out well enough to ask what he wanted to know.

  “It’s about his time in Somalia,” he said.

  “That crap! God Almighty was that one a farce.”

  “But you were there, both times Jon O’Dowd went out?”

  “Damned right I was. Why?”

  “Do you remember an incident, the second time? You’d got separated from the convoy. Tally was with you and Jon and you found yourself trapped between two rival gangs. A place called Mamolo, I think.”

  “Christ yes.” Nat leaned back in his seat and regarded Simon thoughtfully. “Thought that was it for all of us,” he said. “The rebels had attacked the control point, this little hotel on the edge of town. Jon radioed in for help and damned near got us all killed.”

  “Who was with you, Nat?”

  The man squinted, his brow furrowed with thought, though Simon didn’t get the impression he was trying to remember but rather trying to figure out why the question was necessary.

  “Your girlfriend not tell you?” he said finally.

  Simon looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “She said there were three of you.”

  “That’s right. Me, Tally and Jon.”

  “No Jack?”

  “Who the fuck’s Jack?”

  “Tally said he was Jon’s sound man on that trip.”

  Nat leaned toward him and placed his glass purposefully on the table. He seemed annoyed. “Tally knows better than that. She’s spinning you a line my friend.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  Nat shrugged. “Tally’s odd sometimes,” he said. “If you’ve taken notice of more than her knickers you’ll know that by now.”

  Simon shook his head to clear it but it didn’t work. He excused himself and went to the toilets to wash his face but that didn’t work either. He half expected Nat to be gone when he came back but the man was still there, another drink in front of him and any irritation he might have felt gone from the broad, pleasant face.

  “Look,” Simon said, “she might have mixed things up. Times, places.”