Twenty Twelve (20 page)

‘How old was Thomas?’ Clem asked.

‘Was?’ Panic shook Mrs Frasier’s voice.

‘How old was he at his last birthday?’ Clem asked.

‘Oh. Right. I see.’

‘Eighteen.’ Mr Frasier spoke from the doorway. Clem saw reality beginning to dawn on him, drawing his features down. ‘This has nothing to do with Tommy pestering that girl, has it?’ he asked.

‘He wasn’t pestering her,’ said Mrs Frasier. ‘He just likes her and he doesn’t understand why he shouldn’t.’

‘Be quiet, Marion,’ said Mr Frasier.

Clem breathed hard. ‘Did you see your son this morning?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Frasier’s voice was small. ‘I made him his breakfast like every morning; then he went off to the centre as usual.’

‘Centre?’ Clem asked.

‘Portman Row,’ she replied. ‘It’s a centre for education and training and what have you. For youngsters like Tommy.’

Clem raised his eyebrows.

‘Our Tommy’s not like other kids,’ she told him. ‘He’s special.’

Mr Frasier sighed and shook his head. He appeared to have aged years in the last few moments. ‘What Marion’s trying to tell you is that our son has learning disabilities.’

Ronnie nudges me awake with her foot.

I blink at her and struggle to sit up. ‘How long have I been asleep?’ I ask.

‘Almost two hours.’

I groan. I feel like I need another twenty at least. Ronnie, on the other hand, seems refreshed. She slides into the kitchen area, pulls out a box of cereal and tears open the inner plastic wrapper with her teeth.

‘I’m leaving,’ she says, scooping out a handful of flakes and stuffing them into her mouth. She stares into the middle distance as she chews and swallows. ‘They’ll put everything they’ve got into finding me,’ she says. ‘Sooner or later they’ll do it. Then they’ll kill me.’

She strides back to me, the cereal box swinging in her hand. She presses it to my lips. ‘Eat.’

My stomach growls as she shakes cereal into my open mouth. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to give yourself up?’ I choke slightly on the dry flakes. ‘You could prove you had nothing to do with the bombing.’

Ronnie shakes her head. ‘I’d be dead before I got to the police station.’

Though I hate to admit it, I suspect she may have a point. ‘Where will you go?’ I ask.

‘I know some people,’ she says. ‘One in particular. If I can get to him, he’ll keep me safe.’

I can’t imagine who would be able to hide a refugee from MI5, but if such people do exist, I’m damn sure Ronnie will know them. ‘Will you let them know I’m here?’ I ask.

She cocks her head to one side, puzzled.

‘Once you’ve got away,’ I say. ‘Or they might never find me.’ I don’t need to say that I could die in bloody agony in the meantime.

She doesn’t answer and closes the cereal box. Even if she were to leave it for me, how long would I last? I once saw a telly programme about some women in Ireland who decided to kill themselves for God. One of them wrote a diary and it detailed how horrifying their end had been as their bodies ate every last morsel of body fat and muscle to try to survive. ‘You could do it anonymously,’ I say.

‘Do what?’

‘Let them know where I am. I could give you my dad’s number if you don’t want to call the authorities.’

‘I’m not calling anyone,’ she says.

Panic hits me. ‘But you said you weren’t into hurting innocent people.’

She stifles a laugh and I understand my error. To Ronnie I am no more innocent than Clem. I am part and parcel of the establishment and everything she hates.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘You’re not going to die in this caravan.’

‘How can you be sure? It could be too late by the time they track me down.’

She pulls me to my feet and takes out a hunting knife, the steel blade glinting. I shrink away from the serrated edge. I’m not going to starve to death after all. Ronnie moves towards me, her eyes wide. Then she cuts the binding around my ankles.

‘You’re coming with me,’ she says.

‘Dear God, what went wrong, Clem?’ The shadows under the PM’s eyes were like purple bruises.

‘Why didn’t you stop this attack?’ Benning hissed.

‘We did stop the attack,’ Clem replied.

‘In full view of the watching press,’ said Benning. ‘Jesus, could you not have taken the boy aside? Dealt with it in private?’

‘He was carrying a bomb,’ said Clem. ‘The loss of life could have been catastrophic.’

Benning sighed. ‘It’s a disaster. The Olympic Village is in meltdown. The athletes are desperate to leave but daren’t get on a plane and every Tom, Dick and fucking Harry is demanding a statement.’

Clem’s jaw dropped. If Clem had been able to apprehend Frasier and put a bullet in his brain on the QT, Benning would cheerfully have proceeded with the Opening Ceremony and kept the whole incident quiet. He didn’t know why he was surprised, actually.

‘There wasn’t any way of knowing if Frasier was a lone wolf,’ he told them. ‘There could have been more bombers. However things panned out, we would have had to cancel the Opening Ceremony.’

‘We could have made that decision ourselves. Instead we’ve been left with no choices,’ said Benning.

Clem felt spots of heat in the apple of each cheek. ‘There were no choices.’

‘There are always choices,’ said Benning.

The PM put up his hands. ‘I know you mean well, Simon, but Clem’s right; we couldn’t take the risk.’

‘This will ruin everything we’ve worked for,’ said Benning. ‘All those years slogging around the opposition backbenches. Everything we’ve sacrificed – gone.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘They’ll hang you out to dry.’

The PM placed a hand on his. ‘Then so be it.’

‘What? Throw away what we’ve achieved?’ Benning was incredulous. ‘Just give it to the other lot on a plate?’

‘We can’t put politics above safety.’

Benning tried to pull away his hand but the PM grabbed it and held it firm, then he turned to Clem. ‘Let’s see what we can salvage,’ he said. ‘What do we know about the boy?’

‘Thomas Frasier. Eighteen. Still living at home with his mum and dad,’ said Clem. ‘He suffered moderate learning difficulties.’

‘A retard?’ Benning barked. ‘You couldn’t even manage to catch a fucking retard?’

Clem didn’t bother to point out for the second time that he
had
caught Frasier.

‘Anything known about him?’ asked the PM.

Clem shook his head.

‘Then we say there was no bomb,’ said Benning. ‘We say this was a terrible mistake.’

‘Like Jean Charles de Menezes?’ asked the PM.

‘Exactly,’ Benning replied. ‘We say there was no bomb and the event is back in business.’ He turned to Clem. ‘Who shot the boy?’

‘Myself and another operative,’ said Clem. ‘Katriona Land.’

‘Young?’

Clem nodded.

‘Excellent.’ Benning’s eyes began to shine. ‘She’s inexperienced; she was in a difficult situation. She truly believed Frasier had a bomb.’

‘She thought she was saving the lives of hundreds,’ added the PM.

Clem growled. Yet again he was being asked to lie, only this time Katriona Land was about to be hung out to dry. ‘She
did
save the lives of hundreds,’ he said.

Silence fell upon them and Benning’s eyes flickered.

‘Did she see the bomb?’

‘No,’ Clem replied.

‘Did anyone see the bomb?’

Clem had seen it. Just as clearly as he could see the line drawn in the sand in front of him. He had a choice to support his PM or a fellow officer.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Clem,’ said the PM. ‘That this is all so very wrong. And you’re probably right, but in my position I have to look at the bigger picture. Sometimes I have to do things for the greater good. You, of all people, must recognise that.’

When Clem looked back over his career, he saw a catalogue of wrongful detentions, cover-ups, torture, even murders, that he had undertaken in the pursuit of national security. It was an accepted part of any operative’s job.

‘And at least this way, the poor boy’s parents can believe he was an innocent victim,’ said the PM.

Clem already knew in his heart of hearts that neither Benning nor the PM gave a flying fuck about Mrs Frasier. But he’d met her. It shouldn’t, but it did make a difference.

‘So I’ll ask you again, Clem.’ Benning leaned forward. ‘Did anyone see the bomb?’

‘No one saw it,’ said Clem and felt something inside him break.

Back in his car, Clem’s mobile rang. He checked the caller ID and sighed. Of all the people he didn’t want to speak to, Carole-Ann was probably at the top of his list.

‘Yep.’ He lowered the window to let in some air.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

‘Let the Games begin.’

‘You’re shitting me,’ she replied.

Clem only wished he was. ‘We keep security watertight at every venue,’ he said.

‘And the Frasier kid?’

‘Go through everything. I want to know everything he did and said in the last six months. If he took a piss, I want the details.’

‘We’re already taking apart his laptop.’

‘And?’

‘Clean so far.’

‘Keep at it,’ he told her. ‘Tommy didn’t wake up one morning and decide to become a terrorist. Someone got to him.’

‘Grooming?’

Clem let out a long, slow breath. There was some intel that a number of suicide bombers in Palestine had had learning difficulties. Easy prey for the recruiters. But that was on the West Bank, where years of hardship and oppression meant anyone prepared to give up their life for the cause was feted. Martyrdom was an honour whatever the mental age of those involved. Could Ronnie X really be involved in something so despicable?

‘Let’s just get this job done,’ Clem sighed.

‘What about Connolly?’ asked Carole-Ann. ‘With Frasier dead . . .’

‘I know,’ said Clem and hung up. There was now nothing more imperative than finding Ronnie X.

The cliff-top path is still deserted. Nothing to my left but foam-crested waves as far as the eye can see. Ronnie has given me no choice. I am going with her.

The wind whips my ears and I can smell the seaweed. My hands are still bound, but it feels so good to walk freely. I look out to sea and watch the clouds scud across the horizon.

‘Okay?’ Ronnie has to shout above the howling weather.

I nod and we continue.

At last we come to a small bay formed in the rock by a thousand years of crashing rollers. We scramble down a rocky incline, Ronnie helping me. Her footing is sure, the hold on my arm strong. At the bottom, we wait by a wooden jetty, the old planks held together with blue twine.

‘Why are you taking me with you?’ I ask.

Ronnie stabs at the sand with the heel of her boot, like a gardener making an impression with a spade. ‘I might need a bargaining tool,’ she says.

I blink back my lack of comprehension.

‘If they close in on me, I’ll need something they value,’ she explains.

‘Me?’

Ronnie shrugs. ‘They won’t want you dead.’

I imagine Benning and the PM. ‘Frankly, I’m not sure they’ll be that fussed.’

‘In that case,’ Ronnie laughs, ‘I’ll just use you as a human shield.’

For a moment I laugh too, then I wonder if Ronnie would indeed put me between a bullet and herself. An hour ago I would have put money on the answer, but everything’s more complicated now.

In the distance, the noise of an engine punctures the air and Ronnie cups her hand above her eyes. When a small fishing boat chugs into the bay she nods to herself. It pulls up at the end of the jetty, its rusted hull bobbing in the choppy waters. A man in black waterproofs appears on deck, his face almost covered by a thick beard, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Ronnie calls out to him in a language I don’t understand. Gaelic, I think. He gives a one-word reply and she begins to make her way along the creaking planks.

‘Come on,’ she tells me and I try not to slip on the green undercoat of algae.

At the end, Ronnie takes a leap aboard, catching the man’s outstretched hand to help her. She gestures for me to follow and holds out her own hand alongside the man’s.

I take a step, then hesitate. What if I refuse? Would Ronnie kill me in front of a witness? The man watches me over his fag, a plume of smoke rising towards his eye. Somehow I can’t see him intervening on my behalf.

I glance behind me. I could run. Even with my hands tied, I’m fast.

‘Do you reckon you’ll make it up the cliff without me?’ Ronnie asks.

I sigh. The way back up is steep, the rocks jagged. One false step and I would fall hundreds of feet.

‘The only other way out of here is to swim,’ she says. ‘Do you think you can manage that? It looks pretty rough out there to me.’

The man squints through his smoke and growls something at Ronnie.

‘Better decide now, Jo. Connor says he’s leaving with or without you.’

I leap aboard.

‘That’s my girl,’ says Ronnie.

I don’t reply. She may think she has me beat but she’s wrong. I’m biding my time, waiting for the right moment. And when it comes, I’m getting away from her, no matter what.

Inside the boat, the cabin is spartan. A bunk bed with two sleeping bags, a stove in the corner, a small flame licking around a steel kettle.

Ronnie hands Connor a stained envelope, which he opens. I watch him as he thumbs a wad of cash. Satisfied, he says something to Ronnie. She checks her watch and replies.

He barely looks at me, seemingly not in the least bit curious as to what I’m doing there, hands tied, nose and mouth bloody and bruised. Finally he leaves and the boat turns, then sets out to sea, rolling and tilting.

Ronnie pushes me onto the bottom bunk, staggers over to the stove and pours black liquid from the kettle into a small cup. She fishes in a tin for sugar, stirs in two spoonfuls and drinks the cup down in one. Then she repeats the procedure and brings it over to me.

‘Tea,’ she says. She holds the cup to my lips, the liquid burning the ragged flesh.

‘Ow,’ I yelp.

She rolls her eyes. ‘Just drink it.’

I take a mouthful. It’s strong and sweet and seductive. I finish the cup. ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

‘You’ll see.’

Bert wipes a handkerchief across his forehead and takes a seat. ‘What happened to your face, Isaac?’