Survival

by Joe Craig

  In a shower of wooden struts and splinters, Jimmy jumped to his feet. The remains of the chair scattered about him.

  Immediately the people around him pounced. Jimmy was out of the spotlight now, but its glare had left him temporarily blinded. All he could see was a black void and random flashes of dim colour. He felt the first hands on his shoulders and swivelled sharply to throw them off. He felt his hand chop into a man’s elbow, heard a crack then a yelp of pain.

  Still unable to see, Jimmy listened. He pinpointed every attacker’s position by the tap of his step, the shuffle of his heel or the sharp intake of breath before action. Every time, Jimmy struck with minimum movement at the last possible moment. His core stayed almost motionless while his fists and feet swung around him like a dancer’s, connecting with the impact of a cannonball.

  But there was one noise Jimmy dreaded. And there it was: the swish of metal on leather. Someone had drawn a gun from a holster. Jimmy ducked and swerved. Which way was the exit? Then came the click of the revolver. Jimmy had to find a way out.

  “Basta!” The new voice was barely above a whisper. It was almost drowned out by the sounds of the fight, but it carried around the church and seemed to stab straight into the hearts of every one of Jimmy’s opponents. They all froze. Suddenly there was near total silence – except for the heavy breathing of half a dozen men, the blood rushing through Jimmy’s own body and something else – a tiny buzz and the squeak of rubber on stone. What was that?

  Jimmy squeezed his eyes tight shut. His vision was starting to clear. Somebody was approaching, but they were directly in front of the spotlight. Jimmy shielded his eyes and peered closer. All he could make out was the outline of a person sitting down. Where had the second chair come from? Then Jimmy realised – the buzz he’d heard was the tiny motor of an electric wheelchair.

  “Who are you?” Jimmy whispered into the shadows.

  The response was even quieter. A man’s voice – old, with a strong Italian accent – ever so softly announced, “I am the Capita.”

  26 A GOOD HEAD FOR A DEAL

  Jimmy leaned in towards the man to hear the words more clearly.

  “It means ‘the head’,” said the voice, still quiet and a little croaky. “And a head is all I am. My body gave up a long time ago.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jimmy whispered. “I thought the Capita was an organisation.”

  “It is,” Browder cut in, still panting from the fight. “Large, rich and powerful.”

  “And it’s mine,” said the husky Italian voice. “Most of the people who work for me don’t even realise that the Capita is a single person. But here I am, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy could feel his hands trembling. Why did this person make him so nervous? He took a deep breath and demanded, “What’s your name?” Everybody around him laughed.

  “Just call me the Capita,” replied the man in the wheelchair. “Or if you’re not a fan of Latin, I don’t mind if you call me the Head.”

  Jimmy craned his neck to try to avoid the light and get a better look at this man. His vision had cleared now and he could see that he’d been right about the building – he was standing in the central aisle of an old church, between the rows of battered wooden pews. There was a medium-sized dome above him, a row of columns along each wall and stained-glass windows higher up, letting in very little daylight. But there was only one thing Jimmy was interested in seeing and that was the man in the wheelchair. He edged closer.

  “Stay there, Jimmy,” said the Head. His tone made Jimmy stop dead. “You don’t need to see my face. You never will. And I know you could end my life easily, but I know you won’t try. You need my help too much, just like I need yours.”

  Jimmy could feel his breathing getting heavier. Were there still drugs in his system, or was it fear?

  “I’m sorry I had to put you through that examination,” the Head continued. “I had to make sure you weren’t still working for anybody else. I know now. If you were working for someone you wouldn’t have tried to escape. You would have taken everything – even torture – and waited for them to track you.”

  “I told you,” Jimmy insisted through gritted teeth, “I’m not being tracked. I can’t be. It’s how I was…” His voice dropped, as if the thought didn’t want to come out aloud, “…designed,” he added under his breath.

  The Head ignored this. “What you did at Mutam-ul-it, Jimmy…” The man’s voice never rose above a whisper and he pronounced the name of the mine with a strong Italian lilt. “It was very impressive. And it probably did a lot of good – for you. But for us, it created one big problem. We’re not a charity, Jimmy. We don’t help the people of Western Sahara because we love them or because we feel sorry for them. Our training and hardware is in return for small amounts of smuggled uranium that made us large amounts of money. When you destroyed the mine you cut off a very profitable revenue stream.”

  “So now you want the actinium,” Jimmy said, almost to himself.

  “Where is it?”

  Jimmy felt his tension ease slightly. “You can have it,” he announced brightly. “It’s buried in the desert.”

  “The Sahara is a big place, Jimmy. You’d better give us co-ordinates.”

  Jimmy thought for a second, a smile creeping over his face. “Then you’d better use your large, rich, powerful business to get me to England.” Jimmy couldn’t disguise his excitement. Only a few minutes before he had been feeling despair and desperation. Now he was buzzing with power.

  “Sounds like you’re a businessman,” announced the Head after a long silence.

  “Sounds like we have a deal,” Jimmy replied. He tried his best to keep his voice calm, while inside he was leaping with joy – he was going to make it back to the UK to find his mum, his sister and Felix. And he was going to stop Britain attacking France.

  “My people will take you to the English Channel,” the Head agreed.

  “What about getting into England?”

  “We’ll arrange that too. We have a good network for moving people around without immigration services. But that will only happen when you’ve given us the co-ordinates of the suitcase. Joshua Browder will escort you as far as the Channel. Tell him the co-ordinates when the time comes.”

  “When do we leave?” Jimmy was beaming. He looked around to find Browder. The big redhead was directly behind him, smiling back. Jimmy couldn’t help feeling positive towards him, despite what the man had put him through. He could well understand the Capita’s eagerness to protect their privacy, as well as their longing for the suitcase of actinium.

  Then Jimmy was distracted by the tiny sound of an electric motor. But by the time he’d turned round, the Head was already disappearing through a door at the side of the altar. All Jimmy saw was the back of a very large wheelchair, with a strange glass dome sticking out of the top of it. Maybe he really is just a head, Jimmy thought, trying to work out whether that was even possible.

  The rest of the Capita’s men filed out through a different side-door, taking with them the remains of Jimmy’s chair, the power cables for the spotlight and the lamp itself. For the first time, Jimmy got to see the men properly.

  They were a strange collection of people and most of them were limping or holding their heads after the fight with Jimmy. They were all different heights and ages, but all were packed with muscle and scowled cruelly. As they left, Jimmy was sure he saw that one of them was in an NJ7 suit, the same as Browder.

  Now only Browder was left, waiting at the front entrance to the church, leaning against a pillar. Jimmy was about to go to him, but something caught his eye. He stared into the dim corners of the building, through the streaks of multicoloured dust picked out by the stained glass. Sitting in the penultimate row of seats was a dark face with long black hair.

  “Marla?” Jimmy called out, hardly believing it. “Is that you?” He ran up the aisle towards her.

  “Do not come too close!” Marla shouted. “I might…”

  Jimmy
slowed to creeping pace, but didn’t want to stop. “You don’t need to worry about that, remember?” he said softly. “I’m…”

  “Oh yes,” Marla gave a little laugh. “Of course.”

  Jimmy was close enough to see her properly now and shuffled along the bench towards her.

  “I am so used to it,” Marla explained. “They made me travel in a separate car with a driver who does not know about what happened to me. They are all scared they might become poisoned by being near me.”

  “I don’t mind.” Jimmy tripped over his words as he sat down next to her. “Being near you, I mean. But not, you know…”

  “It is OK.” Marla smiled and reached out to pat Jimmy’s hand. He flinched at her touch, but not because of the radiation poisoning. It felt so strange to be touched when it wasn’t part of a fight. The tenderness was unfamiliar.

  Marla pulled her hands away and clasped them under a roll of her jumper. For the first time, Jimmy saw evidence of her illness in her face. Her eyes seemed hollow and the colour in her cheeks was much less intense.

  “I am so sorry, Jimmy,” she said, looking down at her lap. “I did not know they were going to treat you like this. I told Josh you had taken the actinium and he said he was going to help you.”

  “It’s OK,” Jimmy reassured her. “He is helping me. But what are you doing here?”

  “The Capita was grateful for everything I did for them and has agreed to find a doctor who can treat me. If I get better, they think perhaps I am useful in training other people. And they say they are always short of girls. Especially black girls.”

  Unknowingly, she raised her hands to push her hair away from her face. Jimmy noticed something. He grabbed Marla’s wrist and studied her fingers. Straight away, she pulled her hand back, but not before Jimmy had confirmed what he’d seen: the base of her fingernails was tinged with blue.

  “Is that…?” Jimmy gasped.

  “It is fine,” said Marla harshly. “The doctor will help me.”

  “But—”

  Jimmy was cut off by a shout from the main entrance of the church.

  “I’ll start the car, Jimmy.” It was the cheerful northern brogue of Josh Browder. “Don’t try going anywhere without me. The exits are manned.”

  He stepped outside and Jimmy and Marla were left alone, staring at each other.

  “Do not trust Browder,” Marla whispered. “He does not believe in anything.”

  “Except money,” Jimmy replied. “That’s why I can rely on him.”

  “For now.”

  “Now is good enough. I’m not marrying him. I just need him to get me to England.”

  “Be careful, that is all.”

  Jimmy gave a quick nod, but he couldn’t concentrate. All he could think about were the blue patches on Marla’s fingernails and the poison attacking her body.

  “Time to go,” Browder called out, startling Jimmy.

  “Good luck, Jimmy,” said Marla.

  “You too.” He stood up. There was a lot more he wanted to say, but the thoughts jammed in his brain. Marla gave him a small smile, which sent a lurch of excitement through him. He smiled back and went to Browder. When he looked over his shoulder, Marla had turned away. He looked a second time, but she was sitting in the deepest shadow.

  He couldn’t tell whether she was looking back or not.

  27 THE MAN WHO DIDN’T RUN

  Jimmy Coates and Josh Browder travelled swiftly and quietly. Browder drove them to Rome Termini Station, where there were already tickets waiting for them. Jimmy wondered whether any visitor to Rome had ever seen less of it than he just had. The efficient workings of an international criminal organisation had whisked him through it. He longed to hold on to the noises, the colours, the traffic, the smells… and the snatched glimpses round street corners of columns and white stone ruins: the kind he’d never realised existed in real life.

  Without a word, they boarded the huge Artesia Express, moments before the train pulled away. The carriages were gleaming silver with tinted windows and a distinctive red stripe all along the length of the train.

  Browder collected a duffel bag from the rack by the door and thrust it into Jimmy’s arms. He pointed to the toilet and grunted, “Get changed.”

  The tone of his voice told Jimmy there was no point asking questions. A couple of minutes later, Jimmy emerged in an old tracksuit and trainers with a baseball hat pulled down low. His sweaty, stained desert camouflage and borrowed boots had undoubtedly attracted attention at the station.

  Browder was just finishing a phone call, so Jimmy slipped into the seat next to him. Probably setting up the next stage of the journey, Jimmy thought. He was already starting to feel more at ease. He was on the move and finally going in the right direction. Still in silence, Browder produced a loaf of ciabatta bread and a block of provolone cheese, as if out of nowhere.

  “Sorry,” he grunted, concealing a smirk. “No wine.”

  Jimmy grinned and tucked in. I think I’m going to be OK, he thought.

  They changed trains at Milan, then settled in for the main leg of the fourteen-hour journey. Before long, Jimmy was watching a snowscape flashing past him. So these are the Alps, he thought, shuddering at the memory of his mountain ordeal. The vibrations of the train window throbbed through his forehead and when he sat up he saw a trail of drool down the glass.

  “Did I fall asleep?” he asked, stretching and rolling his shoulders.

  “For twenty years,” said Browder with a totally straight face. “You’re in your thirties with a wife, three kids and a job cleaning drains.”

  “Drains?” Jimmy scoffed. “At least invent something realistic.”

  “Don’t worry,” Browder added, “your wife loves you. Even if she does come round to my house quite a lot.”

  Jimmy sighed and shook his head. “I knew one day I’d marry a zookeeper.”

  “Hey!” Browder protested, barging Jimmy with his shoulder. Jimmy laughed and snatched a crisp from an open packet Browder had on the flip-down table in front of him. It felt so good to be laughing again. It reminded him of Felix and his life before NJ7 had come for him. Maybe one day life would be like that again. Jimmy dwelt on that hope. He promised himself that he would never let the people he loved be out of his thoughts.

  But since leaving Rome there had been another person Jimmy hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.

  “Josh,” Jimmy said quietly, “do you know what the effects of radiation poisoning are? The type you get from uranium or actinium, I mean.”

  Browder didn’t look at him, but replied immediately. “I know what you mean.” His expression darkened. “Forget Marla, Jimmy. She’ll be dead within a week. Two at the most.”

  Jimmy was shocked by Browder’s bluntness. “You don’t know that,” he insisted. He could feel his chest tightening again – that heavy fear that he’d felt slowly dissolving since he got on the train.

  “Radiation poisoning isn’t like chicken pox,” Browder mumbled.

  “Well, can I—”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” Browder cut in. Now he turned and grabbed Jimmy by the shoulders. “And you shouldn’t have to either. It’s a tragedy, but it isn’t your fault.” He stared into Jimmy’s face, as if he was searching for something. “You didn’t do that to her.”

  Jimmy crumbled in Browder’s glare. He felt as if every breath he took was bringing blackness into his body, where it grew and came to life, consuming him from the inside. And Jimmy knew the one thought that was fuelling it. I didn’t do it to her, he heard pounding in his head. He pictured the British rockets speeding through the air and penetrating the mine complex with deadly precision. Ian Coates did.

  “He did it,” Jimmy snarled.

  “Who?”

  “MY DAD!” Jimmy screamed it at the top of his voice. As he yelled, he thrust the palm of his hand into the back of the seat in front, powered by the mountain of aggression growing in his system. The flip-down table snapped like a cracker.


  “Excusez-moi!” came a high-pitched squeal. It was the lady sitting in the seat in front. She half-stood and twisted to look over the top of the seat, down her nose at Jimmy. Her face was a picture of elderly indignation – all creases and smudged purple eye-shadow.

  “I’m sorry,” blustered Browder in stilted French. “It’s time for his medication.” The old woman turned again and sat back down. As soon as she did, Browder slammed his elbow into Jimmy’s head, twice. “Take two of these, son,” said Browder, deliberately loudly. “You’ll feel much better.”

  Jimmy took the blows without flinching, too enraged to fight back. He slumped in his seat, fury boiling under his skin.

  “Risk your own life, boy,” Browder growled, “but not mine.”

  Just then a conductor moved through the carriage, checking passports. When he reached Browder and Jimmy he kept moving, winking as he passed by. Jimmy tried to smile, but he felt like he’d left all of his joy behind in Italy.

  In Paris, Jimmy and Browder hurried away from Gare de Lyon. “There’s a contact waiting for us with a van at the Sorbonne,” said Browder in a hushed voice. “It’s ten minutes’ walk. He’ll drive us north, to the boat.”

  “What’s wrong with the train?” Jimmy asked, trying to sound curious rather than suspicious.

  “Are you running this operation or am I?” Browder asked. He said it with a smile though and glanced down at Jimmy with a sympathetic nod. “Eurostar security,” he explained. “It’s tight these days. And the roads aren’t watched so heavily.”

  The explanation sounded valid to Jimmy, but still he could feel doubts mounting. He’d been betrayed too many times before – once already by Browder. His programming was growling inside him and he couldn’t think of any reason to resist what it was telling him to do.

  Jimmy stopped suddenly. “Call the contact,” he ordered.

  “What?”

  “Change of plan. Tell him to meet us there.” Jimmy pointed across the water, a little way ahead and to his left, to the Île St- Louis. It looked as pretty as ever – an island in the River Seine with about seven blocks along a narrow main street. Jimmy had been there once before, in very different circumstances. He knew the island was packed with DGSE safehouses – it was the last place on Earth the Capita would try to ambush him.