"I bought some time. I'm told I delayed a programme for the development of Weapons of Mass Destruction. The warheads would have carried chemicals or microbiological agents, might have been nerve gases and might have been something like anthrax. You, of course, wouldn't have known the people targeted by those warheads. They would have been Saudis or Kuwaitis or the Gulf people. They might have been Israeli Jews. When you're so selfish, when you live complacently in an island of your own making, you wouldn't think of the millions of other souls who exist around you. Are you happy?"
She heard the hoarseness of his voice.
"There is a man who has been sent to kill me. He is somewhere, out there, in the darkness. I know very little of him but I know about his society, his culture. He is a Muslim, a child of the Islamic faith.. . He would not understand you. From his faith and his culture, he would believe that my community has closed ranks around me, not isolated me. I can find more love for him, the man sent to kill me, than for you, my so-called friends."
She heard his last shout into the night.
"Are you there? Are you listening?"
The door slammed behind him. The key was turned, the bolt rammed home.
Chapter Sixteen.
He felt puny, insignificant and unimportant.
Geoff Markham walked beside the stream that wound ahead of him between the sea and the Southmarsh. Behind him it skirted the village before drifting inconsequentially into Northmarsh. The wind was up and had blown away the rain.
He was unimportant because he had not been telephoned the night before. He had been killing time at a piano recital twelve miles away, in another town; he had sat in ignorance at the back of a half-empty, draughty Baptist hall. His mobile telephone, of course, had been on, but the call had not come. A trifle of life would have been injected into the performance if his telephone had bleeped, but it had not.. . Davies had told him, an hour earlier that morning, of the night's events. He had seen the scorched grass where the milk bottle had ignited and seen the smoked slivers. Near to the new tree was the small patch of burned ground where the gas canister had detonated. Only an unimportant junior liaison officer would not have been telephoned. Davies had told him what was going to happen that day not asked~l him for his opinion, but told him. He had stormed away.
He was unimportant, he realized, because he did not carry a gun. The guns were what counted now. He was drawn towards
Southmarsh. The guns ringed the marshland, just as they were around and inside the house. It hurt him to feel the minimality of his importance. And no communication, either, from the little stinking bastard with the dogs. Markham didn't know where he was, what he did, what he'd seen and couldn't call him for fear of compromising his position.
There were two letters in his pocket. They were not typed up, or remotely ready for sending, but they were drafted in his handwriting. He thought, later, he would go to the police station and find a typewriter and envelopes. He had drafted the letters after the recital, back at his guest-house accommodation. Fenton had said, down the phone, fifty minutes earlier, "We're not a marriage-guidance operation, Geoff. If she wants to go, then I'm not going to lose sleep over it. But he stays, whatever. If you have to chain him to the floor, he stays." He walked towards where the little verminous bastard was, not that he would see him, but where he would breathe the same air.
The two drafted letters were in his pocket.
Dear Mr. Cox, I write to inform you of my resignation from the Service. I am taking up a position with a merchant bank in the City. I would like to express to you, to Mr. Fenton, to colleagues, my appreciation of the many kindnesses that have been shown me. My future employers wish me to start with them at the earliest possible date and I look for your co-operation in that matter.
Sincerely,
and
Dear Sirs, I have received your letter setting out my terms of employment and find them most satisfactory. Accordingly, I have resigned from my current employers by the same post, and have requested the earliest possible date of release. I much look forward to joining your team and will advise you, soonest, of when that will be.
Sincerely,
Once they were typed up they could go in the afternoon post, and then Geoff Markham would no longer be unimportant. He walked on the path, turned a corner and could see, past a wild clump of bramble, the mass of the reed-banks, the dark water channels, and a ruined windmill that had no sails. The bright light played on the dead reed-tips, and the birds flew above the muddy banks.
"I wouldn't go any further. If you don't want a bollocking from a police thug, I'd stop right there."
He spun. To the right, a few yards from him, the man sat on a weathered bench. Markham recognized him, but couldn't place him. A dapper little man, thinning hair and a nervous smile, with binoculars hanging from his neck.
"Quiet, isn't it? Wonderful. But there's a policeman ahead with a vile tongue and a big gun." There was a chuckle, like that of a teenage girl but from the soft full lips.
"I'm watching the harrier. It's a joy to behold..."
The man pointed. Markham saw the bird, cartwheeling in awkward flight. He squinted to see it better. It was more than half a mile away, and its colours merged with the reed-beds. It was far beyond the windmill, over the heart of the marsh. He could see swans, geese and ducks on the water, but this was the only bird that flew and, strangely, its motion was that of a clumsy dancer.
"Incredible bird, the marsh harrier it migrates each spring from west Africa to here. It would have been hatched on Southmarsh, and then in the first autumn of its life it flies all the way back to Senegal or Mauritania for the winter. Then, come our spring, it returns. Comes back to us. I find that wonderful. Two thousand miles of flight and our little corner of the universe is where it returns to."
He remembered where he had seen the man. He had bought a sandwich two days earlier at his shop. Dominic Evans's name was over the door. That morning, Davies had given him, snarled them, the names of those who had been in the half-shadow, who had not intervened he was one of them.
"It comes back to us. Its trust makes for a huge responsibility. It can rely on our care and kindness."
"A pity, Mr. Evans, that Frank and Me~yl Perry can't rely on that well of care and kindness."
"What's remarkable this bird came back last week, and it was injured. It had been shot. I didn't thiril when I saw it last week that it could survive. It's flying, not quite at full strength yet, but it's hunting and it's getting there. It's almost a miracle."
"I said, Mr. Evans, that it was a pity Frank and Meryl Perry cannot rely on your care and kindness."
"That's not called-for."
"It's the truth."
"What do you know of ultimate truths?"
"I know that you were there last night, one of those who stood back and let the mob have its bloody vicious fun."
"You feel qualified to make a judgement?"
"I make a judgement on those who skulk at the back, don't have the guts to come forward."
"That's mighty high talk."
"I'm talking about cowards who know what is right, and stay silent."
"Do you want to know?"
"Do I want to hear a string of snivelled excuses? Not particularly."
"I am not proud of what happened."
"Frank and Meryl Perry need someone from among you bastards to hold out the hand of friendship."
"I don't know your name. You're another of the strangers who has invaded our little place. Till you came, we were just ordinary people living hidden and un achieving lives, we were like everybody else, everybody anywhere. We were not challenged... I don't know your name but, stranger, I am homosexual. Queer, got it? I live with my friend and I love him. But, I am discreet.. . I do not cause offence, I do not draw attention to myself. If I did then in this little place I would be labelled a pervert. I buy tolerance with my work as the village historian. I can tell you where the old shore-line was, and the old churches, and the old shipyard, al
l that stuff, but at least I take this place seriously. If I were blatant I would be ostracized... Yes, I should have spoken up for Frank and Meryl. I like them, but I'm a coward. Yes, I'm ashamed. So, yes, I go with the tide. But, it's like the sea and the history here. It makes for a sense of futility. Little gestures against the strength of the sea, over many centuries, have proved the worthlessness of man's efforts. We bow before the force of the inevitable."
Markham stared out over the marshland, and the peace that settled on it.
"You won't be here when this is over, stranger. We'll be left to pick up the pieces, and you'll have moved your caravan on where you can make judgements on other ordinary people. Is it satisfying work? You sneer at me because I didn't, publicly, offer my hand in friendship to the Perrys. Let me tell you no, listen to me. Twice, in the night when I wouldn't be seen, I've put my coat on and determined to walk to Frank and Meryl's door, and each time I failed to find the courage. Will you tell them that I'm ashamed of my cowardice?"
"No," Markham said icily.
He cursed himself for his cruelty. The man was gone, stumbling away. He wondered how he would have been if the challenge had faced him. The warm sun was on his face. Geoff Markham watched the flight of the bird and he had no sense of what was remarkable, what was a miracle.
"Do you know what, Barney?"
"What, Harry?"
"I think it's an away goal."
"Come again."
"I think the Yank's scored away from home."
Harry Fenton and Barnaby Cox stood at their adjacent office doors. Duane Littelbaum, flushed, yawning, had his feet up on the central table, scanning a newspaper.
"What's that mean?"
"Got his leg over with Miss Prim Parker."
"You sure?"
Cathy was at her place at the console. Her eyes were on her screen. She never looked up, didn't glance at the soles of his shoes.
"Look at her. You ever seen her so feminine? God, next she'll be wearing lipstick, mascara and eau-de-toilette. Ever seen her so becomingly coy, even shy? You noticed Geoff Markham's door, the number of the day on it? Just before you came in, she scratched out one day and wrote DAY SIX, and underneath she's put, "The worm has turned," and I haven't decrypted that cypher, but she and the Yank sniggered like kids. As an expe~enced, senior, dedicated intelligence officer, I'd say the evidence points to last night's naughtiness."
"Not many been there before."
"Last chap, so he said, who tried to get his arm up her skirt, that Adonis from D Branch, said she damn near broke it off at the elbow. Brennard claims he was there, admits she was so stressed out that she didn't know who he was. Well done, the Yank."
"He's been useful, but I wouldn't want Mr. Littelbaum, or his people, to believe we are overly dependent on them... if you're with me. I wouldn't wish them to believe we're in their pocket, or not competent in our own theatre."
A wolfish grin played at the sides of Harry Fenton's mouth.
"Our show, done quietly, yes?"
"You are, Harry, managing this matter?"
The grin vanished.
"Time will tell I live in hope."
Davies brought him a mug of coffee.
Perry had lifted his plans out of the chest's bottom drawer in the sitting room and carried them into the dining room. He had asked Davies if he minded the intrusion and the detective had shaken his head. It was only a small job, a problem with the air filtration on the production line of an assembly plant in Ipswich. Davies had moved his machine-gun and the spare magazines across the blanket over the table to make room for him, then headed for the kitchen.
It was the first time that Frank Perry had taken out some work in a week. Only a small job, which wouldn't pay more than a thousand pounds, but it was his little gesture of defiance. He had noticed that Davies didn't ask before going to the kitchen to make coffee, and he thought the detective was at home now, comfortable, in their house.
Perry thanked him for bringing the coffee. Meryl was upstairs, packing.
She had slept alone.
Poring over the workshop plans, tracing the course of the filtration pipes, Perry reckoned out where the new motor should be placed, and what power it must have to create the necessary airflow down the pipes to the unit. There were two more consultancy jobs in the drawer, one larger than this and one smaller, and after that there was nothing. He was tapping out calculations and jotting the numbers while she packed.
The ceiling beams and floor planks of the old house creaked under her weight above him. She was in Stephen's room. He didn't know how much she intended to take, everything or the bare minimum. If she took everything, cleared the child's room of clothes and toys, then she was going for ever.
She had called Stephen in from the hut, and he'd come reluctantly his days were now split between the television and the hut. He'd noticed that, just as he had noticed that Davies was now more comfortable in the house. He had not asked how much she intended to take because he had not dared to hear the answer. The footfall moved above him.
She would be in the gloom of their bedroom. She had left the child on his own to pack his toys.
Perry heard the thud as she pulled down the biggest of the cases from the top of the wardrobe, and then another. He stared down, doggedly, at the plans for the new filtration unit.
"Are you all right, sir?"
"Why shouldn't I be?"
"Where's she going?"
"Haven't the faintest idea."
"She has to go somewhere."
"Her mother and father died in a coach crash, and she's never spoken of any relatives. She's no friends where she came from... We only have each other. We thought it was different."
"Shall I book a hotel?"
"That would be best."
"Where should the hotel be?"
"How the hell should I know?"
Davies slipped away, left him. Perry swore. He had made a bloody mistake, had missed a bloody decimal point. He ripped up the sheet of paper on which he'd written his calculations, threw the pieces to the carpet and started again .. . She'd be packing the blouse he'd bought for her last birthday, and the diamond cluster ring with a central sapphire that he'd given her last Christmas, and the underwear she'd shown him when she came home from Norwich three weeks ago; everything that mattered to her, and to him, would be going into the suitcases. He corrected the positioning of the decimal point. It was the principle that mattered. He would not surrender. Why did no one understand that he had to hold on to the principle?
Davies came back in. Perry saw the smudge of lipstick on his collar, the damp patch around it, and knew the detective had comforted her.
"How much is she taking?"
"Not too much, not too little."
"How long is she going for?"
"Not for me to say, sir."
"Where is she going?"
"An hotel in London I've said I'll book it."
Davies asked him if he'd like a refill of coffee, and Perry nodded. He was wondering, when she was in a hotel in London and the detective was relieved from the duty, when a new man had come to replace him down here, whether Davies would see her, seek her out.
His fingers smacked clumsily against the keys of the calculator.
It had been her idea.
Simon Blackmore held tight to Luisa's hand.
He had had the same idea but it was she who had articulated it.
They walked through the village with purpose.
Either they did it or they left. They both knew that and did not have to speak it. If they had not started out on their walk through the village to the house on the green, both of them would have gone to the garage beside the cottage and brought out the empty packing boxes and started to fill them. They would already have rung for the van and telephoned the estate agent, and they would have gone.
Separately, when they had first seen the cottage, they'd each thought the village was a small corner of heaven, a place of perfection for them. But, as Luisa Bla
ckmore had said, pulling on her coat before the start of their walk, a place in heaven had to be earned.
It was a fine morning. The sunshine played on the tiredness of her face, and on his, and on the brick walls of other cottages where the honeysuckle and the climbing roses were already budding. The light shimmered off the neatness of lawns cut for the first time that year. They went past the pub, not yet open, and the empty car-park, and saw the landlord grunting as he manoeuvred beer kegs from the outbuilding to the main door. The caretaker's bicycle was leaning against the wall of the hall. A young woman sat on the bench and read a book. The shop was open. The builder went by in his van, the man who had told them about their damp problem, and they had seen him the night before, and he waved to them as if nothing had happened in the darkness. They went on to the green, towards the house.
All the time they walked, on the road and on the green, Simon Blackmore held his wife's hand on which there were no fingernails. Her coat cuffs hid her wrists and the old marks of razor slashes. Under her coat, across her breast, was a thick scarf, and under the scarf and her blouse were the burn scars. He supported her. It was necessary to give her support because of the knee injury from long back.
They came to the front gate. They were watched, eyes strip-searching them, by the policemen in the car at the front. They were within the vision of the camera on the wall above the front door. Simon Blackmore squeezed hard on his wife's hand and rang the bell.
They waited. The camera's image would be watched. The policemen in the car would be reporting. He was middle-aged and frail. She limped, and her face showed harmless exhaustion. Nothing about them was threatening.
The lock turned.
The policeman wore a bullet-proof vest over his shirt and his hand hovered near to the pistol in his waist holster. Two bulging suitcases were in the hall behind him. His expression, cutting his eyes and mouth, was of contemptuous hostility.
A Line in the Sand Page 35