Catalyst (54 page)

“I'm not sure, to tell you the truth,” he replied. “I just don't know where to start. I have to talk to you.” His voice was almost a whisper, aware of Paul's presence a few feet away, even though the front and rear seats were separated by a sliding glass window, which was currently closed.

“Do you want to meet?” she said. “I thought you were with the PM this morning.”

“I'm on my way – seeing him at eight at the House. No, it will have to be on the phone. Are you okay to talk right now?”

“Yes, of course. Please tell me what it is. You're really worrying me.” Her voice was almost pleading. She had never heard him talk like this before.

“It's just that I can't get the thought of those guys out of my mind.”

“Which guys?”

“The ones we're shipping out today. They'll be loading them right now.”

There were a few moments of silence as Grace tried to absorb what he was saying; too many moments for Tom.

“Grace, are you still there?”

“Yes,” she answered, “but I don't understand what you mean.”

“I keep seeing their faces, what they'll be thinking, how frightened they'll be, not knowing what… ”

She interrupted, her voice strict and business-like.

“I see, so when you say ‘those guys', you mean ‘those guys' who have taken it upon themselves to dedicate their lives to heaping misery on everybody else; ‘those guys' who have been given every opportunity to change their ways; ‘those guys' to whom it has been made absolutely clear what would happen to them if they didn't take those opportunities. You haven't forgotten, have you, Tom, in all this soul-searching,
why
we are doing this to… ‘
those guys'
?”

Now there was silence at Tom's end.

“Look, you're probably imagining your own kids in that situation. But these are not your kids – nothing like your kids. And you want yours to grow up in a better – safer – world, don't you? Do you know what my least favourite cliché is, Tom? Yes, of course you do, don't you? ‘No pain, no gain', but it's often right, isn't it? If – and I do mean
if
– we have to grieve a little for a few lost souls, then it's a price we must be prepared to pay for the much wider benefit. For God's sake, listen to me! It's a bit early in the morning for me to repeat
all
your speeches back to you, but I'm happy to do it if it helps.”

There was still no reply.

“Tom! Are
you
still there?”

“Yes, I'm here.”

His voice was much calmer now.

“I knew it was a good idea to phone you, Grace. It's always a good idea, come to think of it – day or night.”

“Now you're just guessing,” she said, teasingly. “You've never phoned me at night.”

“No, but I've thought about doing it quite a lot.”

“Doing what exactly? Phoning, you mean?”

“No, not just phoning.”

Neither spoke for a while.

“Listen, Grace,” he said, “you know I'd like to carry on talking to you, but… ”

“It's okay,” she interrupted again. “Are you alright now?”

“Yes, thanks to you. You've made the nasty bogey man go away. I really don't know how to thank you.” It was a deliberate feed and it was not wasted.

“Oh,
I
do,” she said, in a sensuous whisper; then, “Good luck with his Highness. See you later.”

The BMW turned off Kensington Road into Westminster Bridge Road, and the familiar sight of his place of work just a few minutes away brought him back to timely reality. As he switched his attention to the meeting with the Prime Minister, his mind let in the noise of the bustling streets with the suddenness of an explosion. He checked his watch; Paul had made it with over five minutes to spare.

They crossed Westminster Bridge before the car turned into St Margaret's Street and slowed almost to a stop in front of the gates of New Palace Yard. Their progress was all but halted by a swaying corridor of photographers and reporters waving microphones, shouting out a hundred questions which blended together to make each individual one unintelligible.

He smiled and waved but on this occasion made no verbal response. The police cleared a route through the crowd and the car entered the Yard, turning left then right past the line of trees with their buds barely open, showing just a hint of their early spring green. They swung right again at the end of the Yard, and pulled up at the Members' entrance. Tom stepped out of the car and stood for a full minute taking in his surroundings as if he was seeing them for the first time.

HOTEL ST KILDA

The story continues in…

HEAVEN'S DOOR

PROLOGUE

She checked her watch again; for once she was glad the taxi was late. He might still make it. The two girls, Khushi and Prisha, dressed colourfully in their favourite clothes and in a state of frenzied excitement, were charging around the big empty house, shouting as loudly as they could, enjoying the enhancement to the acoustics that the lack of soft furnishings provided.

A car pulled up outside. She forced herself to look, hoping, but not expecting, that it would be him. She opened the front door.

“Taxi for Mrs Ma…” said the man, his eyes opening wide in surprise. Induma Matal was a stunningly beautiful woman, tall and slim with classic features and long, luxuriant hair. He wasn't the first man whose breath she had taken away. “Taxi for Mrs Matal,” he said, recovering.

He pulled the two large suitcases out to the taxi while Induma called to the girls who came racing down the stairs for the start of their adventure.

All the way to the airport, first in the streets leaving town – where there just might have been a chance of seeing him – and then on the dual carriageway, and even the M25, she looked despairingly out of the window, as if he would be anywhere other than the couple of places which she knew so well; which she had now left behind for ever.

They checked their luggage in and got their boarding cards. Induma delayed going through to the departure lounge as long as she could. She had his ticket right there; there was still time. At the second call for boarding, they went through Passport Control, enduring the critical shaking of the head by the official for being late.

As they hurried, half-running now, to board the flight, her mind went back to when it all started; to the agony and the ecstasy. They used to say – she and Milton, in happier times – ‘just think of it, if it hadn't been for that bit of duct tape… '

She was late back from work again; it was almost dark. Not that it mattered; there was no-one waiting for her and the new job was enjoyable and all-consuming; exciting, even. Still in the car, she pointed her small remote handset at the panel at the side of the huge gate and entered the four-digit code. Nine feet high, rising to the same height as the top of the razor wire, and twelve feet wide, it was designed to glide smoothly sideways into a cavity in the wall.

She was still getting used to the sheer wonder of her accommodation. A chalet-style house with extensive manicured gardens and a small lake, on a walled executive estate. Only the high surrounding walls served to spoil the idyll, with their razor wire and electric fencing on top. Even so, they were easy to ignore with everything else there was to look at, including a very handsome and attentive young gardener who maintained the grounds of the six properties in the small settlement.

Tonight, the gate remained motionless. She tried again with the same result. The huge mastiff, which ran free within the walls as a second line of defence, came to the gate, wagging its tail and pawing the ground.

She tried a third time with no response. Getting out of the car she walked the few paces to the panel to use the manual keypad. The mastiff was now on its hind legs against the gate waiting to welcome a familiar friend. She was only a step away when she noticed the duct tape stretched across the photoelectric cell. It took her less than two seconds to register the significance, but within that time the hands were on her, dragging her to the ground and pinning her arms. Three of them, their ebony faces shining with perspiration, eyes glazed in a drug-induced frenzy, ripping her clothes and violating her body.

The mastiff was barking with a fury fuelled by its protective instinct and heightened by helplessness; biting at the bars of the gate and leaping high as if to try and scale it. Induma felt the hard penetration, hands slapping her about the head, heard the whoops of satisfaction and fulfilment, as the first of her attackers rolled off her to be replaced by the next. That's when the gunshot came. A loud blast from just inside the gates. There was a scream of pain from someone to her right and blood spattered across the face of the man on top of her. He leaped to his feet, pulling up his jeans the best he could and the three of them ran off, one of them staggering and yelling and holding his neck. The gate was sliding into the wall and two men with shotguns from the estate raced through into the road. The mastiff dropped onto its haunches beside her, wailing like a small child and nuzzling her face.

She reached up to stroke his head; and passed out.

That's how it had happened; how his life journey had started inside her eighteen years ago. She looked up and across at the long concourse opposite as they raced towards the departure gate.

And there he was.

Leaning against the glass, his hands high above his head, looking across at her; at the girls. He waved then pointed to something in his left hand. A phone. She could see him pressing the keys and then her own mobile rang.

“Are you coming? I have the ticket. I can get it to you. Oh, please… ”

“I can't, not right now. But I will when I've sorted out a few things. Phone me with your address. I'll come to you as soon as I can.”

“But… ”

“Love you. Give my love to Khushi and Prish. I will come; really.”

“Why can't you just… ”

But he had ended the call and turned away.

And she knew…

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks are due to the many people who contributed in different ways to the production of this book.

To those who provided me with factual information on aspects of the story: David Burrow, David Gibbons, Andrew Garner, David Monks, Ben Shatliff and, in particular, Alan Isherwood, who gave up his time on several occasions to help me.

To all my friends who showed such an enthusiastic interest in the book and whose encouragement made it unthinkable that I should not complete it, even when the stream of ideas had reduced to barely a trickle. And especially to Marian Sample, who gave me essential feedback on the manuscript at the beginning which set me on the right course.

To Gary Smailes of Bubblecow for his detailed editorial critique and invaluable advice following on from this.

To my family who never doubted the outcome even when I did myself – son Daniel, daughter Hannah, daughter-in-law Annette and brother Geoff. Also, grandchildren Thomas and Ellen who both contributed with ideas for the cover design.

Lastly, and mostly, to my wife, Carol, for her unstinting support and for putting up with years of my feeling sorry for myself when things were not going as planned.