‘So this one day we’d been running along the field playing some chase game.’ He grinned ironically. ‘Army soldiers, probably. That was always a favourite. And we pushed through the hedge that led to the riverbank, took off our shoes and were splashing through the river, until I kind of realised that we’d gone too far. Chris was just pissing about, though. He didn’t seem to care, just taking it further and further, but sort of making me come along with him—’ He paused, and maybe it was the whole situation, being back with Tessa, reliving that terrible moment, but he suddenly found himself having to choke back a tide of emotion, as though ice inside had suddenly cracked apart.
‘Are you all right, Alex?’ she asked. She reached for his hand and he took it gladly. ‘Are you sure you want to go on?’
He nodded. Another deep breath. ‘Chris had his plimsolls in his hands, and he kind of slipped. Just lost his footing, really. But it was enough for him to need to reach out and steady himself on the riverbed. The water was still only about knee height at this stage. I can see it now, the way he kind of wobbled, you know, and he put out his hand. Splash. Into the river. And the next thing I saw was one of his plimsolls, all white; we both had white plimsolls, like tennis-style plimsolls – “plimmys” we called them – and it was sailing down the river, bobbing along in the water like a paper hat.
‘Now, the one thing that was drummed into us more than not going to the second bridge was don’t come home without your shoes. Full-on like your life won’t be worth living tackle. So I don’t know about Chris, but, personally, when I saw that plimmy go sailing down the river, I pretty much shit myself. So of course he’s going after it. He’s racing down the river, and I can see that he’s getting nearer and nearer to the second bridge. And I was shouting to him to stop. The water was like at the top of his thighs by now, but he went through the bridge. It was dark in there. I couldn’t see him. And the water was almost up to my waist. I could feel it pushing-pulling me, you know, like it was a force stronger than I was, and I just couldn’t go any further, I couldn’t go under the bridge. I had to stop. I had to.
‘I heard him shout my name. Just once. Alex. And I called for him. I must have shouted his name fifty times, but he was gone, and that was the last I ever saw or heard from him. They never found him.’
Tess gave a start. ‘They never found him?’
‘No. According to Mum and Dad they think he must have been carried off, maybe to the sea. And as a family we grieved for him, and I don’t think we ever really stopped grieving for him, and I think there was a lot of blame that went unsaid.’
‘Not directed at you.’
‘I think, yes, in a way. All I can remember was so much bitterness. So much resentment. My dad started going out on night-time drives until he got done by the police for drink-driving. They were never the most loving, demonstrative parents in the world. A bit remote – but after that they got even worse. We moved house, of course, which is how we ended up in Burton-on-Trent. My mum and dad were keen that we should make a new start and so we never really mentioned Chris, didn’t put up any photos of him, never really spoke about him. And by the time I met you, my life was pretty much the new normal; I’d developed ways to cope. But up until then …’
‘Alex,’ she said, ‘I’m so, so sorry. For him, for them, but mostly – mostly for you.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘So am I. And I’m just sorry I never told you before.’
* * *
‘Abbott.’
They had both been sitting, dozing, each lost in his own private thoughts, leaning back in the ops room chairs with their boots on the desks in front of them. Luckily, one of them – i.e. the one who hadn’t been creeping off for surreptitious slugs of Mahlouthi’s whiskey – was keeping his wits about him and had stayed half awake, and Abbott found himself roused by a Burton-sized nudge in the ribs.
He looked across, wondering if Burton knew that he’d been sneaking off for bumps of booze. If so, the other man had put it to the back of his mind. More important things were afoot. ‘Look,’ he said, leaning forward and Abbott did as he was told, focusing gradually on what was happening on the screen. A pulsing dot.
Mahlouthi’s locator had been activated.
CHAPTER 45
It was early morning by the time they tracked the locator to a bombed-out area in the Al-Saydiya neighbourhood, part of the Al Rashid District.
Once upon a time Al-Saydiya had been a nice, middle-class area of Baghdad. But as with so much else in the city, the war had reassigned its status at the same time as it had destroyed the landscape. Bombed-out and burned-out, it was now a hotbed of insurgent activity and a favoured place for roadside bombs, while snipers were known to camp out in mosques and other buildings, picking off unsuspecting enemies at long range. It was the last place in the world – literally the world – that a couple of ex-SF soldiers would want to find themselves. And yet, here they were.
Christ. Abbott and Burton had cursed their luck. Here of all places.
Once in the area, they followed the locator, tracking the gently pulsing signal to a huge football-pitch-sized patch of waste ground. Across the other side was virtually the only building left standing. A bomb-damaged warehouse with a large ragged hole in the roof. Not far away from the warehouse was a rusting skip overflowing with trash of some sort, while in the middle of the open space was a burned-out van.
The warehouse door was inset with a smaller wicket door that hung open. Burton and Abbott looked at one another, neither wanting to literally walk in through the front door. Instead, they decided to walk around and, with the afternoon sun beating down hot upon them, they approached carefully, skirting the patch of waste ground, wary, scanning the rooftops of surrounding buildings at the same time, checking for anything unusual.
Around them, life carried on as normal. Men and women on the streets were going about their business as usual, cars passed, picking their way along pockmarked, battle-scarred roads, and far away, a helicopter clattered in the sky. In short, everything was as normal as it could be – Baghdad considering – and yet the locator that Burton held pulsed, and who knew what lay in store for them inside the warehouse. Maybe nothing. Maybe instant death.
‘Could be that they’ve found the tracker and discarded it inside,’ said Abbott.
Burton nodded. By now they were parallel with the far wall of the warehouse. Facing onto the waste ground was a single window high up. Looking at it, they were both acutely aware that anybody positioned inside could see them. And that whoever was in there might have a high-powered rifle. Even so, and despite that window, this was their best angle from which to approach the building.
‘OK,’ said Abbott, ‘let’s keep this casual.’ It had not escaped his notice that two local women were gazing their way. ‘Let’s not attract attention to ourselves. We don’t want to spook them. Last thing we need is them alerting the Iraqi guard or the cops.’
They made their way across the dirt, feeling as conspicuous as they looked, waiting until they were out of sight of the two busybodies across the other side before they drew their weapons, turned sideways on, and hurried up to the wall. Here there was a gash in the stone that offered access inside, just enough room for someone to squeeze through. They took up position either side. Abbott held his gun high by his shoulder, Burton the same.
Abbott had a thought. ‘Did Stone know about the tracker?’
Burton shook his head. ‘No. But even so. If he’s found it, then we’re walking into a trap.’
Abbott’s smile was bitter. ‘And that, mate, is the story of my trip to Baghdad.’
He listened, heard nothing then risked a glance inside. Nothing. Just darkness. The sunshine outside held at bay by the shadows within.
‘Cover me,’ he indicated to Burton and then, taking a deep breath and with his gun ready, he lifted a leg and climbed through.
On the other side he crouched, allowing his eyes to adjust to the immediate surroundings, checking for tripwires, ready fo
r the ambush.
Which never came.
He straightened. Over his shoulder he called, ‘Clear,’ and Burton stepped into the warehouse beside him. For a moment they took stock, and then they heard a noise, a rasping human sound that made them crouch again, guns held ready. It came from the opposite side of the warehouse and as Abbott squinted in the half-light, what he saw was a dark shape, a seated figure with its arms pinned behind its back and its legs trussed, too. And although the figure wore a black hood – the kind of thing beloved of coalition troops – as well as what seemed to be a dark overcoat, Abbott knew it was Mahlouthi.
Abbott and Burton tensed, every nerve end shrieking and ready.
Silence.
‘Moof,’ called Abbott across the rubbish-strewn space. His voice was flat in the warehouse. A bird fluttered at the hole in the roof. Mahlouthi did not stir. ‘Moof,’ repeated Abbott, and there was still no reaction.
There was nothing for it but to step out into the open. Steeling themselves they scuttled across the floor, sweeping their weapons up into the rafters and to walkways overhead, knowing that no amount of pointing their guns was going to help if there was a sniper up there.
Closer to Mahlouthi now, and they could see that the Arab had been trussed with plastic ties, fastened tight to what looked like an old, tattered dining-room chair. His head lolled. Beneath the overcoat, an old macintosh, he still wore his pyjamas – heavily bloodstained, dirty, and tattered – on top of which was what looked like …
A bomb vest.
Burton saw it too, eyes wide, he shared a terrified look with Abbott as both wondered what to do: try to save Mahlouthi or make a run for it.
Either way, this was it. Welcome to your trap.
‘Abbott,’ said Burton, a warning tone in his voice, ‘we’ve got to get out of here.’
‘But Mahlouthi.’
And Nathan.
‘He’s dead, Monk. Look at the fucking state of him.’
Abbott tore off the hood. Beneath it, Mahlouthi’s face was an oozing mess of bloodied, bruised flesh, evidence of a terrible beating. Without lifting his chin from his chest, he stirred slightly, almost as though aware that he was the subject of conversation. Swollen eyes flickered. Prior to turning him into a human bomb, someone had done quite a number on him. Abbott thought of the guy suspended in the film. Fuckers had found the locator. Tortured Mahlouthi and then, when they’d found out what they wanted to know, switched on the locator and drawn Abbott and Burton to them.
‘He’s rigged to blow,’ pressed Burton. ‘Either way, he’s dead. Let’s go.’
‘I can’t leave him,’ insisted Abbott. ‘I can’t leave him like this. Since when did we ever do that, Burton?’
‘Oh yeah? Is this really about helping Mahlouthi, or about reaching Stone and finding Nathan?’
‘Does it matter? I tell you what.’ He jerked his chin. ‘You go. Go on. Leave it to me.’
Burton curled a lip. ‘Don’t be daft. I’d leave him maybe. I’m not fucking leaving you.’
In front of them, Mahlouthi attempted to raise his head, his eyes opening fully at last as he tried to focus on Abbott and Burton. When he opened his mouth to speak, a bubble of blood formed at his lips. His nose was crusted with it.
And then, a phone rang. Abbott and Burton both froze and it was all Abbott could do not to screw up his eyes, knowing that he had rarely been so certain that death was but a breath away.
Nothing happened. Instead the phone kept on ringing. ‘Is that your phone?’ asked Burton through clenched teeth. ‘Because I tell you this – it’s not fucking mine.’
‘Not mine either,’ said Abbott.
‘His?’ asked Burton, looking at Mahlouthi.
The phone continued ringing, the jolly ringtone utterly incongruous in the dungeon-like surroundings. They looked down to where the noise was coming from. Abbott crouched, saw a phone beneath the chair. Steeling himself against the end, sure it would come at any second, he flipped it open and put the phone on speaker.
‘Hello, Abbott,’ said Stone.
CHAPTER 46
‘I’m on speaker, am I?’ said Stone. The old accent. Pure Cockney.
‘Yeah, you are,’ replied Abbott.
‘Fucking-A. Hello, Monk. Hello, Biscuits. How are you both, then? Long time no speak.’
‘Go fuck yourself backwards, mate,’ said Burton. ‘And hey, when you’ve finished doing that, how about we have a chat, man-to-man, just you and me, like. Maybe we could talk about how last night you tried to have us killed. And Tommy. Not forgetting poor old Tommy, eh? What’d he ever do to you?’
‘Since when did anybody need to “do” something in our world? Being in the way of the main objective. That was enough. Yeah, sorry, Tommy. Blah blah. So long and thanks for all the tea. Maybe think twice about working for such a scumbag next time.’
‘“Scumbag”? Pot. Kettle. Must have been gutting for you that Monk and I survived, eh, mate?’
‘Don’t be a dickhead, Biscuits. If I’d wanted you dead last night, you’d have your toes turned up now. You and Monk. Especially Monk.’
Yeah, thought Abbott. About that. Because if it was true, and frankly it probably was, then why leave us alive?
And the answer, of course, was for all of this. For this whole fucking sadistic circus, with Stone as the ringmaster and Abbott, Nathan, Burton and whoever else was unlucky enough to get in the way as the guys who tripped around the ring with custard dripping off their faces.
‘Oh, I’m supposed to be grateful for that, am I?’ Burton was saying.
‘You?’ came Stone’s disembodied voice, metallic and faraway. ‘I don’t really give much of a mushy fart about you, to be honest. Sorry if that’s a blow to your ego. You can leave now, if you want. Go on. Why not? You were never big mates with Abbott anyway. You don’t owe him anything. Fuck off and take yourself out of the equation. It’s him I’ve got business with. And believe you me, it gets nastier than this.’
Burton looked at Abbott, curled a lip and made a wanker sign. ‘“Leave?” You must be kidding. Mate, I’m sticking around to see you get what’s coming to you for what you did to Badger. I reckon I owe him that, eh? Oh, and by the way, thanks for trying to pin all that on me. I won’t be forgetting that in a hurry, mate, you can be fucking sure of that.’
‘Fine, whatever, the day of reckoning approaches. I’ll be sure to write it in my Filofax and I’ll use my best pen. But before you get on your high horse, what happened to Badger was just business. Unlike you, Badger was getting greedy. If Badger had settled for the fucking large amount of money I was offering him, then Badger would be very much alive today, instead of decorating the desert in Mexico.’
Abbott spoke up. ‘See, I don’t quite believe that.’
‘Really?’ came Stone’s reply.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Badger wasn’t like that. I think it’s way more likely that he didn’t like what you were planning for me and Nathan, and you decided to take him out of the picture. What did you do? Agree with him? Tell him to come for a skydive to celebrate him putting you back on the right path? Am I right? Did it go a bit like that?’
Stone went so quiet that Abbott was about to check the line when he spoke again.
‘Badger didn’t understand.’
‘Didn’t understand what?’
‘How deep it fucking goes with you.’
And despite the heat, Abbott had to suppress a shudder.
‘Look, Guy. Look, I’m sorry, mate. I couldn’t say it enough, and I couldn’t mean it more. I’m so fucking sorry for what happened to Jeremy.’
‘Get his name out of your mouth.’
‘Whatever it takes to make it up to you,’ said Abbott.
‘He was an innocent,’ said Stone.
‘I know. But – look, mate, he was playing with fire. You both were. He was spying for you, yeah?’
‘He was helping, yes,’ said Stone, although he said it with no relish, no pride.
Abbott checked a
round himself, wondering if they were being watched, at the same time, saying, ‘And I guess you’re going to tell me there were competing interests at work, yeah? That’s how come Mahlouthi got involved?’
‘Mahlouthi was in the pay of Hercules. Did you know that?’
Abbott looked down at Mahlouthi. Of course – of course you were. How could I have not fucking seen it? ‘No, I didn’t know that,’ he said, and he could hear the note of resignation in his own voice.
‘Oh yes, and Hercules suspected that I was being given the information needed to undercut them. They assumed it was a leak. They asked Mahlouthi to plug it for them.’
‘Knowing that he employed you?’
‘Uh-uh. Not at that time they didn’t. All they knew was that someone – someone – was getting the drop on them, and they wanted to know who.’
Funny, thought Abbott. If it hadn’t ended the way it had, then he would have made that discovery for himself, sooner or later. And if he had, then he could have had a word with Stone. Something like, ‘Look, mate, they’re onto you.’ But of course he’d been trying to do Jeremy Robinson a favour, because he thought Jeremy Robinson seemed like a nice kid. What was the saying about the road to hell being paved with good intentions?
Abbott looked down at Mahlouthi, lashed to the chair. If the Arab knew what was going on, he showed no sign of it. Instead his head moved painfully, his eyes fluttered and his lips moved soundlessly, a thick rope of dark, viscous blood hanging from his mouth.
‘Mahlouthi needed someone who could move more easily around the Green Zone to confirm what his spies were telling him – which is where you came in. It was you who took the money, ratting out your pals, eh? And when he found out that the man treading on his toes was living under his own roof, he wanted in on the deal. And he came to me.’
‘Wait,’ said Abbott. ‘Mahlouthi didn’t find out from me that Jeremy was your son. I had no idea myself.’
Scar Tissue Page 18
