by Amanda James
Silence settles between them – almost a physical barrier – and Nathan struggles to send his words over it. ‘But surely Mr. Ransom doesn’t want me to …’ No. The words wouldn’t come.
‘Oh, that’s exactly what he does want. To make sure there’s no misunderstanding, Nate, Kenny wants you to kill her, yes,’ Dawson says, inspecting his fingernails.
Jason comes in with a red file and Nathan wants to pinch himself to make sure he’s not in some God-awful nightmare. In a minute, Jason will turn into a kangaroo and hop out of the patio doors, the whole scene will fold in on itself and Nathan will wake up safe and sound in bed.
Dawson takes the file and flicks through, all the while talking, talking. Nathan watches his mouth move but nothing’s going in. He catches the word ‘appeal’.
‘Sorry, what appeal?’ he manages.
A sigh from Dawson. ‘Please keep up, lad. Kenny’s daughter Imogen told him to keep his powder dry. Not to rock the boat out here from inside, because she was sure they’d get an appeal. Try to get the best lawyer in the world to get him out early, all that bullshit yadda, yadda.’
‘Bullshit?’
‘Yes, course it was.’ Dawson looks at him as if he’s Jason. ‘It was a fairy story to try and keep Kenny from doing anything to her old mate. Everyone knows there’s no way in hell he’s getting out early.’
‘And Mr. Ransom told his daughter that?’
‘Dear me, you’re not with it today, are you? No, of course not. Kenny’s real cut up about her to be honest. He knows she still sees Masters socially from time to time, even though that copper banged him up. He doesn’t trust Imogen any further than he can throw her.’ Dawson hands him the file.
Nathan takes it and on the first page is a large photo – a head shot. He looks into the eyes of a very attractive woman, late twenties at a guess, then he takes in the hair – dark, short, feathering around her striking features – high cheekbones, square-ish jaw, aquiline nose, full mouth, in this photo slightly pursed, and then his gaze is drawn back to the eyes. The eyes are remarkable. Hazel, almost amber, shot through with green – they draw him in. He turns the page and there are more images of her: walking down the street, in cafés, one in a pub with Imogen. He remembers Imogen from the time she was in the passenger seat of her dad’s car last year some time. Attractive, but not in the same way as Bryony. Nathan turns back to the first photo again and then snaps the file shut.
‘So that should be enough for you to go on. Kenny’s going to speak to you in an hour to get your word that you’ll fulfil his wishes.’
Nathan rubs his eyes and once more wishes this was a dream. This can’t be happening. Can. Not. He clears his throat. ‘What? They listen in on calls inside, you know.’
‘He has his own phone.’
‘They allow mobiles in prison now?’
‘Sometimes I do wonder about you. No, of course not, but Kenny’s still a powerful man in there. Commands respect. He can do favours for his friends and they do favours for him. It wasn’t hard to smuggle a mobile. One of his friends knew a man who did this work.’ Dawson taps the file. ‘Supplied these photos. Kenny has a long reach and it will serve you well to remember that.’
The ice in Dawson’s voice sets Nathan’s stomach churning and in his mind the same thought repeats in various permutations. He is expected to kill someone. Actually kill a person. He could never kill anyone. It isn’t in him to kill someone. He is expected to kill DI Bryony Masters. He would never do it. He can’t. Has no wish to. Then he hears himself say, ‘I can’t kill her, Frank. I’ve never killed anyone in my life—’
‘Hmm … I expected as much.’ Dawson’s voice is sympathetic, warmer. ‘It’s not a nice thought, lad, but it has to be done. If you’re to be trusted, move up the ladder so to speak, then you’ll—’
‘No, I can’t.’ Nathan shakes his head. ‘Won’t.’
Dawson narrows his eyes and drops all pretence of sympathy. ‘You will, Nathan.’ He jabs a pudgy finger through the air at Nathan’s face. ‘When you’ve had a chat with Kenny, you will. Now fuck off before I get really angry.’
Nathan looks through the windscreen at a family of ducks on the pond. He’s pulled into the park, one he used to come to as a kid with his own family many years ago. They had such fun here. Picnics, bike rides … happy days. The shrieks of kids having fun in the playground come through the open window right now, and he takes deep breaths of the fresh air to try to calm his thoughts. His thoughts refuse to be calmed, though, because his mobile phone sits on his knee like an unexploded bomb. It rings.
‘Nathan, how are you?’
Ransom’s voice on the line, though expected, chills his marrow. Nathan swallows, clears his throat. ‘I’m not too bad, Mr. Ransom. What about you?’
A humourless chuckle. ‘As you’d imagine, banged up in here. But let’s get to business. Frank’s filled you in, I expect, so I’d like to hear what you have to say.’
‘The thing is … I’ve never, you know …’
‘Most people haven’t, but it has to be done.’
‘But it’s not in me.’
‘It’s in all of us if the stakes are high enough.’
‘Stakes?’
‘Yes. You want to prove yourself to me, don’t you? Show me that I can trust you with running things eventually?’
‘Er, yes, but I couldn’t do what you’re asking to get up the ladder.’
‘Well, that’s very disappointing, Nathan. Very disappointing.’ Ransom’s tone makes the bile rise in Nathan’s throat. ‘I might have to change my approach then. If you don’t do it I’ll shop you, and you’ll be in Wakefield with me pretty sharpish. Once you’re in here we won’t be friends. Do I make myself clear?’
‘But—’
‘Yes, I have photos of you. Lots of ’em. You handing over Class As, you receiving Class As, you chatting to known drug smugglers … need I go on?’
Realisation punches him between the eyes and his heart plummets. ‘So that’s why you got me all those new jobs.’
‘Bingo. I’ve always wanted to say that, you know, bingo, like they say on those old films.’ Ransom laughs.
Nathan can’t see the funny side. Ransom is such a sneaky callous bastard, and suddenly he can’t keep his temper any longer. ‘Well, do your worst. I’m not doing what you ask, Kenny, and that’s final.’ As he says these words he’s already planning to run. Get his mother and run. God knows where – anywhere away from here.
‘Ah … you are so predictable. Predictable and gutless, just like your dad.’
‘Leave my fucking father out of this! You left him to—’
‘So I decided to send your mum on a little holiday until the job’s done.’
It takes a few seconds for Nathan to process Ransom’s words. A crawling sensation grows in the core of him and spreads to his chest. ‘You leave her the FUCK alone!’
‘Mind your language and your tone, Nathan, when you’re addressing me, or your mum will find that her little holiday becomes very unpleasant. And for your information, she’s already gone. Why don’t you pop round and see? I’ll call you back.’
The disconnect tone fills Nathan’s ears and he shoves his fist in his mouth to stifle a scream. Then he guns the engine and flies to his mum’s house. The door is unlocked, but then she never bothers to lock it, no matter how many times he and his brothers tell her she must. Nathan’s encouraged by the sound of Pointless coming from the TV as he hurries along the hallway, but after flinging open the living room door he sees an empty chair in front of it. No. No. NO!
‘Mum! MUM,’ he yells, and takes the stairs three at a time.
She’s not in the bathroom or the bedrooms. She’s not in the kitchen or the garden. He’s too late. Too late! Instead of thinking up a plan to send her to Devon, he should have just done it there and then. Always thinking, never doing. Damn it! He kicks a stone along the garden path; it thumps into the fence.
Then his phone rings inside on the hall table.
‘S
o I expect you’ve changed your mind?’ Ransom fails to hide a self-satisfied chuckle.
Fury clamps Nathan’s hand so hard around the phone he feels the plastic give. ‘If you’ve hurt her—’
‘You’ll what? Go to the police? Good luck with that one.’
Nathan slumps down in his mum’s chair. He’s beaten and Ransom knows it. ‘Please don’t hurt her.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, what do you take me for? I’ve known Lou for years, she’s sick. I’m holding her to ransom until the job’s done. Ransom’s ransom. Good, eh?’ Ransom sighs when Nathan doesn’t respond. ‘Please yourself. Anyway, I’ll only hurt her if you refuse. Can’t keep her on holiday forever, can I?’
Despair rolls out in front of Nathan like a black carpet. ‘Okay. You win.’
‘I always do. You have a month as it’s your first time. And that’s me being generous. Dawson has what you need. Don’t fail me, Nathan.’
The disconnect tone again. He wishes he could disconnect from this whole fucking nightmare. Nathan puts his head in his hands and tries to think of a way out. He thinks of his mum in some strange place, hopefully somewhere with a TV. He can’t bear to picture her locked in a dark room – or worse. An hour later, he has no answers. He’s only got one option.
14
‘Yes. I’m totally serious!’ Mum hands me a cup of coffee and pulls her chair up to the wooden table on her patio.
‘What, just chuck in my job when it’s going so well and move here, work at the surf school?’
‘Yep.’ Mum fixes me with her piercing blue eyes and says, ‘And you can cut the crap with me. I know you’re not that happy working there anymore.’
‘Eh?’ How the hell does she know? Is she a witch?
‘Look, I’m your mum. When you were telling me all that stuff about catching that slimeball Ransom you were proud, but later, when I asked you about crime rates and stuff, you were less than enthusiastic. You can’t put shit bags away every day of the week, can you? The rest of the time it’s one disappointment after the other.’ She holds a finger up to my protest. ‘Your dad told me what it was like and I doubt it’s got a lot better in just a few years.’
Yep. She’s a witch. No doubt about that at all. ‘You’re right. It does get disheartening from time to time. I joined the force to make a difference and I do … but mostly I don’t. I get so sick of seeing what disasters people like Ransom leave in their wake. Sometimes I have to have a hot shower to get the stink of work off me when I get in.’ I take a sip of coffee. Mum’s watching me intently and so I blurt, ‘To be honest, I have been thinking about making a change – I just can’t decide what would suit me.’
Mum’s face breaks into a grin. ‘Oh, I am pleased. What ideas have you had so far?’
‘Um … teaching or counselling.’
‘Excellent! Either of those would be so much better for you. But I can see you teaching! And in the meantime you could teach surfing with me and Jen. If you were on board we could take on more students and be able to pay you.’
‘I’m a bit puzzled as to why you’re so keen for me to leave. It’s a secure job. My pension will be a hard one to leave behind …’ I twist my mouth to the side and give her a look. ‘And you used to say how proud you were of me making DI.’
Her hands take mine across the table. ‘Of course I’m proud of you, love. But since your dad … I worry every day that you might end up the same way. You deal with dangerous characters and … anyway, I don’t want to go on. I’m just thrilled that you might at least consider leaving. I saw how happy you were the other day when you were with those youngsters in the surf. I think this is just what you need – for a while at least.’
When she puts it like that it all seems so simple, and perhaps it is. I love being in Newquay and close to the ocean. Love being with Mum too. Will it be enough though? Right now my life is a suitcase bursting at the seams with stuff. If I leave my job it might look a bit empty – socks, toiletry bag and a few good intentions scattered about. Mum looks so eager I have to give her something though. ‘Look, I promise I’ll give it some thought, okay?’
Two days later I feel like I need another suitcase. I’ve hardly had time to breathe; what with the surfing, the cooking and shopping – Mum insists we eat properly – and the just being glad to be alive time, I’m exhausted. Exhausted in a good way, though. The despair and frustration that normally threads through me after a hard day at the station is absent.
Cooking, it turns out, is something I enjoy. Yes, Mum taught me the basics years ago before I left for university, but time was short there, and even shorter when I started work. If I’m brutally honest, though, I couldn’t be bothered. So it’s a bit of a surprise that I’m not half bad at it. My fish pie is going to be legendary, according to Jen and Graham. They had second helpings and this gave me a ridiculous sense of pride. Perhaps I’m actually becoming a proper responsible grown-up at last. Mum says I’ve inherited her cooking gene as well as her good looks. I always thought I took after Dad more; I have his jaw – I certainly look a bit masculine. Tall, slim, no real boobs to speak of. I mentioned to Mum that when Immi and I were growing up I was insanely jealous of her curvy figure and blonde hair. Mum says I’m talking nonsense. Mums have to say things like that, though, don’t they?
Lasagne is on the menu tonight and I’m wondering whether to add a third clove of garlic to the pan when my phone rings. ‘Hi, Immi, how’s tricks?’ I say, wedging the phone under my cheek while slicing a clove.
‘You sound up. Having fun?’
That’s an odd response to my question. ‘I’m having lots of fun. And guess what I’m doing right this minute.’
‘Surfing?’
‘Ha, yes, very funny. No. Cooking!’
‘You? Cooking? My God, are you feeling okay?’
Though she’s trying her best, I know something’s wrong. ‘I’m feeling really good as it goes, Immi. Anyway, I asked how you are.’
‘Oh, you know … same old.’
‘No. Tell me.’ I turn the gas off, pour a glass of red and wander out onto the patio.
The sun is thinking about setting over the ocean, there’s a fresh salt breeze mingling with the scent of early roses on the arbour, and next door’s tabby cat runs towards me along the adjoining wall and rubs its head on my arm. I wish Immi could be here right now, see this view, she sounds so down. She’s banging on about work and the fact that this new doctor is expecting too much of her, but I get the feeling that’s not what’s really bothering her.
‘Have you nodded off?’ she asks.
‘Sorry, no, just thinking.’ I rub the cat’s velvet head and it rewards me with a traction engine purr. ‘Is there something else that’s upsetting you, other than work?’
After a pause that lasts a bit too long she says, ‘Funny you should ask, but Dad’s draining me. When I visit, I have to pretend I’m all cheerful and say I’m hopeful for an appeal and stuff when all I want to do is tell him to rot.’
I had no idea she was still visiting. ‘Why? I mean, why visit if you don’t want to? And an appeal? There’s no way he’d get one.’
‘I know that. Look, I’m due for a week off. Can I come and see you for a few days, chat through some stuff?’ A moment’s hesitation while I think about Mum’s response has Immi backtracking. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t have asked. I know you’re spending time with your mum—’
‘Don’t be daft, of course you can come. I was just wondering if I should ask Mum first, but it will be cool. We’d love to see you!’
‘Only if you’re sure. I don’t want to be a bother.’
‘You’re always a bother, but I just put up with you for old times’ sake.’
She calls me a name and we chatter on for a while longer and make arrangements for her stay. Though she sounds more cheerful at the end of the call than she did at the beginning, a few hours later I can’t shake the feeling that the ‘stuff’ she wants to chat through is not going to be easy listening.
15
>
The gun is wrapped in a cloth inside a bag, inside a box, but Nathan still feels the cool imprint of it, the weight of it in his palm. The weight of what it can do, what he’s supposed to do, is heavy in his mind too. For what seems like the millionth time, he wonders if he can actually go through with it, and sits up in bed, a cold sweat on his clammy forehead. The gun waits in the drawer across the room, silent, lethal, terrifying. Last week when Dawson gave it to him he’d said if Nathan wanted to choose another method then that was fine, but he must make sure it was quick and clean. The gun was a sure-fire way; he’d laughed at his ‘joke’ of achieving the ‘target’ at a greater distance.
There’s a bit of a blip in the plan though. In the last week the target seems to have disappeared. Ransom’s sources couldn’t find her in the usual haunts and she doesn’t seem to be at work either. Nathan is to sit tight until she’s been located and then work up a careful plan of action. Ransom had impressed upon him that there would be no fuck-ups, no traces, and certainly no leads back to them. If by some slim chance Nathan was caught he would keep his mouth zipped. If he didn’t, his mother wouldn’t come home and Nathan’s spell in prison would be a short one … and he wouldn’t be out early for good behaviour.
In the kitchen he cracks eggs into a pan and sticks bread in a toaster. Why he’s doing that he has no idea; his appetite has deserted him since all this began. Autopilot, he guesses. Something to do with his hands, any activity to scrape off the gun’s imprint. Inside, all reason seems to have deserted him too. Desertion of appetite, desertion of reason, desertion of family. Nathan’s brothers and sister have been chewing his ear off at every given opportunity, blaming him for the kidnap of their mother. And why wouldn’t they? It was his fault, after all. They have all conveniently forgotten that he’s the one who’s kept the Walker family ship afloat, his dirty money that’s looked after Mum while they all went off and had a life.
The eggs have the texture of rubber and there’s too much butter on the toast, but it’s energy, fuel for his body. Nathan’s burned a lot of energy over the last few days as he pounded the parks and streets. A new jogging regime designed to tire him out body and mind, exhaust his capacity for worry, anxiety about the coming task he’s promised to do. Nothing works though. Even now, his thoughts latch on to what his youngest brother Jack said the other day: ‘We’ve agreed we won’t go to the police, not to save your neck, but because we know we’d never see Mum again. How could you let this happen? And what have you agreed to do?’
