Twenty Twelve (19 page)

When the door opens I catch sight of her white face, those eyes taking in my position, working out what’s happened. I take my chance and kick her as hard as I can, connecting with her thighs.

She grunts and, as I’d hoped, loses her footing. She grasps for the doorframe but her fingers slip as she crashes backwards out of sight. I hear the clang as she thuds down the steps.

‘Motherfucker!’ she shouts.

I ready myself to go again, legs bent, feet upward. When she reappears in the doorway, I kick out again. The impact is strong. The sound of my feet against her legs is sickening, enough to break a bone. This time, though, she’s ready. She absorbs the shock, her knuckles white as she refuses to release the doorframe.

I jam my legs towards her again, determined to send her flying. This time I don’t connect. Instead she dives up and over the attack, crashing on top of me. With my hands pinned underneath me I can only try to shake her off, but she’s like a terrier, her grip secure.

She’s straddling me now, her hands pushing into my shoulders. Her eyes bore into mine and her fingers move around my throat. I gag and gasp for air, arching my back to buck her off me.

Then I hear gunshots. They’re coming from the radio. There’s screaming and shouting. Instinctively, we both turn towards the sound.

‘I’m here at the south gate,’ the presenter’s voice is staccato with panic. ‘There’s a problem here. A young man has been shot by the police.’ More screams fill the air.

‘He’s on the floor and there is blood everywhere,’ the presenter is panting. ‘The police are standing over him. They’re searching his coat and bag. Oh my God, oh my God.’

Sirens screech and something incomprehensible is called over the public address system.

‘I think they’re looking for a bomb,’ says the presenter. ‘I think they’ve caught a terrorist.’

Something in me snaps. Another attack. How many innocent people was Ronnie hoping to hurt this time? Hundreds? Thousands?

‘You bitch,’ I cry, and head-butt her, my forehead cracking the bridge of her nose.

She flies backwards, her blood splattering across my face and chest.

I’m shocked at my actions, at what my rage and revulsion have made me capable of. But I don’t care if she kills me, or how she kills me; I just want her to know what a disgusting excuse for a person she is. ‘You’re an animal!’ I scream at her.

She recovers quickly, ignoring the gash on her nose. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out her gun and points it at me, panting. She’s aiming right between my eyes. At this range I won’t stand a chance but I’m past that.

‘Go on, then,’ I say. ‘What are you waiting for? You’ve been wanting to kill me all along, so why don’t you just do it?’

She takes a step closer.

‘This is what you do, isn’t it? Kill people? How many did you kill at the Plaza? Or don’t you bother to count? And how many did you hope would die at the Opening Ceremony?’ Sweat streams down my cheeks. ‘You must be disappointed that your plan hasn’t worked. Not enough innocent people dead. Not enough children lying on the ground.’

Ronnie looks down at me, her eyes vacant.

‘You’re a fucking monster,’ I rage at her. ‘So just do your worst.’

She blinks once, then lowers the gun to her side.

Dear Veronica-Mae,
I don’t know if you got my last letter. My lawyer Bert says he passed it along to the welfare people but I don’t know as I trust him what with him working for the government and being a Jew and all
.

Anyhow, this is my second letter, which is pretty surprising seeing as how I never was one for my books. Mama always did say I’d do anything bar my Bible studies
.

I’m still in the hospital. I don’t know exactly how long I been in here, but it seems like weeks and weeks. I feel better every day but the doctors say I’ve still got a long ways to go
.

Bert told me that if the bullet hadn’t have passed through you first then I’d be dead, so I guess I owe you some thanks for that
.

To be honest, although I rightly hate it here, I’m not looking forward to getting out either to face everything that needs facing. That probably makes me a coward, huh?

I reckon by now they told you about Mama and Noah and Rebecca. Bert says they had a proper Christian burial and that a lot of folks showed up, some of them from as far away as Texas. I can’t say I understand why anyone would go to the funeral of a body they don’t know, but I’m glad all the same
.

Well I guess I’ll leave it here and say goodbye. If you can, write back and tell me where you’re at
.

Your brother
,

Isaac

PS. Daddy ain’t been allowed to get in touch cus of some court order. Bert says I’m to concentrate on myself and not worry about him. Thing is, that just makes me worry all the more
.

I lie quietly on the floor, watching Ronnie, who is crouched in the corner, her head on her chest, her arms covering her head. She looks smaller than before, as if she’s shrunk in the wash. I have no idea what’s happening. All I do know is that I’m still alive.

At last she looks up at me. There are no tears staining her cheeks, but for the first time there is something in her eyes. Something living.

‘It had nothing to do with Shining Light,’ she says.

‘What?’

‘All that stuff.’ She waves at the radio. ‘It had nothing to do with us.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ I ask.

She shrugs and looks away.

When she moves towards me and pulls me up in one swoop, I’m shocked again at her strength. She throws me back to the bench and I flop onto it, my reserves of energy spent.

She removes a bottle of water from the fridge, nodding as she checks its temperature against her forehead. When she has taken a drink, she holds it out towards me.

I shake my head. I am unbelievably thirsty, but I need to get this straight. ‘MI5 told me you were responsible,’ I say.

She puts the bottle back to her lips, speaks around the plastic neck. ‘MI5 talk shit.’

I watch the skin of her throat bob as she swallows and I lick my parched lips. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

I shake my head. I can’t do this again. ‘They had you under surveillance before any of this happened,’ I say. ‘They knew about your activities.’

‘Then they know we’re not about hurting innocent people.’

I can’t keep the hint of sarcasm from my voice. ‘So tell me, then, what are you all about?’

She screws the top back on the bottle and slides it into the fridge. I try to encourage enough saliva to swallow.

‘Shining Light is against oppression,’ she says. ‘We fight the state, the media who keep them in power. We fight the multinationals who don’t give a shit about anything but profit.’

‘High-minded stuff,’ I say. ‘But does it justify violent attacks?’

A small smile plays around the corners of her mouth. ‘We only attack those directly responsible.’

I screw my eyes closed. None of this makes any sense. It just isn’t possible.

‘Think about it.’ Her voice is near and when I open my eyes I find her sitting on the bench next to me, uncomfortably close. ‘Didn’t it seem just a tad too convenient to you that everyone in the cell was killed before any real investigation could take place?’

I push Dad’s words about scapegoats to the back of my mind. ‘You’re still alive,’ I say.

‘For how much longer? Don’t you think they’ll kill me as soon as they find me?’

I think about Clem for a second and I suspect she’s right. ‘They told me you were white supremacists.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I saw Miggs’s arms; they were covered in swastikas and other racist crap,’ I say.

She nods. ‘Miggs was really fucked up by your precious system. You know, the one that was supposed to protect kids like him? He was damaged and angry and went looking for redress in all the wrong places.’

‘Until you led him onto the path of righteousness.’

‘I don’t lead anyone anywhere. If they want to join me then that’s up to them. I’m honest about what it might cost them.’

‘You don’t sound like you care that any of your friends are dead,’ I say.

‘Care? I wasn’t their fucking social worker. They were freedom fighters. They knew what we were up against. They knew the risks.’

Then she gets up and retrieves the water. She doesn’t ask this time, just holds it for me to drink. I’m done fighting and gulp it down. I don’t know who or what to believe and I hang my head it hurts so much.

‘You need to sleep,’ Ronnie says. ‘And so do I.’

She reaches to a cupboard and pulls out two blankets, brown and itchy, the sort you imagine they hand out in police cells. She gestures for me to lie sideways on the bench and when I do she covers me. The fabric scratches and smells of damp bank holiday weekends but I can’t keep my eyes open.

As I drift off into sleep, the last thing to cross my mind is a question. If Ronnie isn’t responsible for the terrorist bombs, who is?

The look on the operative’s face was a mixture of horror and relief.

‘First time?’ Clem realised he didn’t know her name.

‘Yes,’ she said.

He could tell her it got easier, which would be true, but only because you never got back what you lost after that first kill. Clem decided the girl didn’t need to know that.

‘We did what we had to do,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

When his mobile rang, Clem was glad.

‘You got a name for me?’ asked Carole-Ann.

Clem wiped the blood from the student card he had fished out of the dead boy’s pocket.

‘Thomas Frasier,’ he told her. ‘Date of birth, eighth of May 1994.’ He waited for a second while Carole-Ann ran the name through the computer.

‘Clean,’ she said. ‘No previous convictions, no links to any terrorist organisations.’

‘Have we been watching him?’ asked Clem.

‘Nope.’

‘Is there anything at all?’

‘Just an address in south London.’

Twenty minutes later, Clem was parked outside an end-of-terrace town house in Greenwich. The door was primrose yellow, recently painted by the looks of it.

There had been no alternative but to kill Frasier, despite him being possibly the only lead to Connolly. Clem’s only hope now was that something or someone in this house would provide a clue to Frasier’s actions. He signalled to his backup that he was ready to make his move and silently they moved in.

Two years ago E Group had raided a house a few miles east of here. The suspects had decided to go down with the ship and had the place booby-trapped. One agent died and another lost both his legs.

Clem led half of the team to the door; the other half went around the back. He checked the countdown on his watch and at four seconds gestured for the officer with the ram to take his place. He lifted three fingers. Then two. Then one.

Bam. The ram battered the door, knocking it off its hinges, splintering wood. At the exact same moment the back door suffered the same fate.

From inside, Clem heard a scream and trampled over the broken wood towards it.

‘Security services,’ he shouted, gun at arm’s length.

In the sitting room a middle-aged couple were huddled on the sofa. The television was on, the chaos that was now the Opening Ceremony at full blast.

‘On the floor,’ Clem yelled.

The couple looked at one another in confusion.

‘Get down on the floor.’ Clem moderated his volume. ‘Hands on the back of your necks.’

Clem watched their uncertainty as they did as they were told while all around them agents rushed through the house, checking each room.

‘All clear, Clem,’ the team leader called from the hallway.

Clem nodded his thanks. ‘Does Thomas Frasier live here?’ he asked the couple.

‘Yes.’ The man’s speech was muffled as he spoke into the carpet.

‘He’s our son.’ The woman lifted her head, anxiety overcoming caution. ‘Is he okay? Has something happened?’

Clem glanced around the scene. A coal-effect gas fire flickered on the ‘light only’ setting. A tank of tropical fish sat in the corner, the residents swimming endless circles around a plastic shipwreck. Instinct told him these people knew nothing of their son’s activities. A tang of nausea tickled his throat.

‘Please,’ the woman begged. ‘Just tell us Tommy’s okay.’

Clem coughed and put his gun back in its holster. ‘Why don’t you get up?’ he said.

The man rose first, brushing non-existent dust from his trousers, then helping his wife to her feet. ‘Would you mind telling us what on earth’s going on here?’ His words were stern but his tone couldn’t quite conceal his fear.

‘I need to see your son’s room,’ said Clem. ‘Could you show me the way?’

The woman took a step towards Clem and put a hand on his arm, blue veins protruding through the skin. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

Clem knew that if he told them their son was dead, he wouldn’t get the information he needed. The deceit made him wince, but it was necessary. ‘Thomas has got himself into trouble,’ he said. ‘We need to check his belongings.’

‘Is it that girl?’ Tears shone in the woman’s eyes. ‘Has he been bothering her again?’

‘The bedroom, please,’ said Clem.

Mrs Frasier pursed her lips and led Clem upstairs, her husband trailing after them. ‘He doesn’t mean anything by it.’ She leaned heavily against the banister. ‘He doesn’t realise.’

Clem counted the family portraits lining the ascent. Eight in total. A record of Thomas Frasier’s life from birth to death. The last photo showed him as he had been earlier that day. Smooth skin, hooded top, lost look.

‘Tell her we’re really sorry,’ said Mrs Frasier. ‘Tell her he doesn’t mean any harm by it.’

They paused on the landing outside the first door. A ‘No Entry’ sign had been pinned to it.

Mrs Frasier pushed the handle and stepped inside. ‘Bit of a mess,’ she clucked, reaching down to scoop up a towel from the floor.

‘Please don’t move anything,’ said Clem.

Her hand floated in midair, fingers shaking.

At first glance the room looked like any teenager’s, all discarded socks and half-eaten bowls of cereal, but closer scrutiny told a different story. A
Star Wars
poster was tacked to the wall; a stuffed giraffe sat on the windowsill.