The Dying Light (36 page)
‘You’re the geologist?’ she said.
‘No, I’ve just picked up a bit from friends.’
‘Eyam? Tell me where he is,’ she said.
He gazed at the landscape and said nothing.
‘They know. I’ve just heard they’re onto this scam of yours. And that means they’ll be looking at that inquest.’
‘We expected that.’
‘Where’s Eyam, for Christ’s sake?’
‘In good time.’
‘Why the delinquent twins and the gun?’
‘You saw what happened to Russell.’
‘If they’d wanted to kill me they could have done so long before now.’
‘Yes, that did make us wonder if you’d gone over to the other side. The police seemed to let you go rather quickly.’
‘Because I had a damned good lawyer: and by the way, I’m on nobody’s side. You should know that. And that coded note, for heaven’s sake: what were you thinking of?’
‘We had to find a way of contacting you without Nock knowing.
Nock is working for them. That’s why we went in for that rigmarole with the postman and the note.’
‘Nock is working for whom?’ she demanded.
‘Most likely the Security Service, or perhaps Eden White’s outfit - OIS. Who knows? We believe White had Russell killed. Once they knew he had seen the documents, they moved.’
‘Then who turned
The Story of the Shipwrecked Sailor
round so I would see it?’
The Story of the Shipwrecked Sailor
round so I would see it?’
‘That was me,’ he said. ‘Clever of you to work it out. I was all for telling you, but we just couldn’t trust anyone and we weren’t entirely sure about you. Coming to the cottage and just breaking the news wasn’t an option either. There are listening devices everywhere, which is how they knew Russell had seen the documents.’ He shook his head. ‘We realised Russell must have told you something at Dove Cottage.’
‘And this morning: how did they know I’d left?’
‘I guess there are micro-cameras up there.’
‘They were removed.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Nock told Russell. It surprises me - basically he’s a decent man.’
‘They’ve got some kind of hold on him.’
‘Did Nock put the porn on Eyam’s computer?’
‘Could be. We don’t know for sure, but it is an academic point now. Anyway, we don’t have time for this. Your ride’s here.’
‘What’re you doing this for?’
‘I told you in the square the other night - this is some kind of last chance. We have to fight what is going on.’
She looked at him. All the affability and mildness had left his face. ‘You were talking about an eclipse. That implies a kind of optimism.’
He smiled to himself and turned to her. ‘Maybe, but we’re still run by a few big corporations and a fifth-rate government.’
‘And you don’t mind breaking the law!’
‘Don’t be so bloody prim. This is more important than breaking a few laws.’
She looked away. ‘You helped fake a death and then distorted the process of the inquest. Nobody forced you to do that.’
‘What is it with lawyers? You only think about the law, not right and wrong. Where was the law when Hugh Russell was gunned down? Eh? Where was the law he respected his entire life? A good man like that. Where was your law when they took you in for questioning, because they wanted to pry into every part of your life? You know that was the reason.’
‘If Eyam hadn’t faked his own death and you hadn’t helped him, Russell would probably be alive today.’
Swift began walking. ‘You think we killed him?’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’m saying that when you tamper with the truth innocent people get hurt.’
‘We’ll see: we’ll see what you think in twenty-four hours.’
They rounded the corner of a barn. Waiting twenty yards away was a man in a gunslinger’s long black leather coat, black cargo pants and a pair of scuffed trainers. He was in his late forties. Longish, rather straggly blonde hair curled over his ears and back into a kind of point at the nape of his neck. He wore several rings and a small cross on a gold chain. A delicate pair of sunglasses was propped on his forehead. He looked like a member of a fairground crew, or a veteran roadie.
‘Meet Eco Freddie,’ said Swift. ‘He is your driver today. He’ll take you where you need to go.’
‘To see Eyam, right?’
Swift didn’t answer.
‘Good to meet you,’ said Freddie. ‘Now let’s be having you.’
A little way off stood a large, low-slung, metallic-grey saloon with an oval radiator grill that reminded her of a fish’s mouth. The alloy wheels had been sprayed matt black and the tyres were thin and wide. Mud was splashed along the flank of the saloon, and the windows were blacked out. Like Freddie, the car had a look of honed criminal practicality.
‘This,’ he said with a flourish of his hand, ‘is the Maserati Quattroporte - still the finest and fastest four-door on the market. It’s the 2009 Sport GT model with a new gearbox. My best baby. Hop in the back and
attachez votre ceinture
, my dear. You will find something of vaguely human form in the front seat. That is Miff. Take no notice of Miff. He’s a useless pestilential gangster, aren’t you, Miff?’ He banged the roof of the car and they both got in.
attachez votre ceinture
, my dear. You will find something of vaguely human form in the front seat. That is Miff. Take no notice of Miff. He’s a useless pestilential gangster, aren’t you, Miff?’ He banged the roof of the car and they both got in.
The handsome black face from the pub turned to her and a hand was held out between the two front seats. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said in gentle voice. ‘Aristotle Miff.’
‘Call a child Aristotle and what you get is a subnormal crack addict,’ said Freddie. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Miff?’
‘Take no notice,’ confided Miff with a hand fluttering doubtfully in front of his face. ‘Freddie has
issues
of the white supremacist kind. The broken home, the childhood dyslexia: we make allowances even though he does not like to be seen with a person of colour.’
issues
of the white supremacist kind. The broken home, the childhood dyslexia: we make allowances even though he does not like to be seen with a person of colour.’
‘It’s no fucking good greasing up to her, Miff. She’s not gonna tip you.’
He started the engine and moved off very slowly so that the grassy ridge along the track would not damage the bottom of the car.
Miff switched on a small laptop, put on a headset and handed one to Eco Freddie. ‘Lucky you didn’t bring Eyam’s car - sticks out like a camel’s dick.’
‘And this doesn’t?’ she said.
‘Plus it’s like driving a fucking Chippendale wardrobe.’
‘Thomas Chippendale didn’t make wardrobes,’ said Miff.
‘How would you fucking know?’
‘He made mirrors, tables, chairs, cabinets, bureaus, but not fucking wardrobes, Freddie.’
‘Wouldn’t that be
bureaux
, not fucking
bureaus
?’
bureaux
, not fucking
bureaus
?’
‘Why the laptop and headphones?’ she asked.
‘That’s how we get you to your destination without the filth spotting us with their cameras. It’s a kind of specialist navigation system put together by a cooperative of public-spirited individuals, like Miff here, who don’t see why the authorities should know every flaming move made by the citizenry of these fair islands. Every time a number recognition camera goes up it’s added to the system on the web. It’s technological war against the Old Bill.’
‘But they surely don’t put cameras out here?’
‘They’ve got them everywhere. Out here it’s to catch the sheep shaggers.’
‘And the headphones?’
‘That’s coz my baby moans when she enjoys herself and I gotta hear Miff, though it’s a mighty pain to listen to him.’
They dropped down from the hill. Looking along the valley she could see the ancient rock formation rise from a patchwork of small fields like the vast rounded back of a whale. They came to a tarmac road. Freddie put his foot down and the car shot forward. The noise of the engine was like the roar from a furnace door being opened.
‘Right, one hundred,’ shouted Miff. ‘Fork left . . . humpback bridge two hundred . . . dip one hundred.’ He continued in this vein from the roads of the Marches into the narrower lanes of Wales, his eyes never leaving the map on the computer that registered their position with a slowly pulsing light. They travelled for about half an hour until they reached a kind of depot with a broad concrete forecourt.
‘This is where you get out,’ said Freddie.
‘Here?’
‘Yes, here.’
Miff hopped out and opened the door for her, still wearing his headset. She swung the rucksack onto the ground, got up and unstuck the damp trousers from her legs.
‘Can I ask you something? Why Eco? What’s eco about this car?’
‘He joined Greenpeace in the nick,’ said Miff, beginning to rock with mirth. ‘And he’s vegetarian, aren’t you, Freddie?’
‘Shut the door, darling, before Miff wets hisself.’
Miff got in, waved, and then Freddie sharked off into the empty lanes with a growl from the Maserati’s four exhausts.
She turned to the nearest shed, which looked as though it had been used to house heavy vehicles or agricultural machines. Around the entrance, where two large sliding doors shuddered in the wind sending an occasional dull reverberation through the building, the concrete was stained with diesel and engine oil. Either side were piles of oil drums, stacks of tarry railway sleepers and coils of fencing wire. From inside the shed, she heard the chirp of sparrows echo in a large, empty space. The air of doleful abandonment was total. She looked around and then approached a small door cut into the side of the shed where a safety notice flapped in the wind, pulled it open and peered into the gloom. She called out, but hearing nothing let the door slam shut. Then a voice came from behind her. ‘Hello, Sis.’
22
Witless Familiarity
She spun round and saw Eyam standing twenty feet away. She stared at him, utterly perplexed as to what emotion she felt or what her reaction to him should be, and took in the gauntness of his cheeks, the sunken eyes - as well as their feverish intensity - and the long hair. The beard had gone.
‘Where did you spring from?’ she said evenly.
‘Sorry, did I make you start?’ He gave a sheepish smile.
‘No, I’m quite used to the living dead.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. He walked towards her and now she noticed that he carried a stick; that his clothes were hanging off him and that his grin revealed many more of his teeth than she remembered. But none of this formed itself in her mind as anything more than an impression of Eyam looking somewhat younger.
He reached her and held out his hands, dropping the stick in the process. It clattered on the concrete. He glanced down and when he looked up, still wearing a slightly unworldly grin, her hand caught him on his left cheek. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ she said in a murderous whisper. ‘I grieved for you, Eyam. I cried for you. I was mortified - ashamed and furious with myself for failing you. It was like Charlie dying, though worse, because I felt I’d abandoned you. How could you have done that to me, Eyam? I was your friend. How could you have been so heartless? How could you not tell me?’
His eyes registered her anger and maybe he nodded with understanding, though she didn’t care to notice it, nor for that matter did she consider the veins that bulged at his temple and in his neck. ‘I am sorry,’ he said at length. ‘I had no idea how this would go.’
‘Crap, you wanted me to believe you were dead. You used me, knowing that if I believed you everyone else would.’
‘Not true,’ he said, bending to get his walking stick and at the same time looking up into her eyes. ‘I left as many clues as I could think of to say I hadn’t died in the explosion, clues that only you would understand. I didn’t want to put you through the pain.’ He placed a hand on her shoulder and she shook it off. ‘Once this thing started it was very difficult to control.’
She gazed at him, aware only of the crashingly obvious thought that had been with her since she had first begun to suspect he was alive. ‘In all those years, despite everything - our differences, the bad timing and let’s face it, the competition between us - I rashly assumed that you loved me, as a friend or a sometime lover or . . . Christ knows what. I thought you loved me just a little, Eyam. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
He nodded, and she wondered if he could possibly understand. She shook her head and looked down, which is to say she looked into herself. Was relief part of her anger? Was some glimmer of love still there? Her eyes moved and searched his face. ‘The thing is, no one who loved another a person could treat them like this. That’s what I take away from your behaviour. You used me like any other fucking man. You exploited my love and loyalty for you. And do you know what the worst thing is? I let myself be exploited: for that I can’t forgive you.’
‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘But honestly, Sis, I wanted to cause you no pain. There was no other—’
‘That time you phoned me,’ she cut in, ‘the Saturday after the explosion. Were you going to tell me then?’
He shook his head silently.
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