by Mark Burnell
Proctor nodded slowly. ‘I won’t harm you–’ She looked unconvinced. ‘–I promise I won’t.’
‘You can’t have sex with me.’
He found her frankness disarming. ‘What?’
‘You can’t have sex with me.’
Proctor attempted a little levity. ‘That’s a relief. You’re not my type. Now get in.’
But Stephanie looked as serious as before. ‘I mean it.’
‘I don’t believe this. Look, you asked me. Remember? I was the one who was working at home, who pulled on his shoes and drove up here to collect you.’
She clutched her coat at the throat. ‘I won’t let you–’
‘I don’t want to have sex with you. You look like death warmed up. Now are you getting in the bloody car or not? Because I’m not hanging around here all night waiting for the police to arrest me for kerb-crawling.’
Once again, Proctor saw a look that could have been sorrow, hatred or fear. Or all three. After a final suspicious pause, Stephanie got into the car.
Proctor kept both hands on the wheel and looked straight ahead. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Forget about it. You’ve no idea how refreshing the truth can be.’
* * *
It takes me time to remember where I am. This sofa is not in Brewer Street. It is in Bell Street, which is between the Edgware Road and Lisson Grove. I am in the living room of Proctor’s flat.
My life is precarious enough without climbing into strangers’ cars. Last night, I needed to get off the street, and to rest, so I was grateful for his intervention. But now that it is morning, I’ve got to think ahead and make plans. I have to keep moving—moving prey is harder to catch—until I can find somewhere secure to lie low. And for that, I’ll need money. The three hundred and fifty-five pounds that I lifted from the businessmen in King’s Cross will fuel me for a while but it does not represent a passport to a new life.
As I rise from the sofa, I become aware of how ill I feel. This doesn’t seem like a regular hangover; I ache all over and I feel sick. I am simultaneously hot and cold. Maybe this is my body protesting yet again at the way I have treated it.
I assume that Proctor is still asleep. I move quietly. When we returned here last night, we didn’t talk much. He showed me where the bathroom was and I changed into the jeans and sweatshirt that I was carrying in my rucksack. Then he sat me on this sofa and poured me one whisky after another. I don’t remember how many it took to eradicate my in-built sense of caution. Exhaustion was to blame, but by the time I was ready to talk, I was ready to sleep. Proctor realized this and fetched me a pillow and some blankets. I suppose he thought we’d talk this morning. He’s going to be disappointed.
He was wearing a worn leather jacket when he picked me up. I cannot see it in this room so I put on my shoes, gather my things, fasten the rucksack and pull on my overcoat. Then I open the door as quietly as I can and I tiptoe past Proctor’s bedroom, which is on the left, and make my way down the hall.
My temples throb. I feel nauseous.
Before I reach the front door, there is a final room on the left. Somebody could have used it as a second bedroom. Proctor uses it as an office. There are two tables in it; on one, there are box-files and correspondence, on the other, a computer. On the back of the chair between the two hangs his leather jacket. I creep into the office and run my hands through the pockets until I find his wallet. I open it up and ignore the cards. I am only interested in cash. He has eighty pounds; three twenties, two tens. I fold them in half.
Which is when I hear him behind me.
* * *
‘Are you looking for something of yours?’
Stephanie spun round. Proctor was filling the doorway, blocking her exit.
‘Or just something of mine?’
The wallet was in her hand.
Proctor was wearing track-suit bottoms and the same black shirt he had worn the night before. There had not been time to fasten the buttons. On one side of his head the hair was flat to the skull, on the other it stood out like bristles on a brush.
He looked dejected, not angry. But Stephanie had long since learned to distrust appearances. He said, ‘All you had to do was ask. I would have given you money.’
‘Yeah, right…’
‘It’s true.’
She squinted at him. ‘And why would you do that?’
‘Because I know about you.’
His hand was outstretched, waiting for the return of his wallet. Stephanie stepped forward to give it to him. And then she charged, ramming his chest with her shoulder, knocking him off-balance. Clutching the wallet as tightly as she could, she sped across the hall and reached for the front door. But Proctor’s hand grabbed her shoulder, spinning her round. In an instinctive continuation of the movement, she raised a fist and punched him on the jaw. Proctor recoiled, amazed by her speed and strength.
She tugged at the front door catch repeatedly but couldn’t open it. The knowledge came to her gradually, sapping her strength. She let go of the catch, her hand falling limply to her side. When she looked round, she saw the keys dangling from the key-ring that was hanging on the tip of his forefinger.
His other hand was massaging his jaw. ‘Double-locked, just in case,’ he said.
The front door was at the end of the corridor. Proctor had her penned in; there were no rooms to run to, no surprises left to spring. Stephanie’s reactions were automatic, a by-product of experience. She retreated into the corner and slid to the floor. Mentally, she began to go blank, closing everything down, numbing herself. When Proctor took a step towards her, she wrapped her arms around her head and pulled herself into the smallest human ball possible.
‘What are you doing?’
She braced herself for the first blow.
‘I’m not going to hit you, Stephanie. I don’t want to hurt you.’
Those very words had been the preface to a savage beating more than once. She knew that Dean West always tried a little kindness before administering his punishments. She stayed still, knowing better than to lift her head.
‘I’ll tell you what, I’m going to move back. All right? I’m going to move back to my office doorway and then I’m going to sit down on the floor, like you. And when I have, you can look up. Then we can talk. Is that okay?’
There was no reply.
‘That’s all I want to do. Just talk.’
She sensed his retreat before allowing herself to peep through crossed arms.
‘See? I can’t hurt you from here.’
Stephanie felt dizzy. She swallowed.
‘Where were you going to go?’
No answer.
‘Is there anywhere? Anyone?’
She was trembling.
‘What about last night?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to tell me what that was all about?’
She kept her head protected.
‘Look, I know you don’t trust me—there’s no reason you should—but I really have no interest in you, apart from what you can tell me. I have things to tell you too but if you don’t want to hear them–’
‘I don’t want to hear anything,’ she whispered.
Proctor shook his head. ‘This is your family we’re talking about.’
Stephanie shrugged.
‘How about if I asked you some general questions? Would you answer them?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘There’s nothing you need to know about me or about my family.’
‘I see. Well maybe you could just sit and listen. I’ll tell you what I’m working on, what I’ve found out, how I’m–’
‘Don’t you get it yet? I don’t care.’
‘No. I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all. If it was my family on that 747, I’d want to know why it went down and who was responsible. I’d want justice. For them and for everyone else on board. And for all their relatives and friends who’ve had to deal with the aftermath. That’s what this is about
, you know. That’s what this investigation was when I started. A human interest story. What happens to the families and friends of the dead a couple of years down the line when it’s no longer news? How do they cope in the long term? You may not talk to me but there are others who have. I’ve seen their grief. I’ve felt it. Two years plus hasn’t diminished it. They’ve learned to live with it—some of them, anyway—but the wounds haven’t healed. And they probably never will. Every single one of them has suffered and–’
‘Do you think that I haven’t?’ she snapped. ‘That I still don’t?’
‘Of course not. It’s just that–’
‘Just what? Odd that I don’t like to talk about it to journalists? I bet you think my situation is a consequence of the crash, don’t you? That would be a good story for you if it was true, wouldn’t it?’
He wanted to say yes, but said, ‘I don’t know enough about you yet. I can’t tell.’
‘You see? You’re lying like everyone else. I can see your outline from here: a family in ruins, four dead, two survivors, one who copes and one who can’t. Like you said, a human interest story.’
‘My story is changing.’
‘What makes you think I want to see my life in print?’
‘You wouldn’t necessarily feature.’
‘Not unless I improved the story. Then you’d include me. Right?’
For a moment, Proctor considered the temptation to lie. ‘It’s my job. It’s what I do.’
‘Yeah. Fucking people for profit. It’s what we both do.’
She looked in worse shape than she had the night before, outside the Underground station, when her skin had been a riot of goose-bumps tinted by the harsh light falling from street lamps. Now, wherever he looked, she was bones. Her cheekbones were too prominent to be attractive, her wrists looked swollen because her arms were so fleshless, and when her knees showed through the tears in her jeans they looked sharp enough to cut through her blotchy skin.
Proctor said, ‘I’m not writing the same story any more. This isn’t human interest. It’s gone way beyond that. Every day, I learn something new and the angle alters.’
‘Well, you’re a real one-man Woodward and Bernstein, aren’t you?’ He was surprised and it must have showed because Stephanie smiled humourlessly. ‘Yes, I know who they are and what they did. You think just because I sell my body I have the intellect of a footballer?’
‘No. I know that’s not true.’
Stephanie ran her hands through her tangled blonde hair. ‘So, all these other people you’ve been talking to—all the other ones like me—what do they think?’
‘About what?’
‘Your bomb theory.’
Proctor looked at the floor. ‘They don’t know.’
‘What?’
‘I haven’t told them yet.’
Stephanie felt herself tensing again. ‘Why not?’
‘I spoke to most of them before I found out. And when I did find out, I wasn’t sure it was true.’
‘But you are now?’
‘As sure as I can be, yes.’
‘When did you discover this?’
‘Three days before I came to see you for the first time. I never meant to say a word about it but when you refused to talk to me, I just blurted it out without thinking. It was frustration. It was unprofessional. And now it’s too late to take it back.’
Stephanie shivered and then felt hot. ‘Who else knows?’
‘No one. It’s just you and me.’
She made no attempt to conceal her incredulity. ‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’
‘It’s true.’
‘Why haven’t you told anyone else?’
Proctor bit his lower lip for a moment. ‘Because I’m scared.’
The building in which Proctor lived was a small Victorian mansion block. It was not smart but his apartment had some style, although most of it seemed to have been lifted from a magazine. There was a Bose sound system, a widescreen Sony TV, and Danish furniture—armchairs, lamps, bookcases—all of it minimalist and clean. A beautifully-made wooden table dominated the centre of the sitting room. There were Turkish kilims on the floor, African batiks on the walls.
Stephanie lit a cigarette and noted his reaction, a grimace. When she asked him for an ashtray, he produced a saucer.
She said, ‘What do you know about him?’
‘I know that he’s young, probably no more than thirty, and that he’s a Muslim. I know that he’s living somewhere in this city. And I know that this is known at MI5, SIS and the CIA. And I’d guess we could include the FBI in that group, although I don’t know that for sure.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘He probably has several but I don’t know any of them.’
‘Nationality?’
‘Same answer.’
‘What about a photo?’
‘I haven’t seen one.’
‘You’ve hardly narrowed the field much, have you?’
‘I can tell you that outside of those groups I’ve already mentioned, you and I are the only two people who know about this. And that we’re not supposed to.’
Stephanie’s cigarette was making her feel worse. She stubbed it out, half of it unsmoked. ‘That’s another thing. How come you know all this?’
‘I was contacted by a man at MI5.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
She pinched the top of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to will the pain into recession. ‘Why did he get in touch with you?’
‘Apparently, he discovered what was going on and couldn’t live with it.’
‘But when it comes to leaking classified information, he has no problem living with that?’
‘I don’t know what his deeper motive is. I think it’s possible that he had a relative or a friend on the flight. The point is, when it became apparent that the bomber was in London, MI5 were detailed to do the surveillance on him.’
‘Why wasn’t he arrested?’
‘I still don’t know that.’
‘Your whisperer at MI5 didn’t say?’
‘No. I think if he had and then it had come out straight away, it would have been too easy to trace back. He wants me to work it out myself so that it can look like it’s all my own effort. He needs to protect himself.’
‘And you believe that?’
‘Increasingly. At first, I was skeptical. But not now.’
‘How come he picked you?’
‘Because he discovered I was preparing this series of articles. There aren’t many journalists who are still working this story. For most people, it’s yesterday’s news.’
‘But if this is true, there’s no journalist in the world who wouldn’t take the bait. This story will make a legend out of the one who breaks it. He could have given it to anyone.’
‘He wanted someone who had a genuine interest, not an opportunist.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘No. It’s what I think, but…’
Stephanie suddenly felt faint. Her vision shimmered. She closed her eyes and hoped the moment would pass. It didn’t.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Proctor.
She swallowed and found her throat hot and dry. ‘I think I’m going to throw up…’
She rose to her feet and was dizzy. She stuck out a hand for balance. Proctor took her by the arm, guiding her swiftly to the bathroom. He left her there and returned to the living room, trying to ignore the sound of her retching. When she reappeared, her skin was grey and damp with perspiration.
He said, ‘I hope you don’t feel as ill as you look.’
The muscles in her stomach were trembling. ‘I thought it was some kind of hangover…’
‘Sit down. I’ll get you some water.’
‘I’ll be fine in a minute.’
‘I’m not so sure about that.’ When Proctor returned with a glass in hand, Stephanie had put on her coat and was fetching her rucksack. ‘What are you
doing?’
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s none of your bloody business.’
‘Look, you don’t have anywhere to go to.’
She looked insulted, then defiant. ‘I can’t stay here.’
‘Why not?’
Her eyes said it first. ‘Because I don’t trust you.’
‘Well, I don’t trust you, either. But I’m willing to take that risk.’
‘Then you’re an idiot. If you knew what I know, you wouldn’t say that so easily.’
‘I’m sure you’re right but if I was going to harm you, I’d have probably done it by now. You can leave if you want to. I won’t stand in your way. But if you want to stay here, you can.’
5
It was a savage strain of influenza that laid Stephanie low. Proctor offered her his bed but she refused, preferring the sofa. He made her soup, brought her tea, fed her aspirin. She was sullen and silent. For four days, she did little more than sleep. Her temperature fluctuated wildly and during the first forty-eight hours, she vomited repeatedly. The aches never ceased. It was like narcotic withdrawal, the destructive drug being Stephanie herself, her body rejecting every aspect of her poisonous life. At one point, Proctor considered consulting a doctor but Stephanie was adamant that he shouldn’t. When she awoke on the fifth morning, she knew she was getting better.
* * *
Proctor was making coffee. Not instant coffee, but real coffee. Stephanie enjoyed watching the little rituals of preparation, from the grinding of the beans to the cup. She noticed that Proctor was a man who enjoyed practical precision. She saw it in the way he kept everything so clean, in the order that ruled his flat and his appearance. There was no chaos around him and, she suspected, none inside him, either.
They returned to the living room. On the cherry table there were two bulging files, a folder, which was open, and an enlarged colour photograph of a Boeing 747. The fuselage and the engines were deep blue. Running forward of the wing’s leading edge were three enormous, crimson letters: NEA. North Eastern Airlines. The letters reached from the belly to the upper deck, and almost as far forward as the flight deck. On the tail, there was a white circle with two arrows pointing out from the centre, one heading north, the other heading east.
