Truth and Lies

by Marguerite Valentine

  ‘I’d say very well.’ He looked straight at her. She was so naive. She hadn’t got it; that he was trying, and succeeding, to make her jealous.

  ‘I didn’t know you were involved with Uncut.’

  ‘I attend their meetings now and again. They’re interesting. They’ve got some projects they’re planning, but I’m sure Mike will know of them already. Maybe Jane and I could meet up with you in St David’s.’ He felt safe saying this because he knew she’d refuse. He was right.

  ‘That won’t be possible. We have a full on week.’

  ‘Doing what? Tell me more.’

  She paused, then she said, ‘Training sessions. Something’s coming up.’

  ‘At Porth Clais? Why there?’

  ‘Climbing. There’s an event planned in two months. There’s three of us but we need to train, climb and get to know how we work together.’

  ‘If I can be of any help…’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘No worries, if we come across each other…’ He didn’t finish his sentence. She’d gone quiet. Nothing more was said. She clammed up.

  He was hardly any further in knowing more. Some of what he’d said was true. He did know a Jane but she wasn’t in Uncut and she wasn’t an activist. He’d known her when he worked in the City and had had a fling with but he didn’t approve of her recreational drug use. He’d tried it but hadn’t liked it. Coke wasn’t his bag.

  Apart from that, Nixie may not have issued an invite to him, but that wasn’t about to stop him. He bought an Ordinance Survey map of Pembrokeshire and began tracing the outlines of the jagged coast path which followed the deeply indented coastline. By putting together all that Nixie had told him and by a process of elimination, before long he’d located her parents’ farmhouse. It was close to Caefai and surrounded by fields and remotely situated.

  He pitched his tent in a farmer’s field a mile away from the coast. It was off a lane which led to the farmhouse, but far enough away not to bump into Nixie by mistake and close enough for him to walk to it. He worked out the best way to reach the farmhouse and practised the route, walking down the old drovers’ paths alongside the fields and through the scatter of farm outbuildings. He got to know which fields to bypass, and how to avoid the bullocks that ran at him and the farm dogs that barked and growled as he passed.

  Two nights later he made his first visit. It was almost midnight and there was no moon. Standing in a small copse some distance away from the building, he kept well away from the front of the house. Security lights had been installed. On the ground floor a light from inside the house shone out into the darkness. He stood for ten minutes, before moving nearer. He was standing outside a large kitchen. The curtains were open. A woman was sitting at the kitchen table reading. She must have heard something or had the sixth sense of an animal because she stood up, walked over to the window and pulled the curtains across.

  He moved back into the shadows and waited. There was a tiny gap between the curtains where they didn’t meet. Unwittingly, she’d made it easier for him to watch her, so if he stood right outside the window he could still see her. She’d moved to a large armchair. A reading light shone over her. This had to be Nixie’s mother. She was the right age.

  His mind went blank. He’d been so focused on finding out about Nixie, it hadn’t occurred to him he might see her mother. In her early fifties, she was still attractive. Her hair was dark, longish, going grey and she’d pulled it up each side of her face tethering it with a clasp on the top of her head. What was she reading? Whatever it was held her attention. Then he remembered what Nixie had told him, that she was researching psychopathy.

  He walked back into the shadows, his mind going back to what he knew about being snatched. This was the woman his parents refused to talk about; a woman who looked normal, but with a terrible history. What had driven her? Who was she? He knew very little about her, yet she was part of his history. Seeing her unexpectedly disturbed him. For one mad moment, he almost threw a stone at the window. But then, his attention was caught by the headlights of a car moving slowly along the lane towards the farmhouse.

  He moved rapidly away and returned to his original place, standing some distance away in the darkness amongst the trees. It was far enough away not to be seen, but it wasn’t a good vantage point. He could hear but not see what was going on. The car pulled onto the concrete drive and Nixie’s voice rang out. A moment later, her mother came out to meet them and they went inside.

  He’d take another look, see who was there. Her mother was making tea, offering sandwiches to Nixie and her two friends ─ none he recognised, but by the way they greeted each other, they knew each other well. They sat together at the table, laughing and talking. The only person missing was Nixie’s father. There was no sign of him. He continued watching until they disappeared upstairs.

  He walked back to his tent, his torch lighting up the path between and over the fields. Mission accomplished; he knew now where the farmhouse was, what the security was like, what her mother looked like and that Nixie was there as she had said she would be. He’d use this knowledge at some point, as and when an opportunity presented itself.

  Sunday, mid-morning, a few clouds scudded across the bright blue sky. Seb parked his van, not in one of the designated car parks, but off road in an isolated spot. Hoping he might come across Nixie climbing, he began walking along the coast path towards Porth Clais. There was a strong wind, the sea rolling in steadily, the occasional huge wave slapping against the rocks, sending plumes of foam and spray high into the air. This hadn’t stopped the climbers. They were already out. Clinging to the rock, their fingers searched for tiny crevices, their feet finely balanced on slight indentations or protrusions in the rock. He stood watching as they clung to near vertical slabs of sandstone rising straight from the sea. Slowly making their way up the rock face, they occasionally stopped to dip their hands into the chalk bags hanging from their harnesses. This is what he’d come for, or at least, that’s what he’d told Nixie, but so far, there was no sign of her.

  He turned abruptly round, walked the half mile or so back to his van, and collected his swimming gear. By the time he’d arrived in Porth Clais, there were even more climbers, swimmers, jumpers, and divers. He struggled down an overgrown path towards the water, clambered across the rocks and, balancing on a small, flat rock, pulled on his swimming trunks and a wet suit. Then he waited for the big waves to subside, and lowered himself into the water.

  It was cold, but he’d been in colder. The water was so clear he could see the rocks way below the surface, but as he was surrounded by coasteers jumping in all around him, he pulled away from them, and began swimming parallel to the cliffs. As he swam, he looked up at the climbers, hoping he might see Nixie. He’d reached the cliff face, the one the climbing books called, ‘Dream Boat Annie’, when he stopped, and treading water, looked up at the rock. Classified as between difficult and severe, only a few were climbing that morning, but one of them was Nixie. He recognised her immediately. It was her bright gear; the tight, pink tank top and the black climbing shorts that caught his attention. She was soloing, slowly making her way up the rock face.

  He watched her stretch her arm across a deep fissure in the cliff, her hand grasping to grab a protruding rock. She was leaning further over, when it happened. She’d reached too far and within a fraction of a second, she’d lost her balance, missed her footing, and was falling in a straight line towards the water, the rope dangling behind her.

  It happened so fast he didn’t have time to think about his response. His arms cleaving through the waves, he swam to where she’d entered the water. The impact had either concussed or shocked her. She was floating head down. He pulled her face up, flipped her over onto her back, pulled her across his body and, holding her in that position, swam to the nearest horizontal piece of rock, and dragged her out of the water.

  She was bre
athing. She opened her eyes, looked briefly at him. ‘Nixie, it’s me. Are you okay?’ Her eyes closed again. She hadn’t recognised him. He glanced up; people were scrambling down the rocks and crowding round her inert body. Someone had called for an ambulance and within a short space of time one arrived. A paramedic briefly examined her, he said she was shocked but she’d be okay, they’d take her to hospital for a check up. He gave the ambulance men his mobile number and asked to be kept informed.

  He slowly swam back to the cove where he’d left his clothes. He was cold. Although the sun was up, it wasn’t warm. He stripped off his wet suit, stuffed it into a plastic bag, dressed and began the walk back along the coast path. He was glad she was okay but, it also had occurred to him, he couldn’t have wished for a better opportunity if he’d planned it. He’d been in the right place at the right time but what she was doing there, and why, he still didn’t know. He’d give her three days and if he’d heard nothing, he’d go back to London and try alternative measures. Patience had never been one of his virtues.

  A day later she called. She’d been discharged from hospital and wanted to thank him. With that came an invite.

  ‘Seb, how about coming to the farmhouse? My mum wants to meet you and she does a good line in cakes. You can stay for tea.’

  He answered immediately. ‘Sounds good to me,’ he said.

  The possibility of actually setting foot in her house put him on a high. He rang Gimp to let him know. ‘This is the break I’ve been waiting for.’

  ‘It’s good, but don’t get too excited, this is a long game, so assume nothing. Keep cool. You’ve got a way in, but don’t blow it. The meeting could be crucial. Find out as much as possible, but say as little as possible. Anything else you think I should know?’

  He hesitated. Should he tell him about Nixie’s mother? He decided against it. Why would he tell him? Gimp didn’t need to know. He was interested only in information to do with Seb’s work as an undercover agent. So he’d pass on any information relevant to that, and nothing more. The rest belonged to him.

  — 8 —

  Seb took the back off his watch and inserted the tiny receiver. It was neat. At the right moment, he’d switch it on. He crawled out of his tent, zipped it up behind him, paused to make sure he’d left no incriminating evidence, then began the walk across the fields towards the farmhouse. The day was downcast, the sky grey but it was close, humid, almost oppressive, as if a storm was due.

  It took twenty minutes to reach the farm but before knocking on the front door, he paused, checking for any external cameras he hadn’t noticed on his first visit. There were none, only the security light he’d noticed previously. He was apprehensive. Not because he was there to find out as much as he could about Grassroots, but because it would be his first face to face with the woman who’d snatched him. He wanted to observe her, how she talked, how she laughed, how she gestured, hoping that way, he might understand her.

  Two cars and a Land Rover were parked outside. He recognised the cars, one belonged to Nixie, one to her mother, but the land rover was new. He knocked, and while he waited for the door to be opened, he looked up. There was a hanging glass porch light and he could just see a tiny wire, protruding from the top of the lamp. It was an ideal place to conceal a camera. So, he was under some sort of surveillance. He took care to act nonchalantly.

  The door was opened by a tallish, fit-looking, middle-aged man with sandy coloured hair. He looked straight at him, as if he was sizing him up. Then smiling, he held out his hand and shaking Seb’s hand firmly, said, ‘You must be Seb. I’m Matt. I’ve heard about you from my daughter. Come in. She’s been baking with her mother and they’re not quite ready, but they won’t be long.’

  He had a slight Scottish accent. He led him down a hall way and then gestured to a side room. It looked like a study, ‘Take a seat, I’m in the middle of a phone call but I won’t be long.’ He left.

  It was all a little formal. Seb glanced around. Plenty of books on the shelves, but the room was set up for meetings. Seb felt suspicious. Given the security lights and the concealed camera, it was highly probable there was some sort of a bugging device amongst the books. He walked across to the window, and with his back to the room, stared out, pretending to adjust his sleeves. He switched on his wire. Then he took a seat in one of the chairs placed round the table and glanced around.

  On the wall, a black-and-white framed photograph of a man. It was taken from behind, so his face was hidden. Probably, Seb thought, Nixie’s father. He was looking out to sea, and written underneath was a line of poetry, ‘I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky.’ It reminded him of the shell at Aldeburgh. He stood up and looked along the bookshelves. Books were always a giveaway. They tell a story about their owner and these were no exception. Matt, it was obvious, was a marine biologist, an environmentalist, an activist. None of the books were familiar to Seb. He picked one off the shelf at random and flicked open the pages. He read the opening paragraph. It was about the impact of oil spills on the oceanic eco-system and too technical for him to browse. He replaced it and pulled out another.

  This one described the grounding of the massive oil tanker, called the Sea Empress and the subsequent oil spillage off the rocks of Pembrokeshire. He read that in 1996 one of the largest and most environmentally damaging oil spills in European history occurred. The Sea Empress, Norwegian owned, crewed by Russians hit the mid-channel rocks as they entered Milford harbour. Subsequent violent gales and falling tides meant 72,000 tonnes of crude oil were released into the sea around the coast, a region renowned for the beauty and diversity of its coastline. Marine birds were hit particularly hard during the early weeks of the spill, resulting in thousands of casualties… seals were little affected but shore seaweeds and invertebrates were killed in large quantities.

  He paused. Now he understood why Nixie loved the sea, and why she’d become an activist. She’d said she’d learnt it at her father’s knee, so like father, like daughter. It also explained why there was so much security on the outside of the house. It wasn’t only because, as he’d originally thought, the farmhouse was remote but because Matt, as well as Nixie, probably had something to hide. He looked up from the book. Matt was standing in the doorway, silently watching him. It disconcerted him.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Matt said.

  ‘About the oil spills? Shocking. I had no idea.’

  ‘It’s going on all the time and all over the world. They’re taken to court, given massive fines, but they never pay up. They get away with it. It’s a waste of time.’

  ‘I have read about the Nigerian oil spillage… maybe direct action is the only response.’

  ‘It was one of the worst. Devastating to the eco-system, the mangrove swamps, marine life, and public health, it’s sickening.’

  ‘You seem to know what you’re talking about. Are you a marine biologist?’

  Matt hesitated, then laughed. ‘You could say that… but tea’s ready, so we’d better go.’

  Nixie was standing with her mother by the long kitchen table. She’d inherited her mother’s dark eyes and the shape of her mouth. She looked shy when she saw him, and quickly introduced her mother.

  ‘Seb, this is my mother, Flori.’

  Seb walked across and shook Flori’s outstretched hand. He looked closely at her. So this was Flori. Flori, the baby snatcher, the woman he’d spent the first two months of his life with. She was serious looking, tense, and spoke rapidly and nervously. Did she have some idea of who he was?

  ‘Thank you so much for rescuing Nixie. I don’t like her soloing, but she takes no notice of me. Well, she can thank her lucky stars you were there.’

  He smiled at Nixie. ‘No problem. Have you recovered?’

  ‘I have. And thanks to you, I’m still alive. It’s the second time.’

  ‘Second time?’

  ‘It’s hap
pened before. Falling.’

  ‘Hmm. A cat has nine lives, they say. So two down, seven to go. Maybe it’s time to give the sea cliffs a miss, don’t you think?’

  Her mother spoke, ‘That’s what I say, but it’s like talking to the deaf. I’ve told her over and over… but she takes no notice.’

  ‘It’s necessary, Mum. I told you. It’s practice. For the project.’

  Seb spoke, ‘Project? What project is that?’

  Her mother answered, ‘Oh, some foolhardy project. Climbing Big Ben. She takes after her father. He was the same, drawn to danger, and big publicity stunts.’

  Seb silently thanked her. He noticed Nixie glance towards her father. He was looking tight lipped. Her mother laughed awkwardly, then seeming to realise the implications of what she’d just said, tried to cover up with the comment, ‘Oh dear, I shouldn’t have said that. Forget you heard it. Won’t you sit down Seb and have some tea?’

  ‘Sure.’ He looked across at Nixie, ‘Is that why you have two friends with you – to practise climbing?’

  ‘They’re still here, but they’ve gone to explore the coastline. I would have gone with them, but Mum insisted I took time off, and we wanted to thank you.’

  Seb looked at Flori. ‘I agree with you. Nixie should take more care and give herself a break.’

  Flori smiled. ‘You see, Seb agrees with me.’

  She gestured towards a chair, poured out the tea and passed across a plate of homemade cakes. He picked one at random.

  ‘Great location, your farmhouse, how long have you lived here?’

  Matt answered, ’Oh a long time. We’ve lived in Pembrokeshire for years. It’s the sea we love.’ He paused, before asking, ‘Where are you from? I can’t quite place your accent.’ He looked at Seb curiously.

  ‘Lived mainly abroad as a child, and my father’s work meant I went to a series of International Schools. After uni, I worked in the City.’