by William Boyd
You’re not stupid, Jonjo had told himself as he plodded along the path away from the boat yard, and that was why he knew he was well and truly reamed, royally shafted. Even if, supposing he was caught and arrested, he told them the truth, everything he knew, he would still take the murder rap. There was no connection that could be made between his freelance jobs and the Risk Averse Group—and whoever it was who had employed Risk Averse to employ him. Everything he said would be interpreted as wild, desperate accusations. Perhaps there might be a bit of embarrassment for Risk Averse (he could see Major Tim making a rueful face, expressing his total shock and surprise) but a disgraced ex-soldier, recently dismissed—who could say what paranoia might build? What fantastical plots might form in a traumatised brain?
No—there was nothing for it, he had to run and hide, that was all. Like Kindred—Jonjo acknowledged the irony again but did not savour it. Luckily he had been well trained; luckily he had concocted plans for unforeseen eventualities and worst-case scenarios. He had made one telephone call on his unused mobile phone to his friend Giel Hoekstra, who lived near Rotterdam. He and Giel had met during the Bosnian tour, found themselves in a few scrapes together, rubbed along and, in the way you do, in the way all the special forces guys did, fully recognising the risky and dangerous nature of the post-army lives they would be living, they had made plans for mutual help and emergency aid should it be required: parachutes provided, potential exit doors left ajar, safe houses identified, friendly ports available in stormy seas. He could have telephoned Norton in St Paul, Minnesota, Aled in Aberystwyth, Wales, Campbell in Glasgow, Scotland, or Jean-Claude in Nantes, France or half a dozen others—but he had decided Giel was the handiest man of the moment and had called that marker in.
All he had said to Giel was that he had to leave England, now, immediately, clandestinely. By boat. Giel had decided what to do after a moment’s reflection: find a small provincial seaside town with a functioning harbour. Canvey Island, Jonjo had said instantly, recalling his childhood holidays—that’s where you’ll find me: Canvey Island, the Thames estuary, Essex. They had chosen a date and time and Giel had outlined a notional plan. From Canvey Island to another small seaside town with a harbour and a busy marina, boats coming and going all the time—Havenhoofd, it was called, near Rotterdam. Then from Rotterdam to Amsterdam to a flat Giel’s sister owned. “Be a tourist for a few weeks,” Giel said. “I have many friends. There’s a lot of work for someone like you, Jonjo. You can be as busy as you want, we get you new passport, become a Dutchman.” Thank god he kept the stash of money aside, Jonjo thought. He had dumped the taxi and had bought a fourth-hand camper-van for £2,000 cash and had driven out of London heading east through Essex for the coast and freedom.
He had parked up in Canvey and waited for his appointed rendezvous with Giel Hoekstra. He felt both pleased at his resourcefulness and mounting anger that he had been obliged to rely on it. What was going to happen to his house, his stuff? Don’t even think about it, he told himself, you’re free, the rest is history and junk. Major Tim Delaporte, move to the top of the shit-list. No, not quite the top—the number one spot was permanently reserved for Adam Kindred.
Jonjo stopped: he had come a few hundred yards from the yacht club and the boatyard, now, it seemed quiet enough. He led The Dog off the coastal path, let him off the lead, and picked his way through the coarse brown grass of the saltings and stepped down on to a small beach. He turned through 360 degrees and saw no one. The Dog was bounding about on the sand, sniffing at sea-wrack and chasing sand crabs, his tail a blur of excitement. Jonjo looked across the river estuary and saw the tall chimney of the Grain power station on the Hoo Peninsula opposite. That was Kent over there, he thought idly, a mile or so away. He walked back to the grassy humps at the edge of the beach and, with his spade edge, measured a rectangle in the thin, shell-choked shingle and began to dig down quickly and easily into the moist, sandy loam beneath, excavating a neat dog-sized hole, two feet deep, with an inch of water in the bottom. He whistled for The Dog and soon heard him panting up from the beach.
“Go on,”Jonjo said, “get in.”
The Dog sniffed around the edge of the hole, clearly not sure about this game. Jonjo put his boot on his rump and pushed. The Dog plumped down.
“Sit,”Jonjo said. “Sit, boy.”
He sat, obediently.
Jonjo took out his Clock. He held it close to his leg and checked the area again, in case any ramblers were heading for the point across the flat, dark brown humps of the saltings before the tide rose, but there was no one. Opposite, on the far side of the mouth of Benfleet Creek, were Southend’s crowded streets and the long arm of its pier. He felt oddly alone, a man and his dog on the extreme, bleak, salty tip of a small island in the Thames estuary and, simultaneously, oppressively suburban—all Essex was out there, just across the water, half a mile away.
He looked down at The Dog and began to experience very odd sensations, all of a sudden, as if his head were fizzing. He pointed the gun at The Dog.
“Sorry, mate,” he said. “I love you, you know that.”
His voice had gone weird and croaky and Jonjo realised he was crying. Fuck! He was falling apart—he hadn’t cried since he was twelve years old. He was past it, well and truly washed up, over the hill, pathetic, disgusting. No wonder Risk Averse had kicked him out. He swore at himself—get a grip, you pathetic girl, call yourself a soldier, some kind of fucking warrior, you are. He levelled the Clock at The Dog’s head. The Dog looked up at him, still panting slightly from his exertions, blinking, unperturbed. Squeeze the trigger. Slowly.
At high tide, as they had arranged, Giel Hoekstra was waiting for him on the quayside at Brinkman’s Wharf on Smallgains Creek where visiting boats were allowed to moor. Giel was standing on the quayside, pacing around, smoking, a squat, burly man with his longish hair in a small pony-tail. He’d put on weight, had Giel, since they’d last seen each other, Jonjo thought, quite a gut on him now. They embraced briefly and slapped each other’s shoulders. Giel showed him the powerful cabin cruiser moored by the quayside that he’d crossed the Channel on: white, raked, clean lines, two big blocky outboard motors on the stern.
“We be in Havenhoofd in three hours,” he said. “Nice little marina. No questions. I am friend for the harbourmaster.” He grinned. “Let’s say—new friend.”
“I can pay for all this,” Jonjo said, handing him a wad of notes. “Look, they’re all euros.”
“No need, Jonjo,” Giel feigned being offended. “Hey. I do this for you—you do it for Giel Hoekstra, one day. No need, please.”
“It’s your money, Giel.”
There was something different about his tone of voice. Giel took the money.
Jonjo stood in the cabin with the wheel in his hand—Giel had gone down to the head to take a leak—and enjoyed the sensation of steering this powerful boat, with its creamy boiling wake, away from England towards his future. The remorseless vibration of the twin engines drumming through the deck reinforced this idea of steady purpose, of smooth untroubled progress, of the inevitability of their arrival at their destination.
He took a deep breath, exhaled. He had hoiked The Dog out of the hole, fitted the lead to his collar and walked back towards the yacht club and the boat yard. Then he had removed the collar (with his name and address imprinted on the dangling steel coin) and had improvised a noose, of sorts, and tied The Dog to the railings by the boat yard. He gave The Dog a pat, said a hoarse goodbye and strode away. He looked back, of course, and saw The Dog sitting on his haunches, licking at something on his side, completely unperturbed. Jonjo had tossed the collar into Smallgains Creek and had walked on. A bark, a yowl—was that too much to hope for? Somebody would take charge of that dog in ten minutes, that was the thing about basset hounds—they were irresistible.
Still, he felt reassured, obscurely pleased at his weakness, not condemning himself, concentrating on the feeling of the engines thrumming through the decking, the vib
ration travelling up his legs, almost sexually arousing, in a funny sort of way. Quiet, steady purpose. Yes, that would be his motto, now he was free, now he was shot of everyone and everything. And his quiet steady purpose would be directed, he decided, towards one end: he would find Adam Kindred. He had the scooter’s licence plate number—he had paid that piece of filth £1,000 for the scooter’s licence plate number—and that was all he needed. That had been Kindred’s downfall: there was a trail now—electronic and paper, from the scooter to its owner—where there had never been a trail before. When it all went quiet, when the toxic dust had settled, when everyone had forgotten about John-Joseph Case, he would come back from Amsterdam to England, secretly, silently, find Adam Kindred and kill him.
61
ALLHALLOWS-ON-SEA. A GOOD NAME FOR A PLACE, A PLACE ON THE Kent shore of the Thames estuary. Adam stood and looked north across the mile or so of water to Canvey Island opposite, on the Essex shore. It was as good a spot as any, he thought, to claim that here the river ended and the sea began. He turned to the east and looked at the high clouds—cirrostratus—invading the sky from the south, lit by a strong, afternoon late-summer sun. Could be bad weather, threat of thunderstorms…You felt yourself on the edge of England here, he thought, surrounded by sea, continental Europe just over the horizon. The air was bright and hazy and there was just a hint of coolness in the estuarine breeze. Autumn coming, finally, this year of years beginning to draw to its close.
Adam, Rita and Ly-on had left Allhallows-on-Sea with its vast caravan-amusement park and had walked along the coastal track towards Egypt Bay. The great flat expanses of the Kent marshes, with their winding fleets, their dykes and drainage ditches, were on their left, the wide river glinted, with a nacreous sheen, on their right, and their shadows were cast strongly on the path behind them as the sun occasionally broke through the ragged, high film of clouds. They sauntered along, carrying their plastic bags that contained their picnic, Ly-on occasionally scampering down to the small strips of sand and shingle to pick something up or shy a stone into the water. Ly-on was taller and slimmer, Adam thought, since he had last seen him, his pot belly gone. He was still not sure if he was any happier, however.
When Adam had decided to go looking for Ly-on, his conscience prodding him, he had been reluctant to return to The Shaft—too many risks, too many people who might recognise him—so he had revisited the Church of John Christ, thinking that, of all places, this was one that had known Mhouse, might have some record of her and what had happened to her son. He put his badge on, for old times’ sake, and presented himself at Bishop Yemi’s office. Bishop Yemi wasn’t in, he was told, the Bishop was running late at a meeting with the Mayor at City Hall. Adam said he’d come back another day. But as he was leaving he saw that the door was being opened for the evening service by Mrs Darling, ‘John 17’ herself, who was also setting up the welcome desk, a few blank ‘John’ badges fanned out in front of her in case some potential converts wandered in.
Adam introduced himself: John 1603.
“I remember you,” she said suspiciously. “You’ve smartened up, John.”
“Do you remember Mhouse?” he asked.
“Course I do. Poor dear Mhousie. Bless her. Horrible thing that happened. Horrible.”
“Do you know what became of her son, Ly-on?”
“Ly-on’s very well, being well looked after.”
This news had cheered him, unbelievably. He felt a sense of relief wash through him that was so intense he thought he might need to sit down.
“Where is he? Do you know?”
“He’s at the Church of John’s orphanage in Eltham.”
“Can I visit him?”
“You’ll have to talk to the director—but seeing you’re a fellow ‘John’, I think that might be OK.”
“Who’s the director?”
“Hang on—I’ll get a letter with his name on.” She went and found some headed notepaper and pointed the name out: Kazimierz Bednarczyk, ‘Director of Special Projects’. Adam noted the empurpled, embossed solidity of the letter head—‘THE CHURCH OF JOHN’ and its prominent sunburst logo, its registered charity number. Some C-list celebrities were on its roster of’honourable patrons’, a devout backbencher, a chat-show host, a born-again member of a boy band. The Church of John was not sitting on its hands, that was for sure. An avenue of bright tomorrows stretched ahead for Bishop Yemi.
Later that day Adam telephoned the number on the notepaper and was told by a friendly young woman that they did indeed have a young boy at the Eltham orphanage called Ly-on. Ly-on ‘Smith’—nobody knew his last name, including the boy himself, so he’d been called ‘Smith’ pending any future adoption. Adam said he was a family friend and would like to take him out for the day, if that were possible. Oh yes, we encourage visits and trips out, he was told. There would need to be a brief meeting with Mr Bednarczyk first and of course there was a fee of £100.
“A fee?…”
“Yes, that’s the fee for a day’s outing.”
Adam had given his name and made an appointment for the following Saturday.
So Adam and Rita hired a car and Rita drove them to Eltham on the following Saturday, mid-morning. Adam had told Rita that he just wanted to see the boy again, see how he was getting on, make sure he was happy and being looked after properly. Rita said she was perfectly prepared to be their chauffeur, thought it was an excellent idea and looked forward to meeting Ly-on. They stopped on the way at a supermarket and bought food and drink—sandwiches, pies, scotch eggs, water, colas, juices—and a travelling rug and paper cups and plates, some plastic knives and forks. On a whim, passing a toy shop two doors down, Rita had suggested they buy some beach games—a Frisbee, a diabolo, some flat paddles with a ball to hit.
The Church of John’s orphanage at Eltham—Adam noticed that the claim ‘John Christ’ was more and more frequently absent in the light of the church’s new prosperity—was a detached Victorian brick villa in a large garden with a car park where the front lawn had once been. Rita said she would wait in the car and Adam went into the building for his appointment with Mr Bednarczyk.
Inside, it was like stepping into an old school, Adam thought. A smell of cooking, of rubberised floor coverings, dusty radiators and chipped paintwork. A struggling prep school that had seen better days and whose pupil numbers were remorselessly dwindling, was the image that came to mind. Through a rear window Adam could see half a dozen little boys in jeans and matching emerald-green fleece jackets kicking a football about on a piebald rectangle of grass fringed by a tall cypress hedge. He could hear a piano being played badly in an upstairs room: chords struck heavily, wrong notes amongst them. A young, hot-faced woman in a nylon overall clattered down the stairs with a mop and a bucket.
“I’m looking for Mr Bednarczyk,” Adam said.
“Down the corridor, first left.”
Adam followed her directions to find a door with a plastic nameplate: ‘K. Bednarczyk’. He knocked and a voice invited him to enter.
Kazimierz Bednarczyk was sitting at a desk covered in papers and files and behind him could be glimpsed a partial view of the orphanage’s front car park through the dangling, dusty, oatmeal louvres of a vertical blind. Adam could see their hired car and Rita walking around, taking the air, exercising, windmilling her arms. Badnarczyk’s peroxide-blond hair and neat blond beard failed to disguise the man Adam knew as Gavin Thrale. They looked at each other for a few seconds. Thrale remained utterly impassive.
“Mr Belem,” he said offering his hand. “Do take a seat.”
They shook hands and Adam sat down.
“What are your plans for the day?”
“I thought we might go down to the coast, find a beach, have a picnic.”
“Sounds delightful. Ly-on would need to be back by six o’clock.”
“Not a problem—I understand.”
“Just fill this in and sign—there.” Thrale pushed a release form across the desk towards him. “I t
hink we can waive the fee—seeing as it’s you.”
“Thank you,” Adam said.
As Adam filled in the form Thrale picked up the phone, punched out a number and asked, “Is Ly-on ready? Good. We’ll meet him in the hall.”
They sat there looking at each other.
“How are you?” Adam said.
“I’m surprisingly well, considering. And you?”
“I’m fine.”
“The church has been very good to me,” Thrale said, cautiously. “I believe you had the same opportunity offered.”
“Yes. But it just wasn’t the right time.”
“Bishop Yemi is a most accommodating man.”
“One might say a remarkable man.”
“You’ve heard he’s standing for parliament. Rotherhithe East. As a Conservative.”
“He is a remarkable man,” Adam said.
“My friends call me Kazio,” Thrale said.
“I’m Primo.”
“What about meeting up one day, Primo? Have a drink. Talk things over.”
“I’m not so sure that would be a good idea, Kazio.”
“Yes…You’re probably right. Funny old life, eh?” Thrale said, standing up.
They walked down the corridor to the hall where Ly-on was waiting, wearing the same jeans and emerald-green fleece uniform of the other boys.
“John!” he shouted when he saw Adam, and ran towards him. Adam fell to his knees and they hugged.
“I know you come for Ly-on,” he said, smiling broadly. “Green, green peas, man.”
Adam stood up, a little overwhelmed, as Ly-on went to fetch his bag.
“You knew his mother, I believe.”
“Yes. She used to serve the food sometimes, at the church. You probably remember her,” Adam said.
