Dead in the Water (10 page)

“
I told you. I was leaving a message for you.”

“
I don’t mind you talking to her. Why should I mind? We made an agreement.” Now she does drink her glass of wine. Pours herself another glass and tops Mark’s up again. “You were cross with me last night – when we talked on the phone. I can’t help it that Robert had to go to a conference.”

“
I wasn’t cross with you. I was tired. I’d said I’d spend time with Stephen. I wanted to be here.”

“
Mark,” says Joanna, shaking her head, “You want to be at home, sure. You want to see the dog. You want to go for walks by the river. But really you’d much rather I was away. What you’d really like to do is bring Sara for the weekend, isn’t it.”

“
I do not want to bring Sara here.”

“
Does she know that?”

“
Oh for goodness sake,” says Mark. “I don’t know what we’re arguing about.” Perhaps Joanna’s relationship with Robert has hit a sticky patch. Is that what this is about? He gets up, takes Charlie’s lead from the hook on the back door.

Joanna gets to her feet, goes to him, holds his hand.

“
Mark. I’m sorry. That was out of order. What you have with Sara is none of my business.”

“
It’s OK. We’re both tired.”

He puts his arms around her, holds her close, cheek to cheek, his right hand on the back of her head, Charlie’s lead hanging from the left.

She makes no attempt to pull away. “I’m worried about Stephen. He’s very fragile. Be here for him, Mark. He won’t talk to me. He just keeps telling me he’s fine.”

“
I’ll do my best.”

“
Thank you.” She pulls away from him and forces a smile.

He’s about to offer to take the dog for a late night walk, when the front door opens, and Charlie rushes off to find a toy with which to greet Stephen.

“
Hi Dad,” says Stephen, as they meet in the hallway. Mark makes to give him a hug, but he dumps his coat on the floor and brushes past him on his way to the kitchen. “Any pizza in the fridge?”

“
Look and see,” says Mark, annoyed that he’s still treating Joanna like a maid. Stephen scowls accusingly: Pizzas are a private matter between him and Mum. Joanna gets one from the fridge, unwraps it, puts it in the small oven.

“
Do you want salad with it?”

“
You’re alright.”

“
I’ll let you get on with it then,” says Joanna. “I’ll take Charlie out.” Picking up Charlie’s lead from the table, where Mark has left it, she leaves by the back door.

“
Have you not eaten?” asks Mark.

“
I’m really hungry. The party was crap.”

“
That’s a shame. When are your exams?”

“
Week after next,” says Stephen, resentful about the reminder. “What’s up with Mum?”

“
Nothing. I think she just wanted to give you and me time to do a bit of catching up.”

“
How’s Uni?”

“
OK.”

“
Got a lot to revise?”

“
I should have.”

“
You want a beer?”

“
Alright then.”

“
Hang on in there, Steve. I used to hate revision. Still do.”

And now it is Mark’s turn to sit nursing a glass of wine, watching Stephen while he eats his pizza. The blur of hair above Stephen’s top lip looks darker in the light than the way he remembers it; a poignant reminder that he does not see Stephen as often as he would like. Thankfully, however, Stephen seems relieved to see him, and their chat is not as awkward as Mark had feared, although it’s not until they start to talk about the London bombs that he becomes animated. But Rachel was just like that at Stephen’s age: bad news, portents of doom the most effective social lubricant.

“
What do you know about them, Dad? Did that first bomb really injure three policemen?” he asks.

“
Strange question.”

“
No it’s not. I’m asking, Dad. All the disinformation. It’s everywhere isn’t it.”

“
Steve, you’re right that the Press don’t always get the full story; but three policemen were injured.”

“
And two dogs were killed. They wouldn’t have wanted to kill dogs.”

“
Steve, they left a van full of explosives on a busy road.”

“
Dad, they parked a van in Piccadilly Underpass; and the bomb didn’t go off for at least half an hour after that. If the police didn’t think it was a bomb, why had all the roads been closed? Why were all the police there?”

“
You have a conspiracy theory, do you?” asks Mark, immediately regretting the tone of cynicism in his voice.

“
Just ‘cos I read it on the internet doesn’t mean it’s bollocks.”

“
I didn’t say that.”

Joanna’s footsteps on the gravel path outside the back door announce her return with Charlie. Pleased to see the two of them still talking, Joanna waves goodnight and heads off upstairs. Stephen, showing no signs of wanting to go to bed, gets another can of beer from the fridge. He flips the ring pull and takes a gulp. Joanna’s right, he does seem edgy.

“
Is it really chaos in London, like they say on the news?” He looks down at Charlie and scratches the dog’s head.

Assuming that Stephen’s fascination with the bombings is a kind of displacement, Mark is happy to go on talking. “Pretty much. What did you find on the internet?”

“
Oh it’s probably just bollocks.”

“
Tell me the bollocks then.”

“
I know you can’t believe everything, Dad. But, like, if the police … well, they must’ve thought it was a bomb or they wouldn’t have been there. And suppose there was a warning but they’re just telling us there wasn’t. Suppose they wanted to paint this group as evil – that’s what they’d do wouldn’t they.”

“
Who’s ‘They’? The government?”

“
I don’t know. Special Branch. Who’s ‘the government’ anyway?”

“
Good question,” says Mark.

“
You mean you don’t know?”

“
Joke. People say that the closer to the centre, the more invisible it becomes.”

Stephen thinks about this for a moment, but seems to think his dad’s not taking him seriously. “Don’t you agree with their demands?”

“
The Angels of Light
?”

“
It’s what you used to say, isn’t it. Stop private road traffic through cities. Tax air transport at a realistic rate – ”

“
How do you know what their demands are? … Steve? … How do you know that?”

“
How do I know what?”

“
About the demands.”

“
They’re only asking the government to do what it was elected to do.”

“
When did you hear that?”

“
I told you. It’s on web sites.”

“
What web sites?”

“
It’s on all the Green Twitter sites. People were talking about it at the party.”

“
Sounds a very boring party.”

“
I told you. That’s why I left.”

“
Steve, these people are very dangerous ––”

“
You don’t know that.”

“
You can’t explode bombs without risking lives. Three police officers are seriously injured.”

“
Right. OK. I don’t agree with the methods, but ––”

“
I tell you one thing. It’s making my life hell.”

“
Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“
Oh thanks a million.” They both laugh. Mark feels simultaneously frustrated and proud of Stephen. It feels like he’s arguing with his younger, irritatingly naïve, self.

“
I ought to go to bed.”

“
Chickening out of an argument?” asks Stephen.

“
Probably.” And again they laugh. “But I’m game for another tomorrow.”

He gets up, goes round to Stephen’s side of the kitchen table and gives him a hug. To his surprise Stephen stands up and reciprocates.

As Mark’s leaving the room he calls after him: “Dad.”

“
What?” He looks back. Is it a trick of the light, or is there a hint of panic on his face? “What? Steve? What?”

“
Nothing. Doesn’t matter.” Underneath the veneer of confidence there hides a vulnerable young man, terrified about his exams and overawed by his sister’s academic achievements. Mark smiles.

“
Talk more in the morning.”

“
Yeah.”

“
Good to see you Steve.”

“
You too, Dad.”

Sleeping alone in the guest bedroom, with Joanna the other side of a wall, creates a kind of isolation that he never feels when lying awake on his own in the flat in London. And so, to avoid the pain, he does what he has always done to protect himself from hurting: he opens his laptop and gets on with some work.

Saturday

15 Kensal Green, North West London

A dark blue BMW glides slowly along the Harrow Road, past the severe iron gates of Saint Mary’s Cemetery. Inside are three men: a driver, well dressed, elegant, and his two passengers, each slightly younger than the driver, though also smartly dressed. None of them the kind of person likely to be stopped and searched by the police. The car turns left off Harrow Road, past Kensal Green Tube Station, and then in to a back street. If they were residents, they might have reason to complain, for there is nowhere to park. There was a time when it might have been incongruous for a luxury car to be seen in these streets; but now outside these terrace houses a new Audi is parked next to an ageing rusty Citroen Dyane; an immaculately cared for twenty year old Ford Escort beside a muddy silver Space Wagon, only three weeks off a garage forecourt.

A middle aged man is taking his elderly dog for a walk; a young guy, probably in his late teens, stumbling along the pavement, oblivious to the rain, drunk or stoned, or both. There’s nobody else to be seen.

The driver of the BMW is not looking to park. He stops the car in the middle of the road; and his two companions get out. One is carrying a bag. They seem untroubled by the rain. They walk unhurriedly to the pavement, and the driver of the BMW pulls away. The two men walk fifty metres to the end of the road, then turn right. A newish white van is parked near this junction

The rear doors bear the warning
No tools kept in this van overnight
, but this doesn’t seem to deter the thieves. One removes a set of number plates from his bag and sticks them over the existing plates, while his accomplice has already opened the driver’s door and disabled the alarm. It takes him no more than thirty seconds to start the engine. He leans over and opens the passenger door, switches on the windscreen wipers and manoeuvres the van out of the tight parking spot.

At half past five in the morning, Allan Hunter is woken by the phone ringing. “Advance Plumbing. Can I help you?” His girlfriend, Suzie, groans and turns away, but doesn’t complain because one emergency call out is worth three regular jobs; and with the loan on the new van they’re strapped for cash. Some guy in Willesden, who sets his washing machine to come on automatically in the middle of the night to save electricity, has got up to make himself a drink and found pools of water on the kitchen floor.

When Allan goes out into the street, the van is not where he thinks he left it. His immediate reaction is that he must have parked it somewhere else, but a scan up and down the street is enough to confirm that sinking feeling: some bastard’s nicked it and the fucking alarm that cost him a fortune was a total bloody rip off. Suzie’s never liked him using her car for work, but he doesn’t have much choice. He’s only been running his own business since New Year and word of mouth is everything.

He’s at the flat in Willesden for about an hour. The job is more complicated than he expected, and he helps the guy clean up some of the mess. He knows all about good notices – not least because he so rarely had any when he was working as an actor.

When he gets home it’s getting light, and he’s surprisingly cheerful. He likes this time in the morning. Maybe he never was that well suited to being an actor. He waits until he’s back in his own kitchen before calling the police to report the van stolen. They say they’ll send somebody round to take details, and he’s glad he hadn’t rung earlier. He could’ve been waiting a couple of hours for some disinterested goon to turn up. He’ll ring the insurance company later; if he does it now they’ll only tell him he needs a police reference number.

He’s just made Suzie a cup of tea, and is about to take it up to her, when the doorbell rings. He’s amazed to find two plain clothes officers at the door – less than ten minutes after he rang.

“
I assure you, Mr Hunter, we always take vehicle theft very seriously.”

16
Amazonas

The fragile little body of a skinned lion marmoset is roasting over a charcoal fire, its fine golden fur drying nearby, stretched out between stakes like a flying squirrel, its brains sucked carefully from its head and placed in a small wooden bowl, a delicacy for a feast.

The Yanomami hunters shot three blow darts, each aimed precisely and each loaded with poisons – one at the lion marmoset to kill it; the other two at Rachel and José, stunning them.