A Line in the Sand (55 page)

an anonymous madness. These faces she knew, and the faces of those who

stood back in the shadows and watched.

There was a flash of light in the far blackness, then the light lit the

torso of a youth. She recognized him. He was from the council

houses

and helped carry ladders for Vince. He held a milk bottle and the d in the bottle's neck was lit. The crowd roared

cloth stuffe

approval.

must have been fifty of them, maybe more. The youth ran

There

forward,

rs.

past M

Fairbrother and Mr. Hackett, past Dominic, past Emma and

Mary, Barry and Jerry, past Paul and Vince, Gussie and Donna, and

his

arm arched to throw the bottle.

She heard the pandemonium in the hall below, then the bolt scraping 363

open and the key turning.

Through the window, she saw Paget go out, crouch, fumble at his belt, then throw his missile. The youth dropped the bottle and turned.

It

splintered and the conflagration of fire burst where he had been.

The

gas canister detonated. The wind took the grey-white cloud past the light of the burning petrol and into the black darkness. She heard the

choking, the coughing and the screamed protests.

They had gone, all of them, to the cover of darkness.

This was not Ireland, or Nairobi, wasn't Guatemala City this was her home.

The fire guttered, the gas dispersed, shadowy figures moved in the darkness. The two mobile cars were now drawn up to make a barrier in

front of the house.

The argument raged in the hall below her, Frank and Bill Davies in spitting dispute. She was not supposed to hear. Then... Frank

propelled Stephen, across the hall and up the stairs, before

shrugging

into a vest.

Davies wrenched open the door. She held Stephen and felt the blast of

the cold air. She crouched.

Frank was outside with Davies and Paget. She could not see them.

She

was down on the floor and clinging to Stephen, holding his head

against

her and pressing her palms over his ears. He would be on the step, shielded by the bodies of Davies and Paget, protected by their guns and

their gas against his friends, her friends.

He had to shout. To be heard across their low front fence and the grass, heard into the deep shadow, Frank had to shout.

"It's all right, you fuckers, you can go home. You can go home and be

364

satisfied that you've won as much as you're going to win. I promised Meryl ... Do you all remember Meryl? You should remember Meryl she did

enough for you lot. I promised her that nothing more would happen.

I

was wrong. I had forgotten you, all of you. I can't see you now, any

the dark, but, please, stay and listen.

of you, in

Don't creep away

on

achs.

your stom

Don't pretend it didn't happen. You will remember

tonight, what you did, for the rest of your lives. If you're still there, if you're listening, then you should know that you have won a

victory. You have broken my promise to Meryl. She'll be

little

going

e morning, and taking Stephen with her. She'll be trying to

in th

find

o stay. She'll have to ring round, people she hardly

somewhere t

knows,

check into a hotel she's never been to. Everyone she reckoned

or

was

r friend is here, soit won't be easy for her to find somewhere.

he

Not

hough, not me... The tears streamed on her cheeks and fell on

me, t

the

ir of her child's head.

ha

ou're stuck with me.

"Y

Before tonight, I might just have gone with

her, but not now. Your victory is that you've driven out a wonderful, caring woman, and her child. You don't win with me. I'm a proper stard,

ba

your worst fucking nightmare, an obstinate sod. What I did,

why there's the threat, I provided the information that killed a

busful

of men. I was prepared~ to betray a busful of men so, what happens to

you is low down on any relevance scale to me. I don't care what

you, and I'm staying.

happens to

Got that? Can you hear me? When

you

next go to church, put money in charity boxes, when you next volunteer for good works and good causes, think of what you did tonight to Meryl.

the cruelty doesn't work with me..."

But,

d not hold back the tears.

She coul

h

"You see, you don't frighten me. I'm not frightened of yobs wit stones. Where I was, for what I did, if I'd been caught there, I'd 365

have been hanged until dead. That's not a trap under the gallows, and

quick, but a rope from an industrial crane, and it's being hoisted up,

and it's kicking and strangling and slow. There's not a few drunks watching, not a few cowards, there's twenty thousand people. You

understand? Being hanged from a crane frightens me, not you... She lay

on the floor beside the door of the airing-cupboard, clutched her

boy

ezed her hands over his ears.

and sque

t some time. I'm told I delayed a programme for the

"I bough

Weapons of Mass Destruction.

development of

The warheads would have

rried chemicals or microbiological agents, might have been nerve

ca

gases and might have been something like anthrax. You, of course,

't have known the people targeted by those warheads. They

wouldn

would

Saudis or Kuwaitis or the Gulf people. They might have

have been

been

Israeli Jews. When you're so selfish, when you live complacently

in an

island

of your own making, you wouldn't think of the millions of other

souls who exist around you. Are you happy?"

She heard the hoarseness of his voice.

"There is a man who has been sent to kill me. He is somewhere, out there, in the darkness. I know very little of him but I know about his

society, his culture. He is a Muslim, a child of the Islamic faith..

.

He would not understand you. From his faith and his culture, he would believe that my community has closed ranks around me, not isolated me.

I can find more love for him, the man sent to kill me, than for you, my

so-called friends."

She heard his last shout into the night.

"Are you there? Are you listening?"

he bolt rammed

The door slammed behind him. The key was turned, t

home.

366

Chapter Sixteen.

He felt puny, insignificant and unimportant.

Markham

Geoff

walked beside the stream that wound ahead of him between

the sea and the Southmarsh. Behind him it skirted the village before drifting inconsequentially into Northmarsh. The wind was up and had blown away the rain.

He was unimportant because he had not been telephoned the night

before.

He had been killing time at a piano recital twelve miles away, in

another town; he had sat in ignorance at the back of a half-empty, draughty Baptist hall. His mobile telephone, of course, had been

on,

but the call had not come. A trifle of life would have been injected into the performance if his telephone had bleeped, but it had not..

.

Davies had told him, an hour earlier that morning, of the night's

events. He had seen the scorched grass where the milk bottle had

ignited and seen the smoked slivers. Near to the new tree was the small patch of burned ground where the gas canister had detonated.

Only

an unimportant junior liaison officer would not have been telephoned.

Davies had told him what was going to happen that day not asked~l

him

for his opinion, but told him. He had stormed away.

He was unimportant, he realized, because he did not carry a gun. The guns were what counted now. He was drawn towards

Southmarsh. The guns ringed the marshland, just as they were around and inside the house. It hurt him to feel the minimality of his

importance. And no communication, either, from the little stinking bastard with the dogs. Markham didn't know where he was, what he

did,

what he'd seen and couldn't call him for fear of compromising his

position.

There were two letters in his pocket. They were not typed up, or

remotely ready for sending, but they were drafted in his handwriting.

ion and find a

He thought, later, he would go to the police stat

typewriter and envelopes. He had drafted the letters after the

recital, back at his guest-house accommodation. Fenton had said,

down

not a marriage-guidance

the phone, fifty minutes earlier, "We're

367

eration, Geoff. If she wants to go, then I'm not going to lose

op

sleep

over it. But he stays, whatever. If you have to chain him to the oor, he stays." He walked towards where the little verminous fl

bastard

t he would see him, but

was, not tha

where he would breathe the same

r.

ai

wo drafted letters were in his pocket.

The t

ar Mr. Cox, I write to inform you of my resignation from the

De

Service. I am taking up a position with a merchant bank in the City.

I

would like to express to you, to Mr. Fenton, to colleagues, my

the many kindnesses that have been shown me. My

appreciation of

future

ers wish me to start with them at the earliest possible date

employ

and

our co-operation in that matter.

I look for y

rely,

Since

and

s, I have received your letter setting out my terms of

Dear Sir

employment and find them most satisfactory. Accordingly, I have

from my current employers by the same post, and have

resigned

requested

liest possible date of release. I much look forward to

the ear

joining

am and will advise you, soonest, of when that will be.

your te

Sincerely,

in the afternoon post, and then

Once they were typed up they could go

Geoff Markham would no longer be unimportant. He walked on the path, turned a corner and could see, past a wild clump of bramble, the mass

-banks, the dark water channels, and a ruined windmill

of the reed

that

d

had no sails. The bright light played on the dead reed-tips, an

the

birds flew above the muddy banks.

wouldn't go any further.

"I

If you don't want a bollocking from a

police thug, I'd stop right there."

368

He spun. To the right, a few yards from him, the man sat on a

weathered bench. Markham recognized him, but couldn't place him.

A

dapper little man, thinning hair and a nervous smile, with binoculars hanging from his neck.

"Quiet, isn't it? Wonderful. But there's a policeman ahead with a

vile tongue and a big gun." There was a chuckle, like that of a teenage girl but from the soft full lips.

"I'm watching the harrier. It's a joy to behold..."

The man pointed. Markham saw the bird, cartwheeling in awkward

flight.

He squinted to see it better. It was more than half a mile away,

and

its colours merged with the reed-beds. It was far beyond the

windmill,

over the heart of the marsh. He could see swans, geese and ducks

on

the water, but this was the only bird that flew and, strangely, its motion was that of a clumsy dancer.

"Incredible bird, the marsh harrier it migrates each spring from west Africa to here. It would have been hatched on Southmarsh, and then in

the first autumn of its life it flies all the way back to Senegal

or

Mauritania for the winter. Then, come our spring, it returns.

Comes

back to us. I find that wonderful. Two thousand miles of flight

and

our little corner of the universe is where it returns to."

He remembered where he had seen the man. He had bought a sandwich two

days earlier at his shop. Dominic Evans's name was over the door.

That

morning, Davies had given him, snarled them, the names of those who had

e half-shadow, who had not intervened he was one of them.

been in th

"It comes back to us. Its trust makes for a huge responsibility.

It

on our care and kindness."

can rely

369

"A pity, Mr. Evans, that Frank and Me~yl Perry can't rely on that well

of care and kindness."

"What's remarkable this bird came back last week, and it was injured.

It had been shot. I didn't thiril when I saw it last week that it could survive. It's flying, not quite at full strength yet, but it's hunting and it's getting there. It's almost a miracle."

"I said, Mr. Evans, that it was a pity Frank and Meryl Perry cannot rely on your care and kindness."

"That's not called-for."

"It's the truth."

"What do you know of ultimate truths?"

"I know that you were there last night, one of those who stood back and

let the mob have its bloody vicious fun."

"You feel qualified to make a judgement?"

"I make a judgement on those who skulk at the back, don't have the guts