Cut Adrift

by Chris Simms

  ‘I’ve never seen any reports about oil contracts. What about the weapons of mass destruction? Didn’t Blair say that’s why we invaded?’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Rick laughed. ‘They don’t let this stuff about oil appear as headline news, mate. You have to dig a bit for it. There’s more. Hundreds upon hundreds of contracts went to US firms to rebuild the areas their own air force bombed to smithereens. This article mentions firms that have links to people at the very top of American government. That Cheney bloke? His old company, Halliburton, was given a contract worth up to seven billion without any bidding process. And that was before the country was even invaded.’ He tapped the screen. ‘And the missing money? Fraud investigations into some of America’s largest firms cannot be discussed in any way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Gagging orders put in place by the Bush administration. Discuss the allegations in public and you’ll be arrested.’

  Jon sighed. ‘It always seems to come down to it.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Greed. From the school bully ripping off lunch money to these big boys out in Iraq. Just a bunch of money-grabbing bastards.’

  Rick closed the screen down. ‘Well, you know what they say about money. The root of all evil.’

  ‘Yup.’ Jon stood. ‘Can’t argue with that. So, tomorrow. Buchanon’s office, eight thirty.’

  Rick grimaced. ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘Why MI5 showed up here, I should think.’

  ‘Oh, Christ. You rang Mykosowski’s office, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah – but Soutar? He agreed to say that he rang me about that fishing trawler – wanting to know more details.’

  ‘When did you arrange that?’

  ‘On the stairs on the way up to the meeting room.’

  ‘Crafty git.’

  Jon spread his palms. ‘Just covering my arse.’

  Rick scowled. ‘You know, I’ve got holiday booked from tomorrow. Heading over to Scarborough, remember?’

  ‘Not till after that meeting, you’re not. When are you picking up Zak?’

  ‘Andy’s collecting him at ten.’

  ‘You can be back home for then.’

  ‘And when am I supposed to pack?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  Rick huffed.

  ‘Anyway,’ Jon smiled. ‘Think about tomorrow’s papers. The last six letters and the announcement she’s been found.’

  His partner’s eyes showed a mix of trepidation and excitement. ‘Not sure if I want to know how grim things got.’

  Twenty-Nine

  Oliver Brookes opened his front door and stepped out into the cool morning air. Off to his left, a seagull let out a series of mocking screeches. He regarded the placid sea stretching away to a hazy horizon. Sunlight was cutting through the crags at the top of the cliffs behind him, mighty shafts of light angling across the bay, thistledown silently drifting through them.

  Stiffly, he walked down his garden path and out on to the beach, aiming for a brightly lit patch of sand before the tidal line of seaweed. As he stepped further into the sunlight, he felt its warmth across his shoulders, then his buttocks, and finally the backs of his legs.

  He turned round and raised his hands, eyes closed to the immense glow. Once the coldness had been forced from his body, he lowered his chin and took the piece of paper from his pocket. After cautiously unfolding it, he read the tiny words yet again.

  My name is Amira Jasim, age 22, former resident of Baghdad, Iraq. I am writing this letter in English to declare to the world that, on the fourteenth of July, I paid $6,000 to board a ship in the Pakistani port of Karachi. This money was to buy me passage to Great Britain. Last night I, and many others like me, were abandoned. If we are to die here in the sea, the captain of the Lesya Ukrayinka is a murderer for he did not turn back for us.

  His eyes moved to the second paragraph.

  The other man who must face justice is Mr Scott King of the Coalition Provisional Authority in Baghdad. When I showed him evidence of how the money meant for rebuilding my nation is being stolen, he passed my identity to militia. They killed my husband, Younis, and I was forced to flee before they came for me.

  He looked at his cottage at the base of the cliff, thinking it would still be in shadow by the time he reached Combe Martin. Refolding the message, he placed it back in his pocket and started for the narrow path that led up from the secluded bay.

  Jon stepped out on to the top step of the renovated warehouse and took in the sun-drenched street before him. ‘This heatwave is going on for ever,’ he yawned.

  ‘That’s what I want,’ Rick replied, slipping on a pair of wraparound shades and trotting down the steps. ‘See you round the back.’

  Jon removed his car keys. ‘Where are you rushing . . . oh, yeah. Newsagent’s.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Rick called back, jogging towards the deli at the corner of the building.

  Jon made his way down the steps then along the side of the building to the car park at the rear. He’d just reached his vehicle when Rick reappeared, a couple of papers in his hands. ‘Trouble,’ he announced.

  ‘What?’ Jon replied, opening the driver’s door and getting in. The other door opened and Rick slid into the passenger seat. He removed his sunglasses. ‘How the hell did they get hold of this?’ He turned the Manchester Evening Chronicle so Jon could see

  the front page headline.

  Britain's Deadliest Man ?

  Jon’s eyes went to the main image: the Border Agency mugshot of Valeri Salnikov. ‘What?’ He whipped the paper from Rick’s hand and read the opening paragraph:

  Is this man behind a spate of gruesome slayings currently baffling Greater Manchester Police? In the past few days, three men have been found murdered in accommodation put aside for asylum seekers. Each victim is thought to be a Russian national. All had been garrotted with such force their heads were almost severed.

  Leading the hunt is DI Spicer of the city’s Major Incident Team. Sources close to the investigation reveal that DI Spicer has been struggling to identify the mystery man. The image below captures DI Spicer in front of the police station on Grey Mare Lane where the MIT are based. More details about the slayings on pages and .

  Jon examined the shot. It was of him showing Soutar, Mueller and D’Souza out of the station the night before. Bloody hell, whoever took it must have been parked up on the road right in front of them. His eyes returned to the top of the page, picking out the small panel below the headline.

  By Carmel Todd, Chief Crime Reporter

  He let the newspaper sag between his knees. ‘She’s fucking done me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘No!’ He made a fist and ground his knuckles against the centre of his forehead. ‘The cow has done me.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  Jon let his hand fall on to the page. ‘The case notes I left in her flat.’ He tapped Salnikov’s mugshot. ‘This photo and loads of notes. Bits and pieces I’d jotted down about old throat-scars here.’

  ‘Oh shit, Jon.’

  He dropped the paper on to the floor between them. ‘I asked for it.’

  Rick sat back, tapping his fingers on the copy of the Express.

  ‘Buchanon will know by now.’

  ‘Yup,’ Jon said grimly, starting the engine. ‘I am well and truly in it.’

  ‘It could have come from somewhere else. Border Agency, maybe?’

  ‘Be serious, mate.’ He reversed, then swung the car on to

  Whitworth Street. ‘Come on, then. Let’s hear the last letters.’

  Rick glanced down at the copy of the Chronicle, shook his head then turned to the other paper. ‘OK, here we go,’ he announced, opening the front page. ‘Letter number fourteen.’

  Morning, our sixth day at sea. No cloud or wind again. Writing these words now takes me many hours. I have tied the pen to my wrist so I cannot drop it. The sun is strong and my lips are covered in flakes of salt. Awake I can thin
k only of a cold drink. All we have is our urine.

  The crewmen have taken down the sail and made a roof to hide from the sun. They ignore my requests for food. I have tried to eat clothing, but the taste of salt is so strong. There is leather on one of the women’s bags, but my teeth cannot tear it. I chewed on some small pieces of wood.

  Ali and Jîno are now awake. Ali had kept a few fish and these he shared. Parviz remains asleep. There is no new blood coming from his head.

  Shouting on the life boat. They have water! The man with throat scars has found another man stealing it. In the struggle, the boat nearly turned over. The one with throat scars held the other from behind and pushed the knife deep into his neck. Then he threw the dying crewman into the sea. The man tried to swim to our raft, but sank.

  I do not know if the man with throat scars is good or bad. Why did he not agree to cut the rope which connects us?

  ‘Fucking hell, does this guy do anything else but kill people?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Things are getting desperate. Chewing on leather, trying to eat wood.’

  Jon nodded. ‘And we know what Milton found in the dead Russians’ lower intestines.’

  Rick rolled his shoulders as if preparing his muscles for a task. ‘Next one?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Ali has searched the raft again. Inside a bag, he has found a tiny, curved bottle of perfume. It smells of roses. Jîno likes it very much. He presses it to his nose for many minutes with his eyes closed. He is so young, I do not want someone so young to die.

  We cannot wake Parviz.

  At sunset, the man with throat scars brought the boat close and passed across sixteen dates and a little water. His face is also burned from the sun and blisters cover his lips.

  He said there is nothing more and he pointed to Parviz.

  He said he is going to die and we should roll him from the raft – then we will have more dates and water each.

  Jon scooted round a bus that had pulled over to pick up passengers. ‘You know, it’s been confusing me. Why didn’t throat-scars leave the refugees when the lifeboat turned up? That’s what his mates wanted to do.’

  Rick fiddled with the catch of the glove compartment. ‘There’s a bond between them, now. Survivors. He can’t leave them.’

  ‘Come off it, mate. He’s left them to roast on the raft. The guy doesn’t feel emotion. He just stuck a knife in the neck of one of his mates.’

  ‘That bloke was stealing water.’

  ‘OK, point taken. He does have emotion; when someone jeopardises his chances of survival, he kills them.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘He’ll do anything to survive, right? Anything. Including keeping that raft attached to the lifeboat, even though it must have been slowing them down.’

  ‘I don’t follow—’ Rick stopped. He looked at Jon in dismay.

  ‘You mean he’s keeping the refugees alive for . . . no way.’

  ‘You heard what Milton found in their lower intestines. Read the next letters.’

  Alice stepped out of the lift and looked at the front desk of the MHU. The heads of the receptionist and security guard were bowed over a small radio that had been placed on the counter. Some sort of news item was being read out.

  ‘Morning,’ Alice announced.

  The security guard looked up and quickly waved hello.

  She walked slowly across, trying to make out what they were listening to. The bulletin ended and the receptionist sat back. ‘In the MRI. I can’t believe she’s in the MRI. That’s a quarter of an hour drive from here, at most.’

  ‘Who?’ Alice asked.

  ‘The rubber duck woman. The one who’s been writing the letters. It turns out she’s in the MRI, the BBC just announced it.’

  ‘What do you mean, she’s in the MRI?’

  ‘A ship found her. She was brought ashore in Liverpool and taken to the MRI.’

  ‘How do they know it’s her?’

  ‘I don’t know. She told them? It didn’t give details.’

  Alice’s eyes dropped. ‘That can’t be right,’ she murmured. ‘Did they say what she’s called?’

  ‘No.’

  Alice found herself looking at the woman’s copy of that morning’s Express. The last six letters were inside. ‘Mary, can I borrow your paper, please?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks. OK if I take it through to the ward?’

  ‘Bring it back, though. I do the crossword at lunchtime.’

  Once the security guard had checked her, the lock on the outer door was released and she stepped into the airlock. Six quick strides took her to the inner door. Damn it! No one at the nurse’s desk. She pressed the buzzer as her sense of claustrophobia increased. Come on, come on. A nursing assistant appeared in the corridor, walking from the direction of the telly room.

  Alice buzzed again and he stepped over to the desk, clicked the lock and continued into the nurses’ room. Alice stepped into the deserted corridor. Four holes were in the wall, all that remained of Constable’s Hay Wain. Trouble at the mill, Alice thought, striding quickly down the corridor. A tall, black-skinned woman was standing in the doorway to one of the women’s bays. Ethiopian? Sudanese? The woman’s thin arms were hanging at her sides and Alice could see dozens of scars dotting her forearms. Cigarette burns? She realised with a shock that the woman was pregnant.

  The stretch of corridor with the private rooms was also deserted and Alice hurried to the end door, eyes settling momentarily on the name tag. J Smith. She peered through the little window, relieved to see the young woman was still in the bed, lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. She had been hooked up to a drip once again. Gently, Alice opened the door and stepped into the little room, unable to stop herself glancing at the bedside cabinet. ‘Hi.’

  As usual, the young woman didn’t react.

  Alice stared at her sunken cheeks, the dry patches on her scalp, the welts that remained on her lips. She stepped over to the bedside. ‘I’ve brought you some dates. I read you have over four hundred varieties in Iraq.’

  The young woman’s large eyes shifted, settling on Alice for a moment before moving away.

  ‘And I've got fruit juice. Apple and orange, freshly squeezed.’

  No reaction.

  Alice placed the items on the bed. ‘Is it OK to take a look in your cabinet? I think you’ve got something in there.’ She crouched down and pulled at the little door. The metal latch opened with a ping. On the middle shelf was the dark blue wash- bag. She slid it out, turned it round and saw the letters MDHU on the zip’s tag. Christ, no one even thought to enquire what they stood for.

  Perching on the edge of the bed, she pulled the zip open. ‘I think I might know who you are,’ Alice murmured, peering inside. A toothbrush and toothpaste. A tube of lip salve. Since she’d last examined the bag’s contents, someone had added a pack of sanitary towels. It’ll be a while before her body recovers enough to need them, Alice thought, pushing everything to the side, fingers probing into the corners. A small, rounded object. She took it out and held it up. A curved perfume bottle. Alice unscrewed the tiny cap and sniffed. Roses. She felt tears in her eyes as pictures formed of what the other woman had gone through.

  Movement in the bed. Alice looked over her shoulder. The young woman had averted her head, nostrils flaring in and out. The scent! Alice quickly replaced the cap, realising how smell evoked memories.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ she whispered.

  The other woman kept staring at the wall.

  ‘Is your name Amira? Am I talking to Amira?’

  A tear welled up at the corner of the woman’s eye and Alice felt her own cheeks suddenly become wet. She reached out to cup the other person’s cheek. ‘It’s OK. Everything will be OK, now.’

  The woman remained motionless and Alice looked at the tiny bottle in the centre of her palm. My God. Whoever’s in the other hospital, it’s not the person who wrote the letters. The paper was lying next to her thigh a
nd Alice unfolded it.

  The headline read, 'The Final Chapter?'

  Alice turned to where the letters were printed.

  ‘OK.’ Rick adjusted his seat belt to a more comfortable position. ‘Letter sixteen.’

  Ali did it in the night, while Jîno slept. The lump of wood he used he threw far out into the sea. Then we rolled his body over the side, I am ashamed to say.

  This morning we had one date each and kept the last two for the boy. I think Ali needs him to live as much as I. He has so few years, to die here would be a terrible thing. We hold clothing over him to make shade.

  The sun is directly above, so strong the air is dragged from our mouths. When Jîno woke, he could not eat his dates. He didn’t notice Parviz had gone. We gave him drops from the cap of our bottle. It is nearly finished.

  There are small fish living in the water below our raft. I can see them through the gaps in the wood. I know we should try to catch them, but I am so tired I cannot think how.

  I want to sink down into the cool sea and sleep for ever. My legs and feet no longer sting.

  The silence of the ocean makes my ears hurt.

  We are so hungry we searched the raft again. In a small gap I found a tiny tube of toothpaste. A dot on the tongue has a magical effect – thirst vanishes. We rubbed some on Jîno’s teeth and his eyes opened, but he did not see us. He whispered to his mother.

  The end of the day is near and I have not seen the crewmen. Have they really no food or water?

  Above there are no clouds, all around smooth sea, dotted with smiling ducks. How can there be no ships?

  With the sun low in the sky, Jîno began to moan. He tried to stand, calling for his mother, for food. We only just stopped him falling into the sea. This dying boy.

  In the boat, I saw the one with throat scars, his eyes far back in his skull, all his teeth showing. He watches, only watches.

  At sunset Jîno’s legs started to kick. He sat up, then fell to the side. I hugged him and he made small noises, then all his body shivered. His last breath left him while he slept. I cannot let him go.

  I told Ali why I had to leave Baghdad – the invoices I found in the CPA offices from American companies for work they could not have done. Millions of dollars. I gave the documents to my boss. Later that day, my family rang to say my husband, Younis, had been taken. When the kidnappers called my phone, the man said I would see my husband next morning, when I found his body on the street.