The Salt Marsh (40 page)

She twiddled her bottom lip with her fingers. This was all wrong. She was talking to somebody she didn't know. Not Luke. A different person, an alien invader of his body. ‘Luke, what are you doing, this is ridiculous? Do you really understand what's going on in Afghanistan? It's not even your war.'

‘Of course it's our war. It's a war against imperialism. Somebody has to stand up for the rebels. Words and banners won't cut it. Sometimes you have to use force to achieve an objective. And anyway, it's contained.'

‘What's contained?'

‘The caesium. It's not going to be released everywhere, it's not going to affect innocent people. Limited damage.'

‘Contained? That's crazy. How can you be against the transportation of nuclear waste because it's dangerous but for the use of caesium as a weapon?'

He tutted, shook his head as if to indicate she'd completely missed the point.

‘And it's already not contained because they're using a bloody drugs network to transport the stuff. Regan isn't a political activist. She's a stupid fucking criminal.'

‘Sam, she is an activist. Regan is a feminist.'

She was winded for a moment, mouth open, eyes wide. ‘A feminist? Seriously, where do you get that idea? The clenched fist she had pinned to her jacket? Anybody can pick up a badge and wear it. What's wrong with you? Are you going to drop this now, come back with me?'

Any minute now, she knew, he would say yes, let's go. She just had to reach through the haze, the fog, penetrate the outer covering, communicate with the real Luke trapped inside – and then everything would be fine. Normal. Her and him. The Lookers' Hut. The campfire. The nights together.

‘It's about principles, Sam.'

‘Principles? What principles are involved in stealing caesium? Luke, I think you might have some form of Stockholm syndrome. Have you been spending much time with Regan?'

‘Sam, I'm doing this because I want to. I think it's the right thing to do. I thought you had principles too. I thought you'd understand.'

The mist blurred his features, distorted his face, transformed him into a shadow, nothing more than an outline, and she found herself wondering how clearly she had ever seen him.

‘Well, if you thought I'd understand, why didn't you call and let me know where you were? Why didn't you just tell me you'd met this Regan woman and you'd decided to help her with all this stuff?'

‘Sam. I'm sorry. I was worried that it wasn't safe to tell you about it.'

‘What do you mean? Why not?'

‘Sam, you know why not, we've discussed it. I was worried that you would be on the Force's radar because of your dad. I didn't want to get you involved. I thought it would be safer for you.'

She had a niggling sense he had this all prepared, a story he'd worked out in case she confronted him.

‘You thought it would be safer for me if you just left me hanging, worrying about what had happened to you?'

‘Sam, I left you a message to let you know I was all right, but I couldn't give you the details. Of course I couldn't.'

She lost it. ‘Oh right, and what are the details you thought it was better not to give me? I mean, have you been fucking Regan? Is Regan one of the small details you thought it was better not to share with me? You're screwing another woman?'

‘It isn't like that, Sam, you have to try and understand.'

‘Don't patronize me. Tell me the fucking truth. Are you—'

The muffled air was split by a crack. And then Sonny shouting, ‘Fuck you.' Another gunshot. They both froze. Footsteps. A figure running across the courtyard, towards the fence. Difficult to identify in the fog.

‘He shot the guard. He's behind me. Get ready to hit him.'

It took Sam a second to clock it was Regan shouting instructions to Luke, telling him to fire at Sonny. Sam fumbled underneath her coat, hand on Firebird, not sure what to do. Regan was clambering over the fence. Sam glanced at Luke. He had produced a small gun, some sort of pistol, and was aiming it at the fence. Where had he got that from? For a moment she thought he was going to shoot Regan. He didn't. Regan flung herself down from the fence, ran up the shingle to Luke. They stood together, side by side, on top of the ridge. Sonny appeared, sprinting across the forecourt of the research station. He was clutching his Browning in one hand and something else in the other. It was glowing yellow. Jesus, he'd picked up a caesium vial from the store room. He'd flipped. He clambered over the crates and perched on top of the fence. Luke pointed the pistol at him. Sonny raised one arm, held the tube in the air; a glowing beacon.

‘You shoot me,' he shouted, ‘the tube breaks and we've all had it.'

Christ. She was trying to remember what Dave had told her about the toxicity of caesium 137, whether there was enough in one vial to do much instant damage. Whether it was too late anyway because they had all been exposed now the vial had been taken out of its lead casing. At least it still had its cork stopper in place.

Sonny shouted, ‘He's been working with Regan all along. I knew it. The security guard confirmed it.'

‘Who is working with Regan?'

‘Luke. If that's his real name.'

Luke aimed the pistol at Sonny's head. Sam's fingers curled around the grip of the Firebird, pulled it out of her pocket.

Sonny shouted, ‘He's working with Regan for the American, Stavros. He's the guy on the coast they were talking about in the nightclub.'

Sam lifted the Firebird in her right hand, pointed it at Regan.

‘He's lying,' Regan said.

‘Get Luke,' Sonny shouted. She shifted the gun an inch, pointed it at Luke.

‘Sam, don't be silly,' Luke said. ‘You don't know what you're doing with that gun.'

She didn't reply, placed her left hand on the grip, extended her arms.

‘Sam,' Luke said. ‘You know I love you.' She'd never heard him say those words before. He might have inscribed
love you
casually on a penknife, but he'd never said it. Not straight out like that. She wanted to believe him, but the phrase rang hollow in her ears. Deep inside, she knew it wasn't true.

Luke said, ‘Sam, think what you're doing. How can you trust the man who killed your father?'

‘I know he killed my father. But how do you know?'

‘Regan told me about him. He's a hitman. There's a contract out on you and he's got it.'

Sonny shouted, ‘Sam, you know I only said I'd do it because I wanted to make sure nobody else took it on. If I wanted to do you in, I would have done it by now.'

She was grinding her teeth, trying to stay calm, attempting to work out what was going on. The fog was so dense, all the figures were disappearing, blurring at the edges. Only the golden vial was visible, a luminescent ghost hovering in the air.

Luke shouted, ‘He's a hitman, working for Crawford.'

Sonny shouted, ‘I'm not working for Crawford. I'm trying to stop Crawford getting to you. Luke's the one who is setting you up. He's working for the bloody American. Stavros. Crawford must know Stavros. Crawford must have given him the contacts with the drug smuggling network – Regan – said he'd turn a blind eye to the caesium. Part of the price must have been setting you up. Crawford wants you out of the picture, however he has to do it. Framing you, contract, whatever.'

‘Yes, that's why Crawford commissioned him,' Luke shouted. ‘Your father's killer.'

‘Sam,' Sonny shouted. ‘If you don't shoot him, he'll kill us both.'

‘Don't listen to him,' Luke said. ‘Come on, Sam. I'm your boyfriend. He's a hitman. He's just waiting for the right moment to do you in. He can hardly gun down a twenty-year-old woman in the middle of London and get away with it.

He's been stalking you, driving you to this point so he can shoot you without it looking too bad. Like you might have done something to merit it. Stealing caesium 137, for example.'

She knocked the Firebird's safety catch with her thumb. Click.

‘I'm not here because of Sonny, I'm here because I came looking for you, Luke,' Sam said. ‘I followed the trail, your phone message, the photo of the caesium article in your room, Patrick Grogan's number. You wanted me to follow you, didn't you?' She was shouting. ‘You wanted to lure me here. You wanted me cornered. Sonny's right, it must have been part of your deal. You don't give a fuck about me. I'm just a daughter of the Filth. I'm dirt. I'm collateral to your fucking principles. Freedom, truth, whatever. You don't give a shit about me.'

‘Fire,' Sonny yelled. She wasn't sure she could.

‘Think what you are doing, Sam.' Luke said it calmly; personal issues never riled him. He was always good in a crisis. Only politics really got him going. His principles. She tasted saltwater on her lips and something in her head flicked, a connection, what was it Alastair had said the evening she was trying to find Luke? The flatlands, he had said, and she had jumped straight to the marsh, the Lookers' Hut, forgotten he had mentioned a boat, in passing, as if he was too embarrassed to tell her he had seen Luke with Regan, on a boat hauled up on the flatland of the beach below the research lab. He didn't want to break the bad news that her beloved boyfriend, the one she was going moony over, hanging out on the beach alone at night waiting for, was with another woman. Luke must have arranged to meet Regan in Dungeness. She was waiting for him in the
Pluto
, picked him up after he had talked to Patrick.

‘Luke, where were you the Saturday evening when you were supposed to meet me here at Dungeness?'

‘I was...'

‘Were you in a boat with Regan?'

Alastair's hurried doodle had confirmed it, the two stick figures. The badge with the three-pronged symbol. She stared at Luke through the mist, eyed his leather jacket, the nuclear-free zone badge on his lapel, yellow with three black radiation waves. Alastair had seen Luke, and he had been scared. Perhaps somebody, a Porsche- or Audi-driving heavy, had come back and threatened him, told him to keep quiet or else. Or else what? Or else he'd end up with his limbs detached and strewn across the marsh. Patrick's taped message from Dave played in her mind, Dave's voice anxious,
funny you should mention Luke
; he had seen something odd when he walked along Flaxby Point on the Tuesday morning that he was killed. Dave had seen the
Pluto
, he had seen a ghost too – the face of somebody he had been told had disappeared. He had left her a note, given her the clues, but she'd tipped it all upside down, emptied the contents of the bellarmine into her hand, transformed a counter-curse to a curse.

‘Luke, were you on the
Pluto
? Did you sail round the coast to Skell that Saturday evening?'

He didn't answer. She had seen a boat on the horizon when she had walked with Dave to Bane House. Had Luke been on board with Regan, shadowing Dave? Planning how to do him in because Luke had found out from Patrick how much Dave knew?

‘Would you kill a friend for a principle?'

‘That's a... Sam, don't go jumping to the wrong conclusions. Trust your feelings.'

‘My feelings? My feelings? My feelings tell me you're a lying, two-timing prick who's been shagging that junky-faced, scrawny, manipulative shit of a...'

‘Sam, cool it, you don't want to be a bitter withy...'

She let go of her body and she was up in the air, calmer now that she was above everything up here in the grey, Luke smiling at her through the hazy dark. She didn't have to analyse her feelings. She just had to be. She was whole, mind and body joined, channelling her powers. She fluttered her wings, white in the mist, hovered, took her time, observed the patterns, the whorls and spirals of vapour below, the emerald tablets of his shining eyes. She was in control. She was pure anger and she was focused. She went in for the kill. There was a slight impact as she hit the ground, but that was all. A crack. Perhaps two. A jolt. A scream. The whiff of cordite in the air. And then an eerie silence. The fog had thickened, erased all the edges. She heard somebody sobbing, a woman. Distraught. Regan. What was she crying about? Silly cow. She could see, now, that Regan was covered in blood and Sam thought for a moment she had shot her by mistake, but Regan was upright and she was holding on to a body. It looked like Luke. His tee shirt was a mess. Black and sticky. Regan had her hands under his armpits, she was trying to support him, carry his dead weight down the shingle ridges to the sea, to the
Pluto
, hauled up just above the high tide mark.

Sam lowered her arm, watched Regan drag Luke across the ridge. Had she done that? Had she shot Luke? The conniving, stupid bastard with his fucking bitter withy. She didn't have any choice. She had to shoot him. Sonny was right. Luke was a total fucking liar. She'd flipped it all over in her head, suspected Dave when she should have suspected Luke. It wasn't Luke who was on to Dave, it was Dave who was on to Luke. It wasn't Luke who was worried about her getting caught up with Dave, it was Dave trying to stop her from running after Luke. And Luke had led her on; drawn her along a trail that pointed to Dave, harried her down to Dungeness, the marsh. She'd reversed the whole story, inverted it in her mind. What a blockhead she was. What an eejit for trusting fucking Luke. Well, Regan could have him now, she'd have to deal with his bloody corpse. She didn't give a shit about Luke.

She turned to face Sonny. He had jumped down from the fence and was on the ground, still holding the gleaming vial in front of him with one hand, pistol in the other.

‘Sonny, are you...'

He smiled in her direction. There was a shot. She threw herself into a shingle ditch, Sonny leaped backwards, thrown against the fence, still smiling, eyes wide open, even though there was blood dribbling down the side of his face and spreading across his shirt. Another shot. She waited. Silence. Peered over the ridge, spotted Regan retreating into the mist, over the shingle, wading into the water, climbing on board the
Pluto
, waiting and ready to sail away. She crouched and ran low to Sonny, knelt down beside him, watched his grip on the glowing vial loosen. Was he still alive? Conscious? Strange, she couldn't be sure. She had thought the line between life and death was absolute, a border with a clear doorway leading out. And yet she couldn't be certain which side Sonny was on. Perhaps it was wishful thinking. She didn't want him to die, had grown fond of him. Liked him. Loved him, this friend of hers, the strange fallen angel with his smoky halo rings.