by Gemma Fox
Bernie shook his head and groaned. ‘Oh come on, Mags, give me a break. You have to admit that you’ve got crap taste in men, look at that other tosser you married.’ Maggie opened her mouth to speak but before she could strike, Bernie said, ‘So are you two an item, then? You and the lovely, innocent Nick.’
‘And what exactly has that got to do with you, Bernie?’
‘Just curious; he doesn’t look like your type.’
‘What do you mean? That he looks normal and he hasn’t got a dodgy past that he needs to lie about?’
Bernie winced. ‘Ouch, that was a bit below the belt, Mags.’
Maggie didn’t look amused.
‘I thought that you might at least have had the good grace to thank me. I came down here to warn you, I’ve most probably saved your life.’
‘Not yet you haven’t,’ she said indignantly, and then – after a few seconds – more kindly, ‘Thank you, now bugger off.’
At which point Bernie’s stomach rumbled. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea and a slice of toast, only I’m totally famished.’
Maggie didn’t move.
Nick arrived back, cradling the phone. ‘He said we ought to be going as soon as we can – that we’ll be safer in a crowd. They’re already well on their way.’
Maggie nodded. ‘Okay I’ll go and get the car keys.’
‘Any chance of a lift?’ asked Bernie brightly, with feigned innocence.
Maggie put her hand in the pocket of her jeans and pulling out a crumpled fiver pressed it into his hand. ‘Don’t push your luck, Bernie. Go and get yourself a cab.’
‘But you’re going into town,’ he protested.
Maggie rounded on him. ‘Don’t give me all this crap. I know that you have had a hand in this somewhere, Bernie – I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that somehow all this is your fault. I don’t want you in my car; I don’t want you in my life. Just the thought of you makes me furious – beyond furious – way out beyond furious. Do you understand?’
‘But I came to warn you,’ he protested.
‘For which we are very grateful,’ said Maggie, shooing Nick towards the car. ‘But every bone in my body tells me that the reason that we’re in this mess in the first place is most probably down to you. Go on, tell me I’m not right?’
Bernie flinched. ‘You’ve gotten so hard, Maggie, so very hard. I never thought I’d see you like this. Hard and bitter – it doesn’t suit you, you know. You were never like this when we were married.’
She laughed. ‘No, because I was too bloody naïve back then. I believed every word you told me and just look where it got me. Thank you for coming, thank you for warning us – now just bugger off home, will you?’
‘But I’m hungry,’ Bernie whined. ‘I’ve been on the road for hours to get down here; I could murder a cup of tea.’
Maggie sighed but he could see that she was relenting. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Bernie. All right. Help yourself. There’s milk and cereals and bread in the fridge. Eat, drink, and then drop the latch when you leave. And if I find that you’ve nicked anything or sold the bloody beach hut to some gormless American I will personally hunt you down and rip your throat out. Don’t say that you haven’t been warned.’
Nick looked on at her in amazement. Bernie grinned and, turning on his heel, followed Maggie back to the hut. He had no real intention of having tea or anything else come to that. He just wanted a nose around.
Maggie got the keys and headed back to the car with a goodbye and another warning about theft.
It was nice to feel that he had won on points over pretty boy, maybe even shown Nick a side of Maggie that he didn’t know existed, and besides there was a little bit of Bernie that wanted to see if they had slept together. As they drove away Bernie waved from the steps and then pulled the door too behind him.
His plan was to hang around for a few minutes and then head off into Watchet. He was bound to be able to get a lift with someone. Bernie pocketed the fiver and then thought that maybe a cup of tea wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He lit a cigarette and plugged in the kettle and while he waited for it to boil he set about a little light exploration. First port of call – the master-bedroom.
Bernie smiled to himself as he opened the door; there was a tee shirt slung over the chair, pillows all over the floor. So they were an item after all.
At the entrance to the site, Maggie hesitated. ‘Where to?’
‘Coleman said we were to meet him in Minehead.’
Maggie nodded and turned right along the coast road. As she did so she noticed a car in the distance, creeping up the hill. ‘How long did Coleman say it would be before he got there?’
Nick laughed without humour. ‘They patched him through by some sort of satellite link; he’s already well on his way here.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ said Maggie, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
‘Depends on how you look at it, I suppose. So,’ said Nick thoughtfully, ‘that was the infamous Bernie Fielding. It was good of him to come and warn us.’
Maggie cocked an eyebrow; at least her instinct hadn’t been that far out of kilter. Bernie had had a hand in what was going on, although try as she might Maggie couldn’t work out exactly what. But then again, Bernie had always managed to surprise her. She was still trying to fathom out what exactly Bernie’s angle was; she found it very hard to believe he’d warned them out of a sense of philanthropy.
‘He seems like a good man to me.’
Maggie snorted. ‘Well there we have it, Nick, with intuition like that it’s no wonder you’re on the run.’
He smiled. ‘You’ve always got a smart answer, haven’t you?’
Maggie reddened, sensing that it wasn’t meant as a compliment. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘Meaning that it’s a great defence – a nice verbal sleight of hand – and that to be that defensive Bernie must have hurt you very much,’ Nick continued.
Maggie’s heart softened.
‘And about kissing you? You know, when we got back from the beach –’ he said experimentally.
Maggie glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. If Nick pulled back now and apologised, if he said he was wrong or sorry or that he really didn’t mean it, she would be devastated. She knew that they had both felt that insistent little buzz since they met, felt it so much on the beach that it was like walking with a generator for company. Kissing him hadn’t been so much a turn on as a relief – as if the energy had finally earthed itself before it exhausted the pair of them.
‘I just wanted you to know that, whatever happens, I’m glad that we met, Maggie. I just wish that it hadn’t been under these circumstances. I keep thinking that if Coleman whips me away today there is a good chance I may never see you again –’ She could hear the pain in his voice ‘– and I probably won’t be able to contact you once I’ve been relocated.’
Of course, he was right. Maggie sighed, wishing with all her heart that she had had the courage to creep across the pillow barrier when she was awake. What harm would it have done?
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.
‘Me, too,’ replied Maggie softly, as she felt her heart sink.
Meanwhile, back at the beach hut, Bernie, hands cradled round a mug of Yorkshire’s finest, looked longingly at the sofa. He hadn’t realised until now just how tired he was. First off he’d had a long hard night with Stella Conker-eyes, followed by a night on a damp bench in the pavilion. He stretched experimentally – no wonder he was so knackered, after all he was no spring chicken.
Bernie considered his options. The sofa looked very comfortable – then again, why trifle with the sofa when he could just as easily slip into Maggie’s double bed? After all, she could hardly object – she’d never know. He wouldn’t get in it, obviously, just lie on the top. Okay, so perhaps pull the duvet up over his shoulder just to get comfortable. It would be so nice to close his eyes for half an hour or so and then he woul
d be on his way. He padded through into Maggie’s bedroom, set the mug down on the bedside table and then slipped off his boots. Half an hour; what harm would it do?
Bernie yawned. Maybe the gasmen had got lost, maybe they weren’t going to show up after all. Whatever the case, Bernie knew that if he didn’t lie down soon he would fall down.
‘So here we go again. Photos, gloves, guns, Mintoes.’ Nimrod ran though his mental checklist.
He slipped the envelope of photos out of the glove compartment of the discreet silver-grey hire car and took a final long hard look at the images of Nick Lucas before tapping the number of the campsite into his mobile. What followed was a masterful piece of bullshit.
‘Hi –’ Nimrod’s voice warmed to almost jovial, ‘My name is Jonathan Smith – I’m sorry to disturb you so early but we’re on our way down to see Maggie Morgan. God, I feel so stupid – I can’t remember the number of her beach hut and I’ve left the piece of paper on the kitchen table. I’m just glad I could remember the name of your site – we’re supposed to be meeting her this morning. I’ve tried ringing her mobile but she must have switched it off, and then I panicked in case we’d got the wrong week. Do you know if she’s arrived yet?’ He managed to sound cheery and respectable and helpless in that warm, puppyish way that women in particular respond well to.
The woman at the far end of the line giggled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m just the same. Maggie’s most definitely here, although I haven’t seen her yet this morning, she rang to say she was on her way last night. It’s number twenty-six. As you come into the site, carry on straight ahead when you get to the bottom of the hill – it’s down a little track – and then bear right at the first turning you come to. Would you like me to send someone down to tell her you’re on your way?’
Nimrod snorted. ‘What, and let her know I’d forgotten, God no – she’d never let me live it down.’
The woman laughed, too. ‘All right. Well in that case maybe I’ll see you later in the bar.’
It was Nimrod’s turn to laugh. ‘Maybe you will.’ He could almost hear the woman in the office purr. He hung up. ‘Number twenty-six and Ms Morgan is most definitely there.’
Beside him Cain grunted to acknowledge that he had heard. He indicated right and swung into the narrow roadway that led down to the campsite.
‘So,’ Nimrod said as they parked under a stand of trees close to the beach huts at St Elfreda’s Bay. ‘Number twenty-six. In, out, over and home in time for tea and buns.’
Cain pulled a face. ‘What, buns, for breakfast?’
‘I told you last time it’s just a turn of phrase.’
Cain thought for a few seconds and then said, ‘Bloody daft one if you ask me. And you still haven’t said if I can have the window seat?’
Nimrod pulled a face. ‘No. What the hell brought that up? It isn’t a done deal yet.’ He nodded towards the regimented row of huts and took a deep breath. Déjà vu. Photos, gloves, guns, Mintoes. Today’s mantra.
They were out of the car now and walking without apparent hurry through the crisp early morning light of a brand new summer’s day, every sense alive, sniffing the air like feral dogs.
‘But you promised,’ said Cain petulantly.
‘I did not,’ said Nimrod, all the while his eyes working over the little numbered plaques stuck into the verge beside each of the plots.
Just before they got to number twenty-six the two men fell silent. It was time.
As they stepped into the neat little garden of plot twenty-six, Nimrod took a deep cleansing breath; in and out, in and out, each breath rising in his chest seemed to take a week to run its course.
The two of them took up positions either side of the door. Pressing himself tight up against the bodywork, Nimrod gave an almost imperceptable nod and an instant later Cain slipped a jemmy bar down his sleeve and prised the flimsy door open. There was barely any noise, certainly no fuss, just a faint, satisfying thunk as the lock popped under the pressure. As it did there was the sensation of time rushing forward to meet them, catching them like elastic snapping back.
Silent as cats, despite their bulk, the two men sprung inside, covering each other’s backs.
Scanning left and right Nimrod’s senses burnt white hot; it was pure Zen.
The kitchen was clear; corridor, second bedroom, bathroom, too. The whole place smelt of toast and air freshener.
Cain pressed his ear to what had to be the master-bedroom door and with a quick glance at his partner kicked it open, covered by Nimrod, who then strode inside, his gun ahead of him like some dark divining rod.
‘What the fuck,’ grunted a sleepy voice from under a duvet.
Later, Nimrod would say it was prescience that stopped him from opening fire there and then, although actually it was an unnerving and continuing sense of déjà vu.
Cain whipped back the bedclothes.
There was a long thin hairy man in the bed, fully dressed except for his boots, which stood on the floor beside him.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Nimrod barked furiously.
‘I was only having a kip,’ the man spluttered after a second or two, ‘Oh bloody hell,’ he said as his focus sharpened. He looked anxiously from face to face and swallowed hard.
Cain looked at Nimrod and sniffed, ‘It’s not him, is it?’
Nimrod shook his head. ‘No it’s not,’ he snapped, bitterly angry in a cold, icy way. ‘But I get the distinct impression that our friend here knows exactly what’s going on. What’s your name?’
The man was wide awake now. ‘Bernie Fielding,’ he said quickly.
‘Really, so it was you they thought they’d caught on Gotcha last night?’ said Nimrod, pulling a photo out of his inside pocket. ‘Well, Bernie, you had better come up with a bloody good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you like a dog. You can begin by telling me what you know about this man and where the fuck he is.’
Bernie, taking the photo, sniffed. ‘So you’re not really from the gas board then?’ he muttered.
13
‘So whereabouts did Coleman say we were supposed to meet him?’ said Maggie, driving round the roundabout that would take them down into Minehead town centre.
‘Somewhere called Blenheim Gardens? It’s a park. Do you know it? There’s meant to be a café there or something?’
Maggie nodded. ‘Oh yes, I know exactly where that is. It’s beautiful. We shouldn’t be too much longer. I reckon about another ten minutes or so by the time I’ve found somewhere to to leave the car.’
Nick stared at the passing lamp posts, every single one of which was decked with great festoons of summer flowers and tumbles of greenery cascading from enormous hanging baskets. Then he looked at Maggie and for an instant she saw his gaze darken and deepen again like it had when they were at St Elfreda’s. ‘I want you to know that I really wish we could have met each other some other way, Maggie,’ he said, and then after a second or two continued, ‘I know that it’s crazy but –’
Afraid of what he might say, Maggie held up a hand to silence him. ‘Please don’t. You freaked me out when we came up from the beach – I thought you were going to say you were sorry you’d kissed me and that you really didn’t mean it. I don’t want you to do the “but” thing, Nick. Whichever way you look at it, it’s crazy – can we leave it at that while we’re ahead on points. Is that okay?’
He laughed. ‘No, I wasn’t going to say sorry, I’m not sorry I kissed you. What I was going to say was I know it’s crazy but can we drive down along the front? You know, along the prom? I’ve always loved the seaside.’
Maggie shook her head, laughing, too, now – he was right, it was crazy. They headed off towards the Esplanade, although it did feel a little like giving the condemned man one last cigarette.
‘It’s a really nice place, isn’t it? I’ve never been here before –’ Nick said, with his face pressed to the window like an over-excited eight-year-old. ‘Oh look, they’ve got a railway station – oh and there are st
eam trains. God, I’ve always loved trains.’ He sounded so happy it was ridiculous.
Even so, Maggie got caught up in the spirit of it. ‘There’s a much older part to the town, too – up there – it’s lovely, all whitewash and narrow steps, and little streets running down to the harbour –’ she said, pointing towards the tree-covered slopes of North Hill that rose sharply to shelter the bay.
‘I only wish we had a bit more time,’ Nick murmured.
With her eyes firmly fixed on the road Maggie cursed whatever obscure deity it was who thought it was a good joke to dangle the best man she had met in years under her nose with such a short sell-by date. Not fair didn’t even come close to how she felt about it.
‘I wish –’ Nick began again, turning to look at her, and then just when he had Maggie’s full and undivided attention thought better of it and fell silent, but that look, that brief glance, told Maggie everything she needed to know. Nick Lucas wanted her in all the ways that she wanted him. Turning her attention back to the road Maggie felt a weird little kick in the bottom of her belly and found herself struggling not to fill up with tears. Fate could be such a bloody cow at times.
Hovering somewhere over the Bristol Channel, Danny Coleman could barely hear his thoughts above the ungodly roar of the helicopter’s engine and rotor blades. He pulled his coat tight around him. Stiltskin didn’t normally run to helicopter rescues but he had pressurised the people at the top, pointing out that it didn’t look very good for other would-be prosecution witnesses if their system fell down at the first hurdle. That and an oblique reference to the fact that Minehead and St Elfreda’s were very close to Hinkley Point – the nuclear-power station just a few miles up the coastline – had clinched it. Coleman had just dropped the information into the sentence while they were discussing transport; that and the fact that the people chasing Nick Lucas had used a rocket launcher to blow his car up.
Coleman slipped his mobile back into his pocket and then glanced down at the screen on his lap-top. He’d had to get some sort of special gizmo fitted to both so that he didn’t press Send and accidentally plunge the whirly-bird and its occupants screaming into the sea.