Twenty Twelve (25 page)

The summit crossed, we make our way down the other side, the truck at a sickening angle as Tiny snakes in and out of rocks, barely slowing to avoid collision.

When we arrive at a stream flowing across our path, he ploughs on through, water splashing up from the tyres, splattering Ronnie and I. The droplets are freezing on my skin and I wipe them away with the back of my sleeve, my teeth chattering.

‘Just be glad it’s summer,’ says Ronnie. ‘It’s stupidly cold up here in winter.’

I almost laugh. ‘How far?’ I ask, hoping we don’t have to make our way to the bottom.

‘Not all the way,’ Ronnie chuckles.

In fact it’s only ten minutes or so when the clouds break and a weak shaft of sunlight finds its way to us as we rumble into a clearing with four crofter’s cottages clustered together in a small valley.

A German Shepherd leaps from a doorway and bounds towards us, barking, teeth bared. As we come to a stop, the dog leaps up, paws on the side of the truck, fangs sharp and snapping inches from me.

‘Down, Hero,’ Tiny shouts. ‘Down!’

The dog takes his paws from the truck, but his eyes don’t move from me as he emits a growl from somewhere deep in his throat, his tail down, ready to attack.

‘Bloody dog,’ Tiny says and I notice he hasn’t left the cab.

A man comes out of the furthest cottage and lets out a whistle. Hero turns and runs back to him and I feel Ronnie tense besides me.

The man pats the dog, orders it to stay and walks slowly towards us. Ronnie stands and shields her eyes with the palm of her hand. When he’s ten feet away, the man stops and stares.

He’s wearing faded jeans and work boots and his shirt hangs open despite the sharpness of the wind. His torso is completely hairless but covered in tattoos and scars. Even his neck and the left side of his face are inked with a constellation of blue stars. He rubs distractedly at a pierced nipple. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking because he’s wearing a pair of mirrored shades. Like those ones you see in telly programmes from the seventies. He has a rifle in his right hand.

‘Hi, Ronnie,’ he says at last. His accent is American, the slow intonation of the Deep South.

‘Hello,’ she replies.

‘Is that who I think it is?’ He waves the rifle in my direction.

‘Uh huh,’ says Ronnie.

The man pauses for a second, then spits in the dirt at his feet. ‘You shouldn’t have brought her here.’

‘I needed an insurance policy,’ she says.

He shakes his head then spits again, leaving a trail of saliva dangling from his chin. He wipes it away with his forearm.

‘Come on now,’ Ronnie calls to him. ‘I brought you a present.’ She points down at the hare lying on the floor of the truck. The blood from its wounds has started to congeal and flies buzz around its nose, mouth and arse.

The man wanders over and peers inside, then looks up at Ronnie. She smiles at him, her eyes glittering. ‘Go on then,’ he says. ‘I expect you and your friend need to clean up and get a drink.’ Then he turns and walks back to the cottage.

‘It’s good to see you,’ Ronnie shouts.

The man stops in his tracks and his head droops before he half turns to her. ‘And you,’ he says, then disappears inside, slamming the door behind him.

Tiny leads us past the cottages to the far side of the clearing and the foot of the next hill.

‘Over yonder,’ he points to the top, ‘you’ll find a cabin. Should be a free room in there.’

Then he lopes back to the truck and lights a cigarette.

We make our way up until we can peer down into the next valley and find a log cabin nestling in the shadows.

‘Home sweet home,’ says Ronnie and trudges down towards it.

The porch is littered with empty bottles and Ronnie kicks her way through into the dark interior. The smell inside reminds me of changing rooms at school. The unmistakable stink of sweat, unwashed clothes and shoes. It’s exacerbated by the gloom, which seems to lock the odour in. There are windows, but the glass is filthy and outside the green slopes hem us in. The walls and ceilings are made of thick dark wood, which acts like a cocoon.

I hear a match strike and watch Ronnie’s face illuminated in its flame, before she lights a collection of candles on a rough wood table. She takes one, melting it onto its saucer holder and wanders through to the next room. There, there are two bunk beds, filthy blankets rumpled on each, and an overflowing ashtray spills out onto a low bedside table. Nailed to the wall is a flag. It’s a tricolour of red, blue and white with a red star placed in the centre.

Ronnie leaves the room, shutting the door behind her, and goes next door. This room is smaller, with only enough space for one bunk bed. It seems empty.

‘Looks like we’re home,’ says Ronnie and throws her leather jacket and cap onto the top bunk. With her back to me, I once again catch sight of the scar on her shoulder.

When she turns, I busy myself taking off my trainers. I can feel the crunch of dirt on the soles of my feet but I don’t care. I wiggle my toes, grateful for the freedom.

‘I was shot,’ she says.

I don’t look at her, but I nod. I thought that must be the case.

‘By the police,’ she adds and wanders out of the bedroom.

I follow her back into the first room, where the candles are now dancing on the table. Ronnie is rummaging in a fridge in the corner of the room. She pulls out two bottles of water and hands one to me.

‘The guy with the dog,’ I say. ‘Is that Hawk?’

‘Yep.’

‘And he’s the one who’s going to help you?’

Ronnie nods.

‘He didn’t look very keen.’

She shrugs.

‘Are you sure he’ll do what you want?’ I ask.

‘I told you.’ Ronnie takes a drink. ‘He owes me.’

‘What did he do?’ I ask. ‘Or more to the point, what did you do?’

‘Let’s wash up,’ she says and makes her way outside to a water butt by the side of the cabin. She takes off the lid and squints inside.

‘No spiders in there, are there?’ I joke.

‘Gotta make sure,’ she says.

I cringe and peek inside. ‘Looks okay.’ I go to reach in.

Ronnie bats my hand away. ‘Don’t put your filthy paws in clean water.’

She reaches around the back of the butt and finds a ladle attached by a chain. She dips it in the water, scoops some up then pours it over one hand before switching sides. Then she takes another scoop and pours it down her back with a shiver.

She hands me the ladle and I follow suit, first washing each hand carefully, then splashing some on my feet. Finally I pour a couple of scoops over my head, rolling my neck in ecstasy.

I’m interrupted by voices coming from the other side of the hill and the sound of boots crashing through the grass. Three men appear at the summit, each wearing a camouflaged combat jacket and carrying a gun. They stop dead when they see us.

‘Hawk put us in the spare room,’ Ronnie calls out to them.

They mutter to one another in a language I don’t understand.

‘Serbs,’ Ronnie whispers.

They make their way to us, stopping feet from the porch. ‘Where you come from?’ asks one.

‘England,’ says Ronnie. ‘London.’

They speak excitedly among themselves, nodding and laughing. ‘What’s happening there is good, yes?’ says the man. ‘The bombing has been effective, yes?’

I open my mouth to tell him that, actually, it’s been a fucking tragedy, but Ronnie elbows me. Hard.

‘It’s been very effective,’ she says.

They move inside the cabin and the two that clearly can’t speak English smile at me and give me the thumbs up. I return the gesture, feeling sick to my core.

When they’re out of sight Ronnie puts up her hand to me. ‘Don’t say it. I want to get out of here and you want to go home, right?’

I nod.

‘Then don’t cause any more problems, Jo. Please.’

Dear Veronica-Mae,
This is the fourth time I’ve written and I still don’t know if my letters are getting to you
.

Sometimes I think maybe you get them, but you’re too busy with your new life to reply
.

Bert says you been placed with a new family and I wonder if you want to put me and everything else behind you
.

I hope that’s not so, cus right now I need every friend I got. The only person here who was prepared to give me the time of day was the doc on the hospital wing. And she got herself transferred someplace else without even saying goodbye
.

At night when I close my eyes and try to say my prayers, nothing comes. I concentrate real hard but all I can hear are the sounds of the jail around me. I don’t know what Mama would have to say, but it seems like even God has abandoned me. I can see how that sounds like blasphemy but bad things happen here all the time and He ain’t given me no protection
.

The trial is next week and that’s the only thing that keeps me hoping. I have to trust that the jury will understand that I only shot that policeman because he shot Mama first. I never meant nothing like that to happen
.

Bert says the main problem is the stack of guns we had in the farmhouse. He says the prosecution are convinced there was a plan to take up arms, that we intended to kill any police that came onto our land. I explained to Bert that we was frightened of the Devil, that we thought we were the righteous soldiers of Christ. He calls this ‘brainwashing’ and says he’ll tell the jury that I wasn’t in my right mind. To be honest, I’m real scared about standing up in the courthouse and talking about it all. Bert says I just have to tell the truth
.

I’m going to say bye for now and beg you to write back. Even if it was just a postcard with one line on it, I’d be grateful
.

Your brother
,

Isaac

There was a cocktail party in full swing at Number Ten. The sound of a harpist playing in the corner mingled with the tinkle of laughter and crystal. A waitress passed through the guests with a silver tray of canapés, each spiked with a miniature Olympic flag.

When the PM caught sight of Clem, he broke off from his conversation with the American ambassador and made his way over, glass in one hand, a nibble in the other.

‘You have no idea how tough this is, Clem,’ he said. ‘Everyone is freaking out about the shooting. If they ever found out . . .’ He looked at his bite-sized chunk of mozzarella, tastefully speared to a cherry tomato, and sighed. ‘Drink?’ he asked.

‘No thank you, Prime Minister,’ said Clem.

‘Do we need some privacy?’

Clem eyed the guests. The great and the good from all around the world. Each celebrating the first day of events at the Olympics, being manipulated by the Downing Street team into talking about something, anything, other than Thomas Frasier. None of them must ever find out what had been in that rucksack, of that Clem was certain. ‘I think that would be best,’ he said.

The PM signalled to Benning and the three of them made their way to the PM’s study and closed the door.

‘Any news on Connolly?’ asked Benning.

Clem shook his head.

‘I suppose no news is good news,’ said the PM weakly.

Clem could have pointed out that the first twenty-four hours in any kidnap case were crucial. That the chances of finding a victim alive after that point became ever smaller. But what would be the point?

‘So why are you here?’ asked the PM, glancing at the door and the noises coming from the reception beyond. His unflappable manner was needed in the other room.

‘I thought you’d want to know that we discovered the man who groomed Thomas Frasier and handed him the bomb. He was using the alias of a dead man from Glasgow.’

Clem paused before presenting the crucial piece of information. ‘Thomas didn’t know what was in the bag.’

He waited for the PM’s reaction to the news that an innocent civilian had been killed, but the PM said nothing.

‘Is he in custody?’ asked Benning.

‘Dead,’ said Clem. ‘He took his own life rather than be arrested.’

The PM and Benning exchanged a look. No words were spoken, but Clem could hear the message loud and clear.

‘Is that everything?’ asked the PM.

‘Yes, sir.’

The PM nodded and crossed the room. With his hand on the door handle he turned back to Clem. ‘Did you manage to catch any of the events today?’

Clem blinked. ‘Sir?’

‘The heats of the diving were particularly impressive.’ The PM made a downward motion with his hand. ‘I should think we’ll take a place on the podium.’

Clem watched, astonished, as the PM went back to the party, Benning scuttling after him, leaving Clem to stare at the open door.

It was after ten when Clem let himself back into HQ. The place was quiet. He should probably go home and get some rest but he didn’t think sleep would come. The nagging suspicion that he had misread things jabbed him gently yet insistently in the back.

He had taken Benning for the villain of the piece. A fixer. A manipulator. Someone who got a kick from hanging on to the shirttails of power and would do anything to keep his grip. The PM had seemed tired and frustrated, but essentially decent. Sure, he wanted the Games to go well, and was willing to take some risks, but there was a line.