by David Thorne
‘James. How are you?’
‘Good, well.’ Despite his injuries Petroski always seemed in a good humour, the genial voice emerging from his wrecked features a constant surprise. ‘You?’
‘Been better.’
‘Come inside.’
I followed him in. Inside, his house was as unloved as he was, as neglected and ignored. He made tea and we sat in his living room, me on an armchair which smelled of a dozen previous lifetimes, him on a sofa which had long ago lost its spring. The light above was dim, a weak bulb in a heavy lampshade. At least it hid the corners of the room, the damp and the peeling paper.
‘What’s going on?’ Petroski said. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Gabe?’
I took a drink, stared into the dark water. ‘He’s in trouble.’
‘Okay.’ Petroski nodded, his ridged and ravaged skin made more cruelly deformed by shadow. ‘What kind of trouble?’
‘The big kind.’
‘Like last year?’
‘That kind.’
Petroski, Gabe and I went back, had been through some times together. This house had once been the scene of violence, an attack by a group of ex-soldiers turned mercenaries who were willing to use any measures to silence Petroski. I suspected that the bullet holes were still here, had not been filled; his house was almost as battle-scarred as he was. Back then, Petroski had been up for a war. I wondered whether he still had the appetite for a fight.
‘You want to talk about it?’
‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go,’ I said. I put my mug down on the low table between us, sat back, rubbed my face with both hands, hard. ‘Christ, James. I’ve fucked up.’
‘Take it easy.’
‘Can’t.’ I forced myself back up straight. ‘There’s no way out of this one.’
‘There’s always a way out.’
I thought of Gabe, alone in a cell, locked deep in the heart of a police station. ‘Not always,’ I said.
‘So tell me about it,’ Petroski said.
I spoke to him about Halliday, about the bodies buried beneath my property, the hold that it had given me over him. Told him how Halliday had outmanoeuvred me, set Gabe up, and how Kane had gone too far, lost control, attacked Rafiq Jahani so brutally that he had died. I explained that I had tried to shield Gabe from what was happening but that I had failed, failed to protect him, failed as a friend. Petroski heard me out, did not interrupt. After I had finished, he said:
‘So. What do you want to do?’
I looked up at the shabby light, a moth throwing itself against the bulb, again and again, forlornly casting its shadow around the dim room. Petroski waited for me to respond, a gentle silence, and I could not think of anything at all.
Petroski offered me a bed for the night but I thanked him and said no, I had somebody else to see. I left him framed black in his doorway, took the road back and headed further south, down the coast. Although it was dark it was not cold and through the open windows of my car I could smell the salt off the sea, sense its shifting mass in the darkness beyond as I drove.
Harry Rafferty had an office in a wooden hut on the waterfront next to a dock lined with old car tyres, his boat tied up against it, nudging gently against the rubber as the sea’s swell jostled it. In the darkness the water looked like ink. There was a light on inside, brightness highlighting the gaps in the timbers. I knocked on the door. He was my last port of call.
Harry opened the door. ‘Danny.’
‘Thanks for seeing me.’
‘Come in.’ His office looked like the interior of a pirate vessel whose captain had long stopped caring: sloppily coiled ropes against the walls, a desk covered with papers, nets and rods and gaffs piled in corners, a partly stripped outboard spilling nuts and bolts and oil across the planked floor. He sat behind his desk, waved a hand at an empty cable spool which I guessed served as a visitor’s chair.
‘Leave it years, then I see you twice in a week.’
‘Been one of those weeks.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve got a question for you. Hypothetical.’
Harry nodded, picked up a pen, looked at it, held it in two hands. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Hypothetical.’
‘How far can your boat go?’
‘Far?’
‘Distance.’
‘Pretty far.’
‘How far?’
‘Well,’ said Harry. The way he was managing this conversation, I had the feeling it wasn’t the first time he’d had it, or one very like it. ‘Not South America far.’ He put the pen down, looked at me. ‘You in trouble, Danny?’
I shook my head. I did not have the energy to explain any further. Harry’s office was warm, and it was late, and for a moment everything took on the aspect of a dream, indistinct and unreal and subtly out of time. This far out, on the edge of land, I had the strange feeling that I was a navigator about to set off for a region that lay far beyond any charts.
29
I HAVE BEEN to many police stations over the years, spent hours waiting for car thieves, wife beaters, drunk drivers and other kinds of petty criminal to be taken from their cells and led to an interview room where I warn them not to say anything, absolutely nothing; to let me handle this. I have suffered the sarcasm of hostile duty officers, put up with unaccountable delays and the obvious signs of physical abuse of my clients. But today I am not in the mood; I need to see Gabe, and I need to see him now.
‘This going to take much longer?’ I say to the uniform behind the desk, a young man but big, who has already assumed the careless air of don’t-give-a-fuck authority all policemen carry with them.
‘What’s the hurry?’ he says. ‘Not like he’s going anywhere for the next thirty years.’
‘What’s your name?’ I say.
He does not answer, ignores my question, makes a note of something on a printed chart on the counter in front of him. I reach over, take the pen out of his hand. He looks up, surprised.
‘If you don’t fetch him, put him in an interview room in the next minute, I’ll make a complaint that you used homophobic language with regard to my client.’
The uniformed man looks puzzled. ‘Do what?’
‘Say you called him a faggot.’
He frowns. ‘I didn’t.’
I smile at him. ‘And I say you did. Now go and get him.’
He does not want to, wants to make me sit for hours, waste the morning. But ultimately he is working a desk and does not need the aggravation, isn’t paid enough for this. He puts his hand out and I give him back his pen.
‘Fucking sit down,’ he says. ‘I’ll go and get your boyfriend.’
I almost laugh at this, would if I wasn’t so wound up. ‘There’s a good boy,’ I say.
I did not ask Petroski to help when I visited him, made no demands, called in no favours. I had no right; Petroski had no dog in this fight. But after hearing me out, he volunteered immediately. Gabe was a decorated soldier whose reputation preceded him, a captain who had been a legend amongst his men. Although Petroski had never served directly under him, he respected him; more, practically revered him.
‘You don’t need to do this.’
‘I want to.’
‘Could get you into trouble like you never imagined.’
Petroski indicated his desolate living room, attempted a smile. ‘Look like I’ve got a lot to lose?’
‘Anyway, I don’t know what we can do.’
Petroski nodded. ‘Think of something.’
‘You understand what you’re getting into?’
‘Like I say. Nothing to lose. Can get bored of listening to seagulls.’
I nodded, thanked him. Driving away I felt guilt that I had shared my burden with somebody who had no stake in it. But the truth was, without Petroski there was nothing I could do, nothing at all.
They have taken away Gabe’s prosthetic leg and he has to be supported into the interview room, his arm around the s
houlders of another uniformed policeman. I cannot imagine the humiliation he must be feeling.
‘Where is my client’s prosthesis?’ I say.
‘His what?’ The man supporting Gabe asks this sullenly, an irritability in his voice as if I have asked something entirely unreasonable. I close my fists, will myself to keep control.
‘His fucking leg,’ I say. ‘Go and get it. Now. Or I’ll lodge a formal complaint which will, believe me, affect how his case proceeds.’
The policeman lets go of Gabe who has to struggle to keep his balance, has to hop to one of the chairs, hold on to its back. ‘Wait here,’ he says, leaves us, closes the door behind him.
‘You all right?’ I say to Gabe. He looks tired, something beaten in the way he holds himself. I have always known Gabe to stand straight. He has always faced the world with confidence, assurance. There is no assurance in the way he leans on the back of the chair, in the slump of his shoulders.
‘I’ll get you out of here,’ I say.
He does not answer, does not move, just looks at me, his eyes cold and mocking.
‘I’ll get you out of here,’ I say again. ‘Soon.’
Gabe frowns, his eyes close fractionally. ‘What …’ he begins but the policeman comes back, holding Gabe’s prosthesis, the leg in one hand, the suction cup in the other. I take it from him and Gabe eases himself into the chair. He rolls up the leg of his trousers, attaches the cup. His prosthesis clips on to the metal socket attached to the cup with a dry click.
‘Petroski says hi,’ I say.
Gabe looks up. ‘Does he now,’ he says.
‘He does.’
Gabe nods, fixes his trousers.
‘You good?’ I say.
‘Yes.’
‘You can stand? Need to be sure.’
Gabe frowns again, trace of a smile. He stands. ‘I’m good to go,’ he says.
Harry did not press me when I went to visit him, but eventually I told him regardless; he was a man I liked, a man I could trust. He was also a man well used to dealing on the outer edges of the legitimate. Although this, I had to warn him, went a good way beyond.
‘I need your help,’ I told him. ‘Again.’
‘Help with what?’
‘I need to get somebody out of the country. They haven’t got a passport.’
‘Okay.’ Harry rocked back in his seat, put his hands behind his head. ‘Not you?’
‘A friend. He’ll be wanted.’
‘Where does he want to go?’
‘Don’t know. Anywhere.’
‘Spain? No, Portugal. Be easier.’
‘How much?’
‘For you? On the house.’
I shook my head. ‘You’ve done enough. I can pay.’
‘No chance.’
I looked at Harry. He was not a man I associated with giving away favours carelessly. He was self-made, a semi-legitimate businessman. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked.
‘Remember a fight?’ he said. ‘Us against a guy, the Three Crowns, had a bowling alley out the back.’
I tried to think back. So many years. So much violence. A dark alley, stacked chairs, somewhere we would go, plastic crates full of soft drinks. A dartboard. Carving our initials. Harry and me, a man; us against him.
Harry sighed. ‘Friend of my old man’s. The usual, come with me, do this, don’t tell anyone, here’s a couple of quid, our secret. Months of it. Then one day you walk in, next thing I know we’re kicking him around the bowling alley, only fourteen, us against a grown man, you like it’s fuck-all. Had to pull you off him in the end.’
I did remember, remembered something. Vague detail: the gloom, dusty smell of chalk, a man with a ponytail, crying. That was me? ‘Oh.’ I could not think of a single thing to say.
‘That’s why,’ said Harry. He leant forward, put his elbows on his desk. ‘Now. When do you want the package moving?’
I look at my watch, glance at Gabe who has not taken his eyes off me since he reattached his leg. The policeman who came back with the leg is leaning against the wall, looks bored. My heart is beating faster than the second hand of my watch, a lot faster. Gabe raises an eyebrow and I nod at him, look back at my watch. We have not said anything but it has not been necessary. Gabe knows. I even believe that he is enjoying the moment. Action is what he loves, what he joined the army for.
When it comes the explosion is loud, even from this far away. The policeman at the wall jerks upright, looks around the room as if it has happened in here.
‘Fuck’s that?’ he says.
At that moment an alarm sounds, a rhythmic electronic shriek. Above it I can hear shouting in the corridor, the sound of running feet. The policeman opens the door to the interview room. There is smoke in the corridor. Gabe is on his feet. I stand. The policeman looks back at us. He does not know what to do.
‘Need to get us out of here,’ I say. ‘Now.’
He glances back into the corridor. There is more smoke, confused movement. He looks scared.
‘Now,’ I say again.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Okay, this way.’
We follow him into the corridor. A policewoman runs past us, holding her shirt across her face against the smoke. There is shouting coming from behind us. The noise of the alarm is huge in my ears. We head for the station’s entrance. It is thick with smoke. I can barely see my hand in front of my face. I take Gabe’s arm, pull him close, put myself between him and the policeman.
‘Head left,’ I say. ‘Transit, Petroski. Go.’ I watch him disappear into the smoke. I grab the policeman by the shoulder, turn him, get into his face and scream: ‘My client. He’s still inside.’
He looks disoriented, does not know what to do. ‘Back there,’ I shout, pointing back the way we came. ‘You fucking left him behind.’
The policeman hesitates, does not want to go back. Does not know what is happening. But he has no choice. I watch him go, then walk out into the sunshine, smoke pouring out behind me. Police are everywhere, on the steps, the street, uniforms and plain clothes. I look around, look again, but Gabe is nowhere.
There was a simple genius to Petroski’s plan, based on two opposing sets of expectations. Civilians – police included, Petroski said with contempt – are trained to run from fire. Every institutional building has a procedure, instructions on what to do in the event of a blaze, emergency exits, gathering points. Police stations are no different, and those inside will follow it to the letter. Soldiers, on the other hand, are trained to work and fight and function under fire, in smoke and noise and chaos. For everybody else in the police station the situation was out of control, terrifying. For Gabe, it was a walk in the park.
All it took was a stun grenade thrown into the station’s lobby to create confusion, a smoke bomb to trip the fire alarm. The rest was timing. Gabe needed to be out of his cell, needed to be with me. I needed to point him towards Petroski, waiting outside. It all went off like clockwork.
The police want to keep me, are sure that I know something about what happened. But they have nothing to charge me with and I am a lawyer, know my rights. I am out of there within an hour, walk out of the station feeling the investigating officers’ baleful eyes on my back. I do not care. I have done what I came to do.
I have bought Gabe a contract-free mobile, loaded it with credit. When I get to Harry’s boat, the sun is almost gone and Harry is checking a chart, talking to Gabe, pointing out where they are going. Gabe is standing next to Harry and his back is straight, his shoulders back, the Gabe of old. Petroski is leaning on the boat’s rail, drinking a beer; he raises his can to me as I walk on to the boat.
Gabe turns, smiles when he sees me. ‘Danny. Nice work.’
I nod. ‘All set?’
‘Leaving any minute.’
I hand Gabe the mobile. ‘I’ll call you.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll get this sorted.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Gabe sounds sceptical, but then he smiles, laughs. ‘Still. Hell of a thi
ng.’
‘Yeah.’
He walks to me, puts a hand around the back of my neck. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. All this? Wasn’t your fault.’
I nod again, close my eyes briefly at Gabe’s generosity. He squeezes my neck, lets go, pushes me in the shoulder. ‘I’ll see you,’ he says.
‘We’re ready,’ says Harry. ‘Get the fuck off my boat, you two.’
Petroski and I stand on the dock, watch Harry tie off, start his motors. They burble and churn the water and he slowly pulls out in a long curve, out to sea. Gabe stands at the boat rail and raises a hand and I raise mine back, and very soon he is gone and I wonder whether it is for good.
30
HICKLIN IS MORE than pissed off, way beyond. If I am honest, I cannot blame him; he went out on a limb, warning me that Rafiq Jahani had died. I have repaid him by sending him on what he describes as a ‘wild fucking career-ending goose fucking chase’. As I listen to his phone call I imagine him holding his mobile with white knuckles, standing in a beautiful meadow full of ugly holes, his men watching him with derision in the fading light, slowly shaking their heads at his forlorn figure. I cannot help but feel some sympathy. I threatened him, told him I would go to the papers if he did not take action, gave him no choice. I am not surprised that he is angry.