The Last Day

by Andrew Hunter Murray

  She told him about Fisher’s bookshop, and about the discovery of the body, and the transmitter, and the American at the other end of the line who’d been waiting to hear the news. She told him about the radio she’d taken, the one in her bag now. As she spoke, David placed his head in his hands briefly, then sat staring across the park. She concluded: “So Thorne was trying to get something across to Fisher, who would have sent it to the Americans. It looks like that was an insurance policy that didn’t pay out. I must have been the other one.”

  David looked at her and said nothing. She carried on. “But I think this American news—what you’re saying about the deal—must have something to do with all this. Whatever’s in Thorne’s box, or whatever the photo shows, it must have a bearing on the deal with the Americans. They’re connected. Don’t you think?”

  David shook his head, a little dumb-show of disbelief. “Ellie, what the hell are you doing?” His voice was harsh.

  “I’m just trying to work out what we do from here. How we get that box back, whatever it is.”

  “No. I just mean . . .” He gestured, his palms upturned. “People are dying, and you’re running around in the middle of it without a clue.”

  “I know that, David. I’m not stupid. I know there’s a risk.” She pointed to her bruised cheek.

  “I don’t think you do. Jesus, can’t you ever take advice from anyone? No, of course you can’t.” He was breathing deeply. “Because you have no idea how dangerous these people are. They’re mad. And if you try to resist, they’ll kill you. They won’t beat you up again. They’ll just shoot you and leave you somewhere. And nobody will know.”

  He was red now, embarrassed by his own anger. But he carried on. “I’ll miss you, of course, and maybe your other friends will, if you’ve got any left, but even as I miss you, I won’t be surprised. This is important to these people, whatever the fuck it is. You should go back to the rig, you should keep working there, and you should let this whole thing drop.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you speaking like that, David. I remember you caring about whether stories were news or not.” She shouldn’t have said that. His cheeks flushed a deeper scarlet.

  “Very wise, Ellie, coming from someone who ran away from the entire country to live in the middle of the fucking Atlantic. You don’t know what it’s like seeing colleagues disappear overnight. You don’t know what it’s like having to check yourself in meetings with your oldest friends, in case they shop you for a single unguarded comment. This whole sick island is a madhouse, and everyone I know is fighting two wars, because nobody knows who’s on whose side anymore, and here you come, just wandering into the middle of it explaining how perfectly simple it all is.”

  The police were walking back through the park, and she and David fell silent as they passed the bench. One of them examined her, had clearly spotted the bruise on her face, and she tried as hard as she could to seem calm, happy, normal. She even smiled at David, hoping the officer would see.

  By the time they had passed by, the tension had dissipated. David spoke first.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I am. That was unfair of me.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m only angry because I suspect you’re right. Harry’s still not turned up.”

  She felt sick, but spoke anyway. “I think I might know why that is, David.”

  “Why?”

  “I had the notes in my bag. Thorne’s obituary notes that Harry gave us. They had his initials on and when the men picked me up at Thorne’s place they took my bag away. Do you think that’s the reason?”

  David sighed. “I wondered whether something like that had happened. It might be because of that. Yes.”

  Hopper’s mouth felt dry. “Why didn’t they go for you too? They must know we were married.”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible they saw Harry’s obituary in your bag and just went straight to him.”

  “Where do you think he is now?”

  “He could be halfway to the Breadbasket. Or in a ditch somewhere. Some journalist I am, eh? I can’t even find my own colleagues.”

  “Christ.” Poor David. He looked miserable. Poor Harry. “Will it affect you?”

  “I spoke to that assistant of his, Charlie. He doesn’t know where Harry is either. I managed to persuade him not to mention our visit. Jesus. I promised him Harry’s job if he didn’t. I don’t know if it’ll work. But it might. Harry was the one he didn’t like. And now I’m giving his job away to save my own skin. He shouldn’t have helped us. We shouldn’t have asked.”

  He wiped his eye with the back of his hand, and she pretended not to notice it. After a pause she hoped was long enough, she asked: “What are you going to do about all this?”

  He breathed deeply. “I’m going to help you.”

  Their eyes met, and she felt a strange happiness within her, a sense of security despite all the horrors of the last three days. “You really mean it?”

  “I mean it.”

  “What happened to ‘You should let this whole thing drop’?” She gave him a small smile. He met it with his own, then frowned.

  “It’s not easy, Ellie.”

  “I know.”

  “But you’re right. I’ve been playing along with the whole thing for too long. And that idea of yours about the Americans isn’t bad.”

  “You think it’s connected? Your story and mine?”

  “I think it could be. And if it is, it’s clearly something pretty big. So. What do we need to know?”

  “I need to find Gethin. He’s alive. I know it.”

  “Well, let’s think about it,” David said. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, he is. What’s the next step?”

  “Isn’t there anywhere else to look?”

  “From fourteen years ago? No. He’s government, so unless his family buried him, he’d have been cremated.”

  “Hospital records?”

  “Seems unlikely after so long. Most hospitals trash them one year after death.”

  Hopper was about to criticize him for being unhelpful, before seeing his gaze, unfocused and distant, and realizing he was thinking about it properly for the first time.

  “They’d have had to keep him on under another name,” he said slowly. “These people are obsessed with paperwork.”

  “So we’re looking for a different name. Any random surname. That sounds impossible.”

  “Well, it would be. But the advantage is, we’d know the time his employment began. They’d let Gethin die, then hire the new man. They couldn’t have him alive under both names at the same time, so let’s say we’re looking in the following six months. Now, we can track government workers by the date of first employment. So we’ve got Gethin’s death date”—he pointed to the piece in the newspaper—“meaning we know roughly when our man should have started. Or rather, when he should have started under a new name.”

  “We’ll never find him if we don’t know what name they put him under.”

  “You’re right. Except that Gethin’s new name will be linked to a photo in a separate register.” He smiled, and pointed to the photo in the obituary. “And we know what the man we’re trying to find looks like. So that’s something.”

  “Do you have access to the photo register?”

  “No. But I know someone who does.”

  “When can we see them?”

  He looked at his watch. “If I hurry, before the close of play this afternoon. Want to come along?”

  “Where?”

  “Downriver.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The journey was a short one by car—in Hopper’s case, a filthy old taxi she’d found idling at the edge of the park. David had provided the address and she had insisted they travel separately. It had seemed paranoid even as she said it: she had seen none of her pursuers all morn
ing. Perhaps her brother’s influence was worth something after all.

  It was a shame she and Mark had never been close, she thought now. Even as motherless teenagers, shuttled between their father and their aunt, they had been more like traveling companions than siblings. Their confidences had been limited, their interests almost wholly separate.

  She wondered how Mark viewed her now. His errant sister, suddenly having to be scooped out of police stations, being beaten—probably her own fault. He had always been obedient to the marrow.

  The taxi slowed. Here was the old Docklands. This area was rougher by some degree than the center of town, and far less pleasant than Brixton. The buildings—mostly warehouses—were low off the ground. The scent of tar in the cab was slowly replaced by the stink of the river, of mud either left to bake or softened by the foul water of the lower Thames.

  The cab dropped her off on a side road; she had arrived first. To the north was a high tower, rare this far east; an abortive skyscraper, abandoned halfway through its construction. “Abandoned” was the wrong word. The tower had been deserted only by its builders: on every floor, blankets and pennants signaled the presence of residents. Today it was a slum built up into the sky. She could picture the interior now: the stairwells full of filth, the concrete cells subdivided by plastic sheeting, the conditions worsening as you climbed. The poorest would live farthest up: these days, ground floors were reserved for the wealthy, and the cool and dark of a basement for the wealthiest of all.

  She heard footsteps: David approaching along the street. It was quiet in this part of town.

  “Is this the actual place?”

  “No. That was just for the taxi. It’s a little way from here.” He turned and set off.

  They walked together for several hundred meters, leaving the main road, down toward the riverbank. The traffic of London’s roads receded behind them as they approached the water. This had been a thriving port once. No longer: a few Scandinavian-flagged barges were making their way laboriously up the empty river, their decks almost bare.

  Farther down sat a cargo ship, ground into the river mud, its decks covered only in the rubbish of opened containers. It had been built for a crowded world, a world with sea lanes full each day. And now here it was, a dead island of rust. She thought once again of the boat they had found near the rig, and the bodies on board, and wondered where they had been running from. How bad life in the south must be to make this place worth risking it all for. She could feel the child’s amulet, still in her jacket pocket, still cold to the touch.

  The streets were almost empty. It was unsettling, yet at the same time it gave Hopper a pleasant thrill: it was a treat to avoid for a while the crowds of hungry-looking strangers thronging the center of London.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To meet someone who might be able to help us.” David gestured right, to a gap in the wall filled by a high iron gate, and they crossed the road.

  The place, whatever it was, was well defended: the gate was thick-barred, with a gap of only a few inches between it and the concrete lintel above it. Even that gap had been stuffed untidily with barbed wire. At the side was a box with buttons; David pressed one.

  After a few seconds, a woman’s voice spoke: “Museum.”

  “Good morning. I’m here for a quick look at the exhibits.”

  “Are you a member?”

  “Yes. David Gamble.” He waved at a small camera on the wall Hopper hadn’t noticed until now.

  Unseen bolts in the gate clicked back, and he pushed at it. On the other side was a dark alley of old brick some thirty meters long, leading to a courtyard. On the wall a scrawled paper sign read: SHUT THE GATE, or we’ll feed you to Sally.

  As they walked along the brick corridor, she asked, “Who’s Sally?”

  “Who?” It took David a few seconds to realize what she meant. “Oh, that. Sally was the dog. Died a few years ago. Harmless old Labrador.”

  “What is this place, David?”

  “You’ll see.” His voice was high. In his throat, Hopper saw his pulse butterflying faster than usual. For a moment she felt painfully tender toward him, remembering his clumsily feigned nonchalance on their first dates, seeing just the same flutter in his neck then, the manifestation of a desire he was unable to hide.

  At the end of the alley was a small courtyard, two stories high, lined almost completely with plants. Ferns and creepers snaked up the shady side, and on the sunny side grew a plant she did not recognize, a Jurassic-looking thing with thick roots and huge flat leaves. Lizards sat high on the farthest sunny wall, and scattered at their approach.

  In the center of the sunlit wall was another metal door, light blue, its paint chipped and peeling. David walked straight across and knocked.

  It clicked, just like the gate at the front, and he swung it open onto a large space beyond, pitch-black after the courtyard. As they stepped in, Hopper’s eyes slowly began to adjust. It was a huge, long chamber, cavernous and gloomy. A warehouse, crammed with a vast array of glass cabinets, cupboards, cases, wardrobes, trunks; running around the walls, forming irregular passageways, leaning on one another for support. Above the ground floor, a narrow gantry ran around the edge; the far end was divided into two layers by an iron platform, supported by erratic metal piles. The upper stack looked as full as the cluttered ground floor.

  Hopper looked at the nearest case. Through the grime she could see a box of puppets, half disgorged across the floor on the inside—regal figures dressed in sumptuous cloths. Above them was a label: Indonesian Collection. 384, then a string of letters. She turned, and opposite her was a collection of musical instruments, harmoniums and accordions and other squeezeboxes, their ridges full of dust.

  David was watching her.

  “What is this place?”

  “It’s from the early days of the Slow. A collection of culture, history, archeology, sociology. Everything you might want to see from the places that were going to end up Coldside.” It sounded dimly familiar, now she thought about it. “The museums combined their strength after the land requisitions. They needed somewhere safe, somewhere to escape the looting. Some went to the countryside, but there was still a huge amount needing storage, so . . .”

  A voice spoke, gruff and sharp through the cool air: “So we came here.”

  A figure stood on the gantry. It stumped over to a set of stairs close overhead and made its way laboriously down—a muffled clump, then a sharp bang, repeated.

  As the figure approached, Hopper realized it was a woman. She was short—little over five feet tall—and plump, her body swollen by the several layers of cloth she was swaddled in. She had just one eye, the other socket a little dark void, and leaned on a crutch.

  “Hello, Hetty.”

  “Hello, David. Who’s this you’ve brought?”

  “This is Ellen Hopper. She’s a friend of mine.”

  “Hello, Miss Ellen.” Hetty spoke with a faint accent, hard to define: half mid-European, half from farther afield. Her skin, olive-colored, gave no clue. Her clothes were eccentric: a long skirt ringed with concentric blues and reds, and a leather jerkin on her upper body, over several other miscellaneous garments. Peeping out beneath her skirt were two odd shoes—one trainer, one leather boot. She must have been at least seventy. “What do you think of my place?”

  “I think it’s wonderful.”

  “Wonderful, she says! She can stay, David. Now, what am I standing down here for instead of in my nice cool office?”

  “We have a favor to ask. A records favor.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Employment.”

  “Oh, David, you know it’s a risk to me.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way, Hetty.”

  “You can pay?”

  “I can pay.” He patted his pocket.

  Hetty reac
hed to her lapel and pulled up an old-fashioned watch, the kind nurses used to have.

  “We better be quick. I got a group coming in. Wait here. I’ll go and set up.”

  She stumped over to the stairs, her crutch pushing up under her arm. As she climbed, Hopper’s eyeline was level for a few moments with her shoes. She saw for a second that the leg in the trainer was artificial; a thin metal pole protruded beneath the skirts and speared the shoe. Hetty made her way slowly up and into a side room.

  “Is it just her?”

  David murmured, “It is now. But she’s doing just fine. Everyone looks out for Hetty.”

  “How does she support herself?”

  “People bring things for her. Rations, money, food. They’re grateful to her for keeping the place running.”

  “What about the police?”

  He shrugged. “A mad old woman with a warehouse full of junk? Who cares? As long as she’s not actively breaking the law, I think they’re happy to let her be.”

  “What about when she is breaking the law?”

  “She pays them off and they shut up.”

  A door clanged open. Hetty leaned over the stairwell. “I got it, Gamble. Come on up here.”

  David shouted back: “Both of us?”

  She shook her head. “Nobody comes upstairs on the first visit, Davey. Just like with my boyfriends.” She cackled and turned back.

  David looked at Hopper. “Do you mind waiting down here for a few minutes? We won’t be long.”

  Hopper shrugged.

  “Thanks, Ellie. Don’t break anything.” He smiled before vaulting up the stairs two at a time and disappearing off into the side room, whose door closed with a heavy metal thud. She was left alone in the huge warehouse.

  The cabinets were full of the artifacts of a hundred different places she’d heard of, and some she hadn’t, all labeled in the same old-fashioned handwriting. Japanese theatre masks. Strange metal spoons perforated with holes at the tip. A selection of nasty curved knives with bone handles, their blades glinting darkly in the uneven light of the lamps above. A row of shrunken heads sitting on wooden rods: their texture leathery and waxy, their minuscule mouths sealed with firm jagged stitches. An oboe.