A Choice of Evils (19 page)

It all came back vividly to me as I read through the story. I could smell the cordite and unconsciously put my hand up to my face to wipe away his blood. It all seemed so unreal. Here I was walking along the high street and I was the very man who witnessed it all and delivered the bomb, courtesy of MI5/6.

I stepped into a brisk pace wanting to get off the street and reach home. A chill in the evening air stung my cheeks as the memories of yesterday were as fresh as if it all had happened a few minutes ago.

It was like walking in a trance, but somehow I arrived home and poured me a large scotch. Now I could read through the gory details in full. The local Cornwall Police were keeping quiet. But the reporter said ‘Mr Ahmed was the second person to have lost his life from unexploded bombs.’ The write up then went on to give an account of the location being a favourite spot for walking and picnics. A brief summary of a previous accidental death by a W.W.2 unexploded land mine followed. Then a call for an enquiry ended the article. What a load of bollocks, I thought. This is just a bloody cover up. I would ask the Intelligence mob just what was going on. The story was too precise to be just guesswork. No doubt it was designed forpublic consumption.

Just then the telephone rang. ‘Hello?’ I answered.

‘Is that Jack?’ The voice asked. It sounded cultivated with muted Arabic tones. Without thinking I answered. ‘Yes speaking.’ The voice went on. ‘Have you read the papers? My brother is dead. Have you got an explanation for me?’ A pause of silence followed. I knew it was one of Ahmed’s friends, but who? I must not sound flustered, I told myself. Obviously they knew I was the last person Ahmed had set off to meet. I thought quickly. ‘Can I ring you back? I have company.’ There was a brief silence. The voice answered, ‘Leave details for a meeting on the answerphone number you have. I expect to hear from you within 24 hours.

The conversation ended. On replacing the phone I told myself to relax and take it easy. It was easier said than done. After all, I only had to account for £100,000 and a dead body! Who the fuck was I kidding? Take it easy? I poured myself another drink and flopped into an armchair.

There was no longer a beginning or an end to the tangled mess I was in and all of this from a simple ‘steal to order’ job. I sipped at the scotch contemplating my situation. I needed to empty my head for a while and switch off. The stack of blank pages by my typewriter gave me an idea. Perhaps I should empty myself into the novel I was writing. It would help settle my thoughts and catch up with the thread of the story. Besides, the publishers were waiting to hear from me by the end of the month. With all the anger I felt inside I could let it pour out on the pages.

As I got into the story, I found my thoughts drifting and using the material of recent events to build up the drama. It unfolded onto the pages as thoughts and feelings became words. How powerful the expressions of emotions were, as death took place through the pen! What a great theatre the mind was in acting out the drama. Nothing short of a bullet could stop me as the hours faded away towards midnight. Only my sore fingers from typing and the midnight chime of the carriage clock grinded me to a halt. But I was glad to see I had completed chapter 8. Again I made for the scotch bottle and listened to Bach’s Air on A G string. It was a mellow way to end the day.

It was midnight as I climbed the stairs and got the mouse alarm ready for 7am. Half sedated, I let drop my clothes on the carpet and fell into bed. Sleep snatched away any resistance I had left. Wherever my dreams took me, there was no trace when I awoke next morning.

I didn’t want to get up but I had to thump mouse on the head to stop him laughing. It was a raw feeling that came with the new day. I knew it was from too much alcohol on the day before, but it had got me through the night and given me a provisional peace of mind. Now the floodgates were beginning to open again. The first thing I remembered was the phone call from the ‘brother’ of Ahmed. No doubt he was sharing the same thoughts too. That was enough to get me out of bed.

You know my usual routine by now with the radio, kettle, toast and shower. Getting dressed was the easy part and a look outside the window did nothing to cheer me up. It was raining. A cat sat on the roof of my car and a local police chase did nothing for my curiosity. I was too preoccupied to wonder if it was anyone I knew.

The news on the radio was all about a rock which scientists said came from Mars. Apparently there were micro-organisms found inside it. This seemed to be calling into question genesis of Earth’s creation. That is all I bloody well needed to hear. It was enough trying to make sense of the madness I was in right now let alone working out how we got onto this planet in the first place.

After breakfast, I planned to dump the black bag of clothes and yesterday’s newspaper describing the beach scene. I didn’t want them to be lying around the house. And after my visit to the paper shop I had the £50,000 to bank.

It was raining heavily as I left home with the soiled clothes and cash holdall. There was no post in the box, although I half expected something, even a poster. The car easily fired into life as I put on the wipers to clean the rain. My first stop was the council refuse tip. It was only ten minutes away. I wasted no time in taking the clothes out, taking time to spread them around in the dirt. There was no sign of anybody watching. But how could I be sure of anything anymore?

Back in the car I made for the papers shop. I was in and out in minutes. There was no sign of the begging dog waiting for the crisps. Maybe he’d found a new source of supply, I wondered. Now the money was bugging me, so for half an hour I drove around, waiting for the bank to open at 9.30am when I banked the money and dumped the empty holdall into a skip. It was a tidy start to the day. My immediate anxiety was how to resolve the phone call to the ‘brother’ of Ahmed. I had to get back home and sort out what to do.

I was indoors by eleven just before the last chime had finished. The answerphone was blinking at me. Someone had called. A woman’s voice spoke. ‘Meet me at Battersea Park. Same place at 1pm today.’ Damn it! I recognised the voice of Inspector Marsh. I could almost smell that distinct perfume of hers coming out of the phone. What was this meeting going to be for? Surely not just to tell me to keep my mouth shut. I couldn’t tell a soul about the bomb or the killing even if I wanted to. Surely they knew that. They had me by the balls.

The second call gave me another anxiety attack. It was the voice of Ahmed’s ‘brother.’ It was crisp and authoritive, ‘We are not prepared to wait for ever. You have until midnight tonight to leave a message’. Shit! The world was closing in on me. My nerves were getting jumpy. Surely the Intelligence mob would anticipate a response against me from Ahmed’s friends, I thought.

I decided to leave making the phone call, until after my meeting with them at 1pm. My knowledge about what happened to Ahmed could be my trump card? Somehow I needed to negotiate a guarantee for my own protection. It was a comforting thought, but a desperate one.

I sat thinking over my predicament. I went through the whole saga from beginning to the end and back again. It got nowhere. I stood up. I sat down. I cradled my head. There was a scream wanting to burst out of me. My fingers drummed out a tattoo on the armchair. The more I tried to think out a solution the more neurotic I became. It was worse than being in a prison cell with nowhere to go. Perhaps I would have been better off there. At least I would be safe there. What else I thought was becoming unprintable. I needed a drink.

Jesus H Christ! I was fast becoming an alcoholic like Dave the weasel. ‘Slow down’ I told myself; ‘It’s getting to you’. I slugged three fingers of scotch down my neck which hit the right spot as I now prepared for my journey to Battersea.

Out in the car, my paranoid eyes examined every face on the street. I was looking for a face from memory that I had seen earlier at Tesco’s. I recalled my meeting with Ahmed at the meat and fish displays there where I spotted a man staring at me from the end of the aisle. He was foreign looking. Was he the voice who had left the message on my ansaphone? How many of them were they? Was I looking for dark eyed olive skinned Arab’s on the high street? In a car maybe or on a motorbike perhaps? God! I was now even suspicious of the road sweepers! In blind frustration, I put my foot down and drove quickly away from Brunswick Place towards the Old Kent Road.

My eyes gave equal attention to the road and my driving mirror as I reached the Elephant &Castle; I circled the roundabout three times. I indicated left when I turned right and right when I turned left. With a mind fired with suspicion, everybody became my potential hit man.

The minutes ticked away. Five, ten, fifteen minutes later I was driving through Vauxhall area into Battersea Park and through the park gates. It was precisely 1pm when I parked in the car park opposite the café. The first thing I saw was the ducks by the boating lake. They didn’t have a care in the world being fed daily and protected by the park keepers. Lucky ducky’s, I thought.

Inspector Marsh was already sitting at a table when I entered the café. Christ! If I didn’t know who she was, I could seriously fancy her. My biological condition was in need of an overhaul. She had all the right curves in all the right places, but not even Aisha, Sharon, Susan or Louise could raise a smile from me right now let alone Inspector Marsh. I queued for a coffee and sat beside her.

Her expression was staid, and her composure matched her soft but firm voice. I detected that all too familiar smell of perfume again and remembered the trail of clues she had previously left behind in my house and car. It felt strange knowing this woman knew so much about me and I knew nothing about her, except her job. ‘When your drink has finished we shall move.’ she told me. I nodded like a subordinate soldier. ‘I may have been followed,’ I almost whispered. A broad confidant smile lit up her face. She was attractive alright. ‘No chance,’ she replied. For a moment I stared back at her. How could she know that? I wondered. But the answer was obvious really; they probably even knew what time I went to the toilet. Maybe she could read my mind too?

I pushed away the coffee even though my throat was dry. ‘All will be revealed,’ she continued as we left the café and walked the familiar route past the boating lake. As we turned right to Battersea Bridge I knew what to expect. Two occupants sat in the front seats of a black rover car. It was Commander Bennit and Sergeant Morton. Both of them gave me a half-hearted smile as they asked me to get in and fasten my seat belt. I felt like it was going to be another day of surprises.

There were no formal welcomes as I sat in the back and the car drove away. Yet there was an atmosphere of indifference as we drove onwards into the city and soon pulled up outside the imposing Victorian building of the Ministry Of The Interior.

We all entered and made our way up the stairs to the same lounge room we had been in before. Once again, we were settled into the chairs before Commander Bennit led the conversation.

‘You do appreciate we could not tell you of our intentions in disposing of Ahmed? It obviously came as a shock to you?’

My mind saw red mist as I thought about what he was saying…..’Appreciate their intentions?’……..’Came as a shock?’……….No, I did these things every day. I carried bombs around in briefcases and blew people up with them. No. No shock. It was perfectly normal! What was I up against? I wondered, when these people could speak casually about things like that. ‘I read about it in the papers’ I answered. ‘You used me to deliver the bomb. The papers said it was a WW2 bomb washed up on the beach.’ Three heads nodded in resemblance of sympathy.

‘You are quite a good actor, Jack. We think you performed the task with distinction,’ he continued. ‘Besides, the money you have earned will compensate for any distress.’

I looked at him intently. The money I had earned? It wasn’t quite how I saw it. My hands were clean. It wasn’t my doing I wanted to tell them, but thought better of it. I nodded, feeling unsure how to answer.

‘It is much more than we get paid,’ he continued, so perhaps you can see it as a sort of payment for being a temporary recruit to the security services,’ he continued. All three of them awaited my answer.

I heard myself reply, ‘If you say so.’ Commander Bennit raised his eyebrows. ‘No Jack. Not if we say so. You either agree or disagree?’

What the fuck is he playing at, I wondered then asked, ‘And what if I disagree?’

‘Then we cannot justify you keeping the money. Worse than that, you may get investigated for murder,’ he smiled.

I nearly jumped out of my chair. ‘Murder! I haven’t killed anybody! It was you lot! Besides there’s no proof!’ I shouted. A spooky smile spread over his face then he turned to the sergeant, ‘Bring in the portfolio please, Mr Morton,’ he said, then the sergeant left the room.

I sat there in anticipation wondering what was going on. Elaine Marsh and the Commander sat staring impassively at me. Two minutes later, the sergeant returned with two transparent bags. I could see one bag contained a red bound copy of the XP42 formula. The other bag contained some photographs. I looked from them to the commander whose face had now taken on a serious expression. ‘You want proof Jack? Very well, you shall have it,’ he continued. The bag with the red XP42 file was passed to me. ‘Read what it says on the label,’ he told me.

I looked at the details on it which read; ‘Bag contents. 1 copy. Top Secret XP42 formula. (Stolen from deposit box Barclays Bank) Finger printed and matched to Jack Thomson –CRO No: AX713055.

Again I looked at all three of them. Their faces held blank expressions. Sergeant Morton handed me the second bag. Once more I looked over the label, it read; Bag contents: 6 photographs. Two micro cassette tapes. Photo’s 1 to 4 recovered from abode of Jack Thomson at Brunswick Place. Two micro cassettes recovered from as above. Photographs 5 & 6 taken during operation Scallywag.

Through the clear plastic I could see 4 pictures of Ahmed and myself at London Zoo. In two of them, I was seen carrying a black leather briefcase. It was the one Ahmed had handed the first £50.000 to me in. Further written details stated my DNA was found upon them