The Bell Ringers

by Henry Porter

  Between her and the old railway line was a strip of open ground about thirty feet wide. She sprinted across it, threaded her way through the silver birch saplings that colonised the slopes of the embankment and arrived on the open track. She glanced left and right, wondering which way to go. To continue on the westerly route seemed foolhardy, particularly as there were a only a few villages and farmsteads shown on the map, and these were some distance away; but to return in the direction she had come would not guarantee her safety either, even though there was a hamlet about half an hour away. Cursing her desire to see if Eyam was really alive, she crossed the track under the calls of some ravens circling high above her, and dropped down the other side of the embankment, where the ground was firm and offered good cover from the far side of the valley. Deciding to maintain her original course, she set off at a jog.

  Fifteen minutes later she’d put a mile or so between her and the two men, but the ravens seemed to have kept pace with her. She stopped, drank from the water bottle and dully watched the birds through the trees. Then she became aware of the faint ringing of Kilmartin’s phone and fumbled for it in one of the side pockets of the knapsack.

  ‘Yes,’ she said,

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On a walk, trying to dodge some men. I’m about eight miles from our friend’s place.’

  ‘A rendezvous?’ asked Kilmartin.

  ‘I guess so, though I don’t know who with or where. Do you want to meet? I’m being watched at the cottage. I had to push two of them in the ditch yesterday.’

  ‘Look, they’re onto our friend,’ Kilmartin continued. ‘I’ve just been at Chequers.’

  ‘Did you see my friend Mermagen?’

  ‘I don’t know him but I imagine he was there to talk about the election. Temple is going to call it very soon. But the important point is that they know everything. You understand? The situation has become more urgent than I anticipated and I sense an enormous effort is going into tracing Eyam. Every possible agency is involved. We need to meet.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, taking out the map. ‘There’s a town called Long Stratton not far from here. I can probably reach it on foot.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Between six and seven this evening?’

  ‘I’ll find somewhere beforehand and let you know where on this phone.’

  She was about to hang up when she heard the unmistakable crack of a rifle shot from behind her. She dropped down, clutching the phone to her ear and looked around.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Kilmartin.

  ‘Someone’s shooting.’

  ‘At you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Maybe at some birds.’

  There were two more shots in quick succession, which seemed much closer.

  ‘Are you there?’ demanded Kilmartin.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered and raised her head above a bramble bush. There were two men dressed in khaki, camouflage jackets and calf-length lace-up boots standing beside each other. One aimed a rifle with a telescopic sight at something in the sky, using the branch to steady the barrel. He was no more than thirty feet away. A fourth shot followed, then he lowered the rifle, slung it over his shoulder and the two men made towards her. With considerable astonishment she recognised the twins from the pub.

  Kilmartin’s voice was still in her ear asking if she was all right. ‘It’s OK – I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘We’ll speak later.’ As she pocketed the phone she heard a loud clatter behind her as something hit the railway embankment.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ she shouted.

  ‘The drone that’s been following you,’ replied one of them.

  ‘A drone!’ she said incredulously. ‘How the hell did it know where I was?’

  One twin brushed past her with a solemn expression and vanished up the embankment, then reappeared holding a machine, which measured about a metre across and possessed four rotors, one at each corner of its light plastic frame. Two were still spinning noiselessly. ‘There are four cameras on this little bird,’ he said. He dropped it on the ground in front of her and heaved a rock onto the globe at the centre of the rig. What remained was crushed under his boot. Come on, we’ve got a car waiting over there.’

  ‘I thought you two were Jehovah’s Witnesses. What the fuck are you doing running around like a couple of paramilitaries in the woods? What happened to Life in a Peaceful New World?’

  ‘The government happened,’ said one.

  ‘You coming?’ said the other.

  She looked from one to the other. They were slight and dark with thin elfin features and fine black hair. ‘They’ll be coming to see what happened to their machine. They will know its last location.’

  ‘Where are you going to take me?’

  ‘To see Swift. But you stay here if you want. They’ll be along to find this thing.’

  She shrugged and they set off, keeping to the cover of the pine trees. After half a mile they reached a shelter where a long-wheelbase Land Rover was parked with no more than an inch or two to spare under the corrugated iron roof. One of the twins slung the drone into the open back with a look of distaste and told her to get in.

  Inside there was a smell of diesel and dogs. A litter of chocolate wrappers, empty drinks cans and cigarette packets filled the dashboard tray in front of her. The one with the rifle sat with the gun between his legs and the other, who had collected the drone, started the engine and, pumping the accelerator, turned his head to reverse out of the shelter.

  ‘I was followed. I saw two men.’

  ‘Ours. You met one of them in the pub – Danny.’

  ‘Shit, so I needn’t have crossed the stream.’ She looked down at her wet trousers.

  They pulled away from the shelter and followed a bumpy wooded track up to a bridge where they stopped and cast the drone into the torrent so that it was hidden under the bridge.

  ‘Hold on and mind your head on the metal roof. We’re about to hit some rough ground.’

  ‘How far are we going? I’ve got to be at Long Stratton by six.’

  Neither answered until they had reached a fork in the track were squeezing the Land Rover up a rutted path towards an open gateway. ‘I doubt you’ll make your meeting,’ said one.

  They travelled over an area of moorland for about three miles, during which she hit her head more times than she could count. Though he was competent at cross-country driving the driver got stuck twice and he had to engage four-wheel drive by pressing a yellow knob to lift them out of the potholes.

  ‘You can be seen for miles up here,’ she shouted above the roar of the engine. ‘Aren’t we a bit exposed?’

  ‘Yes, but this old banger belongs to the farm over there,’ said the driver, who was clearly enjoying himself. ‘Nobody will bother to look twice at it.’

  They drew up in an untidy farmyard and she was told to get out.

  ‘OK, that’s us done. We’ll be seeing you,’ said the passenger twin. The Land Rover roared off. She looked around the farmyard.

  ‘Over here,’ she heard a voice call out from shadows of the barn. It was Swift. He stepped into the light and put his hand up to shield his eyes and walked towards her.

  ‘It’s good to see you – we wondered whether you’d make it.’ He stopped and revolved through three-sixty degrees, inhaling the moorland air with relish. She noticed the sound of larks high above them and grouse calling across the heather. ‘I never tire of it up here,’ he said. ‘You know this lump of rock we’re standing on is Precambrian – over five hundred and fifty million years old. It comes from the ancient continent of Avalonia.’ He pointed to the north. ‘And those hills over there are made from the eroded material of rocks where we are standing. That’s the oldest beach you’ve seen, I’ll bet.’

  ‘You’re the geologist?’ she said.

  ‘No, I’ve just picked up a bit from friends.’

  ‘Eyam? Tell me where he is,’ she said.

  He gazed at the landscape and sa
id nothing.

  ‘They know. I’ve just heard they’re onto this scam of yours. And that means they’ll be looking at that inquest.’

  ‘We expected that.’

  ‘Where’s Eyam, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘In good time.’

  ‘Why the delinquent twins and the gun?’

  ‘You saw what happened to Russell.’

  ‘If they’d wanted to kill me they could have done so long before now.’

  ‘Yes, that did make us wonder if you’d gone over to the other side. The police seemed to let you go rather quickly.’

  ‘Because I had a damned good lawyer: and by the way, I’m on nobody’s side. You should know that. And that coded note, for heaven’s sake: what were you thinking of?’

  ‘We had to find a way of contacting you without Nock knowing. Nock is working for them. That’s why we went in for that rigmarole with the postman and the note.’

  ‘Nock is working for whom?’ she demanded.

  ‘Most likely the Security Service, or perhaps Eden White’s outfit – OIS. Who knows? We believe White had Russell killed. Once they knew he had seen the documents, they moved.’

  ‘Then who turned The Story of the Shipwrecked Sailor round so I would see it?’

  ‘That was me,’ he said. ‘Clever of you to work it out. I was all for telling you, but we just couldn’t trust anyone and we weren’t entirely sure about you. Coming to the cottage and just breaking the news wasn’t an option either. There are listening devices everywhere, which is how they knew Russell had seen the documents.’ He shook his head. ‘We realised Russell must have told you something at Dove Cottage.’

  ‘And this morning: how did they know I’d left?’

  ‘I guess there are micro-cameras up there.’

  ‘They were removed.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Nock told Russell. It surprises me – basically he’s a decent man.’

  ‘They’ve got some kind of hold on him.’

  ‘Did Nock put the porn on Eyam’s computer?’

  ‘Could be. We don’t know for sure, but it is an academic point now. Anyway, we don’t have time for this. Your ride’s here.’

  ‘What’re you doing this for?’

  ‘I told you in the square the other night – this is some kind of last chance. We have to fight what is going on.’

  She looked at him. All the affability and mildness had left his face. ‘You were talking about an eclipse. That implies a kind of optimism.’

  He smiled to himself and turned to her. ‘Maybe, but we’re still run by a few big corporations and a fifth-rate government.’

  ‘And you don’t mind breaking the law!’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody prim. This is more important than breaking a few laws.’

  She looked away. ‘You helped fake a death and then distorted the process of the inquest. Nobody forced you to do that.’

  ‘What is it with lawyers? You only think about the law, not right and wrong. Where was the law when Hugh Russell was gunned down? Eh? Where was the law he respected his entire life? A good man like that. Where was your law when they took you in for questioning, because they wanted to pry into every part of your life? You know that was the reason.’

  ‘If Eyam hadn’t faked his own death and you hadn’t helped him, Russell would probably be alive today.’

  Swift began walking. ‘You think we killed him?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I’m saying that when you tamper with the truth innocent people get hurt.’

  ‘We’ll see: we’ll see what you think in twenty-four hours.’

  They rounded the corner of a barn. Waiting twenty yards away was a man in a gunslinger’s long black leather coat, black cargo pants and a pair of scuffed trainers. He was in his late forties. Longish, rather straggly blonde hair curled over his ears and back into a kind of point at the nape of his neck. He wore several rings and a small cross on a gold chain. A delicate pair of sunglasses was propped on his forehead. He looked like a member of a fairground crew, or a veteran roadie.

  ‘Meet Eco Freddie,’ said Swift. ‘He is your driver today. He’ll take you where you need to go.’

  ‘To see Eyam, right?’

  Swift didn’t answer.

  ‘Good to meet you,’ said Freddie. ‘Now let’s be having you.’

  A little way off stood a large, low-slung, metallic-grey saloon with an oval radiator grill that reminded her of a fish’s mouth. The alloy wheels had been sprayed matt black and the tyres were thin and wide. Mud was splashed along the flank of the saloon, and the windows were blacked out. Like Freddie, the car had a look of honed criminal practicality.

  ‘This,’ he said with a flourish of his hand, ‘is the Maserati Quattro-porte – still the finest and fastest four-door on the market. It’s the 2009 Sport GT model with a new gearbox. My best baby. Hop in the back and attachez votre ceinture, my dear. You will find something of vaguely human form in the front seat. That is Miff. Take no notice of Miff. He’s a useless pestilential gangster, aren’t you, Miff?’ He banged the roof of the car and they both got in.

  The handsome black face from the pub turned to her and a hand was held out between the two front seats. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said in gentle voice. ‘Aristotle Miff.’

  ‘Call a child Aristotle and what you get is a subnormal crack addict,’ said Freddie. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Miff?’

  ‘Take no notice,’ confided Miff with a hand fluttering doubtfully in front of his face. ‘Freddie has issues of the white supremacist kind. The broken home, the childhood dyslexia: we make allowances even though he does not like to be seen with a person of colour.’

  ‘It’s no fucking good greasing up to her, Miff. She’s not gonna tip you.’

  He started the engine and moved off very slowly so that the grassy ridge along the track would not damage the bottom of the car.

  Miff switched on a small laptop, put on a headset and handed one to Eco Freddie. ‘Lucky you didn’t bring Eyam’s car – sticks out like a camel’s dick.’

  ‘And this doesn’t?’ she said.

  ‘Plus it’s like driving a fucking Chippendale wardrobe.’

  ‘Thomas Chippendale didn’t make wardrobes,’ said Miff.

  ‘How would you fucking know?’

  ‘He made mirrors, tables, chairs, cabinets, bureaus, but not fucking wardrobes, Freddie.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be bureaux, not fucking bureaus?’

  ‘Why the laptop and headphones?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s how we get you to your destination without the filth spotting us with their cameras. It’s a kind of specialist navigation system put together by a cooperative of public-spirited individuals, like Miff here, who don’t see why the authorities should know every flaming move made by the citizenry of these fair islands. Every time a number recognition camera goes up it’s added to the system on the web. It’s technological war against the Old Bill.’

  ‘But they surely don’t put cameras out here?’

  ‘They’ve got them everywhere. Out here it’s to catch the sheep shaggers.’

  ‘And the headphones?’

  ‘That’s coz my baby moans when she enjoys herself and I gotta hear Miff, though it’s a mighty pain to listen to him.’

  They dropped down from the hill. Looking along the valley she could see the ancient rock formation rise from a patchwork of small fields like the vast rounded back of a whale. They came to a tarmac road. Freddie put his foot down and the car shot forward. The noise of the engine was like the roar from a furnace door being opened.

  ‘Right, one hundred,’ shouted Miff. ‘Fork left . . . humpback bridge two hundred . . . dip one hundred.’ He continued in this vein from the roads of the Marches into the narrower lanes of Wales, his eyes never leaving the map on the computer that registered their position with a slowly pulsing light. They travelled for about half an hour until they reached a kind of depot with a broad concrete forecourt.

  ‘This is wh
ere you get out,’ said Freddie.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes, here.’

  Miff hopped out and opened the door for her, still wearing his headset. She swung the rucksack onto the ground, got up and unstuck the damp trousers from her legs.

  ‘Can I ask you something? Why Eco? What’s eco about this car?’

  ‘He joined Greenpeace in the nick,’ said Miff, beginning to rock with mirth. ‘And he’s vegetarian, aren’t you, Freddie?’

  ‘Shut the door, darling, before Miff wets hisself.’

  Miff got in, waved, and then Freddie sharked off into the empty lanes with a growl from the Maserati’s four exhausts.

  She turned to the nearest shed, which looked as though it had been used to house heavy vehicles or agricultural machines. Around the entrance, where two large sliding doors shuddered in the wind sending an occasional dull reverberation through the building, the concrete was stained with diesel and engine oil. Either side were piles of oil drums, stacks of tarry railway sleepers and coils of fencing wire. From inside the shed, she heard the chirp of sparrows echo in a large, empty space. The air of doleful abandonment was total. She looked around and then approached a small door cut into the side of the shed where a safety notice flapped in the wind, pulled it open and peered into the gloom. She called out, but hearing nothing let the door slam shut. Then a voice came from behind her. ‘Hello, Sis.’