Twenty Twelve (30 page)

Actually, finding the beach will be the hardest part. It’s pitch black, the moon at its lowest wane and picking my way will be a challenge. Not impossible, though. The truck must have left tracks that I can follow. And there was a stream as a landmark. I just need to head up, over and then down. And repeat. At some point I must reach the beach.

The neighbouring clearing is silent, the embers of the fire glowing and I skirt as far from the cottages as I can, hoping everyone is fast asleep. I’m almost at the other side when the door to Hawk’s cottage opens and I freeze.

I can only just make out his outline in the light given off by what’s left of the fire. I hold my breath and tense every muscle, blood beating in my temples. If he spots me, I’ll run. I’m fast enough to lose him. But what about Hero? I’m not convinced I can outrun a German Shepherd.

At last, the door creaks shut and I exhale. Nothing and no one are going to stop me now and I hurry up the steep incline, grateful to be swallowed into its darkness. When I’m a hundred feet or so safely on the other side, I turn on the torch and shine it at the ground. It’s tough to see where tyres might have made a track with only one beam of light and I tap with my trainers too, hoping to feel a ridge. Eventually, I find a flattened clump of gorse, the stalks ground into the dirt. This must be it.

I shine the torch ahead and there is a definite impression through the grass and moss, veering off to the right. I punch the air in triumph and follow its intricate pattern.

In the cool night air, I increase my pace, breathing deeply through my nose. I’m filled with a sense of hope that keeps my limbs loose, allowing me to move freely.

I hardly dare believe it when the ground evens. Yet my thighs tell me it’s true. I must be on the stretch of land that runs the length of the island, separating the inland hills and valleys from the shore. Something crashes into my subconscious and I pause to concentrate. Then I smile. It’s the ocean. I can hear the endless roar of the waves calling to me.

Buoyed by the sound, I sprint until something shrieks up ahead, making me jump. When it comes again, I realise it’s only an owl. He screeches at me again as if my very presence is heretical. ‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘I’m out of here.’

I run for another five minutes then stop. My body could go on for miles but I need to make sure I’m following the tyre tracks. If I take the wrong route down, I might miss the place I need to be and find myself on the wrong beach or at the top of a cliff I can’t descend.

A crushed clump of grass tells me I’m where I need to be, but I bend and feel with my fingers, assuring myself that I can feel the imprints of the tread. Satisfied, I set off again.

My mouth is parched and I wish I’d had enough foresight to take a bottle of water from the fridge. Never mind. I won’t let thirst slow me down. I can drink gallons of the stuff when I’m home. I smile at the thought of my flat, with its bare cupboards and un-ironed sheets. First thing I’m going to do is buy a new duvet, one of those filled with real feathers. Imagine how soft it will be. Then I’m going to fill all the shelves and the fridge with delicious food. I might even learn to cook.

I’m still smiling when I hear something behind me. A sigh. I stop and listen. Another sigh, then another, then another. The sound of someone panting. I tell myself it could be an animal, but what animal makes a sound like that? More panting. Louder this time. Whoever it is, they’re getting closer.

Could Hawk have seen me in the clearing? Has he been following me all this time? I think of him earlier, manic with drugs and paranoia, his body rippling with pent-up violence. And I run.

Regardless of the tyre tracks, I just head forward, tripping over rocks, almost losing my footing. I won’t let him catch me. No way. I dig deep and increase my speed, ricocheting and stumbling. I channel every part of me into escaping.

The beam of my torch catches something looming up ahead. It’s large and square: the crofter’s cottage where Tiny stopped. I charge towards it. If I can get inside, maybe I’ll find a telephone or a radio. It’s not likely given the collapsed roof, but if all else fails at least I can barricade myself inside and hide.

I’m only a couple of metres from shelter when my feet become trapped under what feels like a concrete ledge and I’m thrown forward, smashing my head against another hard object. As I tumble to the ground, my left thigh crashes against a third immovable obstacle. There’s a crack and I yelp in excruciating pain. I try to flip onto my back, but my feet are still caught.

I scrabble for the torch and shed some light on my problem. All around me are dark slabs covered in moss, scattered like an outsized pack of cards. Closer inspection reveals faint script etched into the rock. Gravestones. I’ve stumbled into the tiny graveyard that flanks the crofter’s cottage.

As I arc the beam of light I find the culprit on which I banged my head. It’s the upright Celtic cross, rune-like markings chasing one another around the upper circle. Instinctively I reach over to trace the unfathomable patterns, but even that small movement sends a bolt of pain through my thigh. I feel as if I’ve been stabbed. I touch the spot where it hurts the most and my fingers come away wet. In the torchlight I can see the rip in my tracksuit trousers and the red stain spreading across the fabric. Shit.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, the panting noise is getting closer. I grasp the Celtic cross and pull myself to my feet, blood pouring down to my knee, and limp towards the cottage. Each step is like a hot poker jabbing me, but I have to keep on going.

The footsteps behind me get faster and I try to run. When I reach the door, I don’t stop, but career into it with a thud.

I can hear breathing now. Hawk is right behind me. I let out a shout of anger and fear.

My hand scrabbles for the doorknob. I can do this. I can.

The metal of the handle is rusty and won’t turn so I step back to force it with my shoulder. Too late I remember the wound in my leg and it gives way beneath me. I throw my arms out as I lose my footing and the torch flies out of my hand, crashing behind me and beating me to the ground. As I follow it, my head meets solid rock again.

When I open my eyes, there’s only a blur and a sick feeling in my gut. Someone above me is speaking, but I can’t catch the words. As the world slowly comes back into focus I see who has been chasing me.

It’s Ronnie.

Sebastian rapped his cheek with a ruler to keep himself awake. The techies had worked all night and found more postings on Platformnow. It seemed that Petal a.k.a. Paul Ronald a.k.a TheTimeForTalkIsOver kept in regular contact with another poster called Hawk.

Though the language was guarded, it was fairly clear that they were discussing Tommy. In a sick twist of the knife, they’d been in contact in the hours before the handover at Stratford underground.

I’m on my way.

Good luck, soldier, and may God go with you.

‘You can go home now,’ Clem told Sebastian. The others had already left.

‘I just want to check what this guy’s up to now,’ he said.

Clem understood. He couldn’t take his eyes off the site either. If Hawk had been involved in the attack at the Opening Ceremony, what was to say he wasn’t planning something similar right now.

‘Do you think Hawk knows his friend is dead?’ asked Sebastian.

‘He must know we intercepted the bomb,’ said Clem.

‘And he must know Tommy was killed,’ said Sebastian. ‘It’s all over the net, especially Platformnow. He’s even been on a thread about it, muttering on about Waco.’

Clem thumbed through his notes. Quite a number of Hawk’s posts mentioned Waco. ‘Does he mention Frasier or anyone else?’

Sebastian shook his head. ‘He was around for half an hour or so yesterday, chatting with someone called R1234.’

‘Imaginative,’ said Clem. ‘What did they talk about?’

Sebastian smiled and yawned at the same time. ‘Not a lot. R1234 says his nose is still hurting and Hawk commiserates. They’ve had pretty much the same conversation for the last few days.’

Clem frowned. Hawk didn’t strike him as a compassionate kind of guy. His posts simmered with hatred, not the grandstanding of some members, which made them all the more frightening.

Carole-Ann breezed in, all fresh lipgloss and white teeth. ‘Tell me you two haven’t been here all night.’

‘Okay,’ said Clem. ‘We haven’t been here all night.’

She put her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. The remnants of yesterday’s kebab and chips were everywhere. ‘It smells like a kennel in here.’ She turned to Clem and Sebastian. ‘And you two look like dogs. Go home and try to get some rest.’

‘We need to keep a track on this one.’ Clem flicked Hawk’s name on the screen. ‘He’s definitely still active.’

‘I’m on it,’ she said. ‘Now go and at least take a shower.’

Ronnie shines the torch in my face. ‘What on earth are you doing out here, Jo?’

I try to get up but my head is spinning.

‘Crashing through these hills at night,’ she says. ‘Have you got a death wish?’

My stomach lurches and I lean to one side and vomit. ‘I had to get away.’ I wipe my chin with the back of my hand. ‘Otherwise Hawk would have killed me.’

‘I know,’ she says.

‘What?’

‘You were right,’ she answers simply.

I struggle to a sitting position, taking the weight on my hand. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get out of here before he notices we’ve gone.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Jo.’

‘It won’t take us long to get down to the beach,’ I say.

She puts a hand on each of my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes. ‘You won’t make it, Jo.’

‘I will.’

She shakes her head. ‘You’re losing too much blood.’ She points the torch at my leg to show me the blood pumping out. I stem the flow with my hand, but it pours through my fingers. ‘Let’s tie something around it,’ I say, my vision swimming.

‘It’s too deep,’ Ronnie replies.

‘So what’s the alternative?’

‘We go back,’ she says.

I push her away. ‘No.’

‘We go back and get you patched up.’

‘Patch me up here,’ I say.

‘With what?’

‘I don’t want to go back,’ I tell her.

‘Me neither, but it’s the only way you’re getting out of here alive. We go back, get your leg treated, then we leave at the first chance we get. You have to trust me.’

Do I trust her, though?

She pulls me to my feet and once again I feel her arm around my waist. ‘You’re freakishly strong, you know.’

‘You say the sweetest things.’

I lean heavily against her as we make our way back to camp. When we arrive, the grey dawn is appearing and the bonfire is nothing but a heap of smoking ashes. Tiny is asleep behind the wheel of the pickup.

‘Hey!’ Ronnie smacks the bonnet with the palm of her hand.

He jumps up. ‘What the fuck?’

‘I need some help here,’ she shouts.

He rubs his face with his hands and gets out of the cab. His feet are bare, airing long yellow nails that curl under the pad of each toe. ‘Put her in there.’ He gestures to the cottage where I found the hand grenade.

Ronnie drags me up the step and kicks the door open. The man with the goatee leaps from the bedroom, gun in hand, wearing nothing but a pair of black Y-fronts.

‘Sorry to disturb,’ says Ronnie and staggers to the table where she sets me down.

‘What happened?’ he asks.

‘Out hunting,’ she replies.

‘At night?’

Ronnie shrugs. ‘What can I tell you? She’s from London.’

She takes hold of each side of the tear in my tracksuit bottoms and rips, exposing a wound in my thigh that looks like a gaping mouth mid-scream.

I let my head fall forwards against the table top with a thud.

‘That don’t look good,’ goatee tells Ronnie.

‘No shit,’ she says.

The door opens and Tiny appears with a first aid kit, a camping stove and a bottle of whisky.

‘Boil some water,’ he tells goatee. ‘And clean these.’

He rummages through the first aid box and hands over two huge darning needles and a pair of scissors.

Goatee gives me a wink then takes the stove and the implements outside.

‘Okay, my friend, I want you to take a big swallow of this.’ Tiny helps me sit up and holds the bottle to my mouth. ‘I mean a really big one.’

I glance at Ronnie, who nods, so I take a gulp and cough it down. Tiny claps me on the back and takes a swig himself. ‘For luck,’ he says.

‘Come on, Tiny,’ Ronnie says. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

‘All right then.’ He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pair of pliers.

‘Mary, Mother of God,’ I say, using my mum’s preferred Irish expletive.

‘You need to keep very still now, okay?’ says Tiny and Ronnie presses me back with a firm hand.

Then goatee crashes through the door. ‘Did I miss it?’

‘Not yet,’ says Tiny. ‘Hold her down.’

Ronnie pushes against both my shoulders. Someone else – goatee, I assume – grips my feet. ‘Look at me, Jo,’ Ronnie says. ‘Look right at me.’

‘This is going to hurt, isn’t it?’ I say.

‘Only a little.’

I concentrate on my breathing, slowing down my pulse, when out of nowhere comes a pain so intense it radiates from my thigh outwards until every cell in my body is screaming as loudly as I am.

‘I got the skin pressed tightly together now,’ says Tiny.

Ronnie pushes harder to keep me in place as I thrash, wanting to see what the hell is being done to me. I crane my neck to find that Tiny has clamped together the two pieces of ripped skin with his pliers. It meets in the middle in an ugly ridge.

‘Let’s sew her up,’ he says triumphantly.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ I yell.

Surprised by my voice, Tiny lets the pliers fall and the cut opens up, blood spurting like a fountain.

Ronnie turns to him. ‘Tiny, didn’t you tourniquet it first?’ She lets go of my shoulders, whips off her belt and ties it tightly above the wound. Tiny grabs the pliers from the floor and once again prises the wound shut.