by Alex Scarrow
‘God has not given me guidance on this,’ he said caressing the bandaging wrapped around his right hand. Dark brown smudges of blood still showed through the layers of cotton and lint. Beneath the wadding his hand ached dreadfully.
He’d been incredibly lucky . . . blessed even. Jennifer’s shot had been poorly aimed, kicking to one side as she’d pulled the trigger. Some of the pellets from the round had caught the hand he’d raised to protect his face. He’d lost his little finger, and the top half of the next finger along. The rest of the shotgun’s pellets had whistled harmlessly past, rattling off the compression chamber’s far wall.
‘You should decide what is in your hearts,’ he told them. ‘And let that guide your decision,’ he added sombrely.
There was a silence for only the briefest moment, then Alice Harton broke it. ‘They should both be tossed over the side! She’s a fucking psycho. She’s bloody well dangerous. And Walter . . . he’s . . . he’s scum!’
Murmurs of approval from those standing behind her.
‘Jennifer is a very distressed person,’ said Valérie. ‘And it is understandable. Surely it is also forgivable?’
‘She went at you with a gun!’ shouted someone at the back of the room.
‘She shot you!’ added Alice.
‘Yet here I am alive and well. And that is as God wills it.’
‘Praise be,’ someone gasped.
‘The Koran and the Bible teach us that forgiveness is what brings us closer to God.’
He gazed at their faces, wary that someone, somewhere, might just ask him to cite a passage from either. He knew a little of both books; he’d certainly had time enough to read them both in Prison D’Arlon. He could manage well enough with a street-corner debate . . . certainly not enough to fool a theological scholar, though. Mind you, it never ceased to amaze him how little those of faith seemed to actually know of their books. It was easy enough to invent theological-sounding passages, provided you used the right language. Most people presumed you were quoting something too obscure for them to recognise. It was more than his knowing a little scripture that made people listen to him, though. It was the confidence of utter conviction that he carried. He hadn’t trained as a priest or a pastor, he had not studied as an imam. What he had was a far higher authority than that. What he had was the authority of a prophet.
God had picked him . . . despite his weaknesses; God had never judged him on that. In fact, Valérie realised, it was his weaknesses, the temptations of the flesh that goaded and teased and tempted him when his mind was still, that made him so perfectly suitable.
I am the lowest of the low. And yet, even in me, God has seen redemption.
Natasha.
Yes. God has forgiven me that moment of weakness. He really has.
He’d dreamt of her last night. Smiling beautifully, sitting at the Lord’s side like a wonderful angel. And Hannah sat on the other side.
You have been forgiven, Valérie, God had told him. They understand now that what you did was done in love.
The girl’s scream . . . that one scream he thought would bring dozens of people running inside and up the steps to his rooms - he’d smothered that scream so quickly with a cushion. And he’d prayed aloud for her soul as her small arms and legs thrashed beneath his weight, beating pitifully at his hands. He’d shed tears for her as the thrashing eased off; shed tears as he pulled the cushion away and saw her still face, lips already turning blue.
I am so sorry, he’d sobbed. Please forgive me. I am weak.
The mess was noisy with voices discussing the matter, shrill voices talking over each other with increasing volume.
‘—after what he did?’
‘—dirty bastard should go over.’
Dr Gupta cut in loudly. ‘We don’t know he did anything to Natasha! We found a shoe. That is all!’
She was shouted down by a wall of angry voices. Valérie raised his hands. ‘Let the doctor speak!’
Tami Gupta nodded gratefully at him. She had the floor, the room was quiet. ‘We found a shoe on his boat. That is all. A shoe. And that is all we have. And we are happy to see him dead because of just that? When you think of all he has done for us, that he has been amongst us for years and nothing like this ever happened—’
‘There’s always a first time!’ someone shouted out.
‘Yes . . . yes, but not Walter. I know it’s not Walter.’
‘How do we know it’s not his first time anyway?’ asked Alice. ‘How do we know he wasn’t a paedo before the crash? How do we know if he was ever convicted? Was on a sex offender’s register? Huh?’
Tami shook her head. ‘We do not know. But then, we know nothing really about each other’s lives before the crash, do we? Right? Only what people say about themselves.’ She looked around. ‘I am sure there are many more secrets in this room - things we did before the crash, things we did during the crash - that we feel shame for. That we keep to ourselves.’
She looked at Valérie. ‘Even you, Mr Latoc. You could be anyone; have done anything and we do not know.’
Valérie smiled. ‘And perhaps that is why this world is a new beginning. We have left our old selves behind and start with a clean slate.’
Tami nodded. ‘Yes. So . . .’ she looked at Alice, ‘so we should only judge Walter on the person we know—’
‘And we are. You’ve seen how he was with Hannah. He was all over her, the dirty pervert!’
Tami slapped her hand down on the table next to her. ‘How dare you!’ she all but screamed. ‘How bloody dare you!’ Her shrill voice bounced off the hard low ceiling. ‘She was like his own, like his own flesh and blood. It was never like that . . . like you say!’
‘But he was always in their rooms,’ replied Alice, ‘wasn’t he? Always hanging around them, always poking his nose in.’
Heads nodded either side of her.
Tami shook her head. ‘He was as good as a grandfather to her. I know you do not like him but I know he is a good man.’
‘Oh, yeah!’ Alice snorted sarcastically. ‘Just like a scout leader, or an outreach worker. A good man until you go and find all the filth on their computer. That’s how it usually—’
‘Alice!’ Tami snapped. She shook her head. ‘You have a dirty, poisonous mind! I know why he was with the Sutherlands so much.’
‘Why?’
‘He is in love with Jenny.’
That silenced Alice for a moment.
‘He loves her,’ she continued. ‘He . . . he worships her. That is why!’
‘And that’s exactly how manipulative people like him can be,’ said Alice. ‘Work through the mother to get to the child.’
Tami’s face creased with exasperation. ‘Why, Alice? Why do you hate him so much?’
‘I just know men, Tami. You don’t mix old men like Walter with young girls!’
‘But he has never done anything like this. How can you say he did things to Hannah or Natasha!’
‘Oh come on, you’ve seen him with Hannah. Carrying her, holding her . . . it’s not right, it’s not appropriate!’
‘It is not appropriate to hold a child?’ Tami looked incredulously at her. ‘Not appropriate to hug a child? Where my family come from . . .’ she paused a moment, ‘where my family came from, it was natural for all the family, the aunties and the uncles, the cousins, everyone, to cherish the children, to show them love, to hold them.’
‘Well that’s your fucking country!’ shouted someone from the back.
Tami lowered her eyes, infuriated. ‘My country? My country!’ She sighed, looking defeated. ‘Yes, you’re right, that’s how it was in my country. But in my country, a good man like Walter would have been respected. He would be treated much better than this.’
‘Oh,’ Alice tutted. ‘And that would probably explain a lot about your country.’
Valérie let them carry on, amused at how venomous some of them seemed to be regarding the old man. He almost felt sorry for Walter. The poor old fool’s bigge
st crime was looking too much the part; old and ugly. Wasn’t that how people liked their perverts to look? It made it so much easier to tear them to pieces.
Valérie could see his women were unanimous in wanting an example made of him. That much was obvious. They wanted a pound of flesh for Natasha Bingham. Nothing less would satisfy them. The matter of Jennifer Sutherland, though, that had yet to be addressed.
He raised a hand. It was enough to quickly halt the heated debate. The women shushed each other until the mess was finally silent.
‘I believe there is nothing more sacred than the innocence of a child. And I do believe it was Walter. What he must have done to the poor girl on that boat . . .’ he shook his head. ‘I cannot forgive him that.’
He could hear the muted sob of Mrs Bingham and murmurs of agreement.
‘Walter will be cast out for that. And may God have mercy on his soul.’ He rubbed his bandaged hand unconsciously. ‘As for Jennifer, she is a person who has been through so very much. I do feel much sympathy for her. Not anger. She has lost all of her family. She lost that little girl. And she is angry at me because she believes I have stolen all of you away from her.’
‘She a fucking nut!’ shouted someone.
‘She had it coming, the fascist bitch!’
Valérie raised his good hand to quieten them down. ‘No, she is not a . . . nut. And I do not think she should share the same fate as her friend. But,’ he shrugged, ‘I cannot trust her not to try and attack me again.’
‘Kick her off!’
‘She’s got to go!’
He sighed. ‘It may well be. I shall pray and consider. However, tomorrow the old man must be dealt with. It would be unkind to him to delay.’
Tami turned to him. ‘No, you cannot do this!’
Valérie looked at her and smiled sadly. ‘The judgment is not just mine. God has made His will known through our mouths, through this discussion.’ He could see from the set of their faces that that was just what they needed to hear; that it would be someone else’s call; blood - rightful blood - on the Lord’s hands, not theirs.
‘So then,’ he continued. ‘Let us pray.’
Chapter 68
10 years AC
O2 Arena - ‘Safety Zone 4’, London
Time.
She quietly eased herself up off her mattress. It was almost completely dark inside the dome. Some light spilled up against the canvas roof from the arena; there were still floods on in there that provided just enough ambient light for her to make her way through the maze of partitioned clusters of beds.
The quietness around was filled with the steady metronome of deep breathing, the murmurs of uneasy dreams and distant echoing noises coming from the dome’s centre, of young male voices and the clatter of activity.
They’re still at work.
She made her way into the piazza, across the open floor and past the infirmary, a hundred yards down the curved boulevard towards the east entrance and waited for a while amidst a jam of parked-up flat-bed trolleys and wheelbarrows to check the whereabouts of tonight’s guards.
There were usually three pairs of them; one pair always meant to be on the front gate, the other two pairs at different stages of walking a lap around the entire perimeter of the Zone. Adam had told her the boys were quite often guilty of shirking off. Either all six of them clustered around the gate and neglected to bother walking the perimeter at all, or only one pair would go for a perfunctory wander every now and then. Ironically, he said, it was that lack of consistency that made sneaking out that much harder; there was no knowing for sure how many would be on the gate. She sat and waited in silence for a moment, listening for the light scuff of trainers, the soft murmurs of conversation, watching for the bobbing glow of their cigarette tips.
She was travelling light; nothing more than a couple of scuffed old one-litre plastic bottles with screw caps. Water they could find as they went, but food . . . well, if they were lucky it was only going to take a few days to make their way back home.
No sign of any jackets nearby. Quietly, she slipped out of the dome through the main entrance.
She cursed the silver-blue light of an almost full moon, shining boldly down on the plantation. To her left, a hundred and fifty yards away, was the quayside and the Thames glittering beautifully. She could see the long low outline of the family-sized paddling pool over there, but no sign yet of Adam and the others waiting for her.
It’s right out in the open.
Adam couldn’t have picked a worse place for them to rally. There was no shade from the moonlight to hide in; anyone looking eastwards, across the plantation towards the river, was surely going to see their dark huddled forms beside the pool. Leona had been hoping there’d be clutter around it: shopping trolleys, wheelbarrows, buckets, watering cans . . . items they might have hidden amongst.
She looked towards the area of the plantation where she’d been working this afternoon; the tall rows of beans and peas, tall enough that she could hide down one of the leafy alleys. From cover there she could keep an eye on the pool and wait for the others to turn up.
She scooted low and quick across the open ground from the entrance, reaching the nearest grow troughs of kale and spinach leaves and hunkering down amongst them. These were barely three feet high and she was flat on her face to stay hidden amongst them.
She raised her head, chancing a hasty glance towards the front gate. It was almost impossible to pick anything out; there wasn’t the glistening reflective backdrop like the Thames to silhouette against, instead, all she could make out was the long line of the encircling barricade and where the gate was, the low hump of the garden shed the boys sometimes played cards in.
Then she saw the faint tip of a cigarette move upwards and glow brightly for a moment. She followed the tip as it moved down again and then remained still. She thought she could hear the soft murmur of voices coming from there.
So there’s at least two by the gate.
She crept along the aisles of kale and spinach, heading towards the taller aisles of peas and beans. Bent double, almost on her hands and knees, she loped a dozen yards at a time then dropped down to huddle amongst the grow troughs to check again on the whereabouts of the boys.
She wished she could have seen exactly how many were gathered at the front. She’d spotted only one cigarette glowing. That could mean anything; just one of them or all six of them over there. And if only one or two of them were on the gate, then the other four could be anywhere; patrolling the perimeter, or quite possibly hunkered down some place quiet and sheltered enjoying a discreet crap.
She made her way further along the low rows of rustling leaves until finally, with some relief, she was amongst the aisles of climbers. At last she could straighten her aching back.
Walking upright, but with careful deliberation, she made her way down the row. At the end of it she could see the Thames glittering like a tray of cheap diamonds. The far end was nearest the pool. If she waited there she’d be able to see Adam and the others coming.
She picked up her pace, walking swiftly between the narrow walls of swaying leaves. Their rippling movement was unsettling; stirred by the soft breeze rolling down the aisle, hissing and fluttering in unison, each time her peripheral vision screaming nervously that a shifting stalk was an arm reaching out to grab her.
She was too busy cursing the full moon’s brightness and the state of her own jangling nerves to pick out the dark prone form stretched across in front of her and before she could stop herself she was splayed on the ground.
‘Shit!’ she hissed under her breath.
It was a body. For a moment she feared it was one of the boys sleeping on the job; perhaps stoned, drunk, passed out. She scrabbled away from it, expecting the confused murmur of someone waking. But there was no movement.
She stopped and gingerly crawled back until she was kneeling over the body. By the moonlight she could see a glistening black slick beneath the head.
Blood.
‘Did you kill the guard?’ she asked.
Walfield looked down at the body and nodded. ‘Stumbled on the bugger whacking off on the beans.’
That didn’t seem right to her. ‘You actually killed him whilst he was—’
He nodded, looking down at the body. ‘That’s Jay-D. Big piece of nasty shit he was. Don’t shed any tears for him, love. If you knew how many women he’s fucked up over the last couple of years . . . well.’ He shrugged. ‘It was shank the fucker or let him swing his rifle on me,’ he continued matter-of-factly. ‘Anyway, now we have a gun and a pouch full of clips.’
‘Where are the others?’
‘I dunno. We can wait for ’em here.’ He sighed. ‘Fuck knows why Brooksie decided the pool was the best place for us to rendezvous, it’s right out in the bleedin’ open.’
He gestured at her to hunker down and they waited, scanning the pale wall of the dome, almost luminous by the glare of the moon. Anyone running along the bottom of it towards the paddling pool would have stood out like shadow puppets on a cinema screen.
Five minutes passed before they finally heard the soft pad of approaching footsteps. She saw several dark shapes emerge from the gloom, coming up their aisle. They too nearly tripped over the body.
‘What the—’
‘Shhhh!’ hissed Walfield. ‘Lads - it’s Danny here!’
‘Shit. You do that?’ asked one of them.
‘Aye, nearly tripped over the little fucker having a wank.’
Either Bushey or Harry giggled.
Adam and the others joined them. ‘Sorry we’re late. There were four of them chilling out right outside the dome’s main entrance. Buggers just wouldn’t move on.’
Leona looked at the men. ‘We’re all here. So, let’s go.’
Adam turned towards her, picking out her silhouette. ‘We heard them talking about it. They’re definitely headed towards your settlement.’