by Mark Dawson
#
HICKS FOLLOWED MILTON out of the flat and into the vestibule outside.
“You’re travelling light,” Hicks said, nodding down at the small bag that Milton was carrying over his shoulder.
“I don’t need much. A passport and a change of clothes. I’ll get the other things I need when I get there.”
“Weapon?”
“It’s Libya, Hicks. That’s not going to be difficult.”
“No,” Hicks conceded. “I don’t suppose it will.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve got my Sig,” Hicks said.
Milton took his lighter and cigarettes and put them in his pocket. “I’m not going to be very long.”
Hicks put out a hand. “Well, good luck. Don’t worry about Sarah. She’ll be fine.”
Milton clasped his hand. “Thanks,” he said. “Be careful. The Albanians are dangerous.”
“Like you said: nothing to worry about as long as they don’t know where she is.”
“And Sarah’s been through a lot. Just keep an eye on her.”
“I will.”
“The key for the door is in the lock. Help yourself to anything you need. And make yourself at home. I’ll be back as soon as this is done.”
“Good luck, John.”
Milton released his hand, turned, and made his way to the doorway and the street outside. Hicks went back into the flat and closed the door behind him.
Chapter Eighteen
THE ROADS were clear and the drive was easy. Milton plugged his phone into the car’s stereo and selected the playlist of eighties songs that reminded him of when he was younger: New Order, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Tears for Fears, Scritti Politti. He scrolled down until he found the 12” mix of Killing Joke’s ‘Love Like Blood’ and allowed his mind to wander.
He knew that this was the start of a long journey. He had given the situation careful thought, but there was no other obvious way to help Nadia. The pimp was dead. The brothel was abandoned, and it was unlikely that it would ever be visited again. There was no point in finding out who owned it; he expected that he would find a front company, with no way to trace the real ownership behind it. Sarah said that she didn’t know anything that would be helpful, and there was no reason to doubt that. Milton couldn’t ask the police for help without implicating himself in the death of the pimp. He couldn’t ask around in the underworld without putting Nadia in danger.
They were all bad choices. He only had one viable option: he had to follow Nadia’s story backwards, all the way back to the start of her voyage. It would involve time and effort on his part, but the memory of that blandly horrible room in the Wanstead apartment block was a difficult one for him to shift.
He was engaged now, committed to helping a girl he had never met on behalf of the brother who only barely trusted him. But Milton didn’t care. He wasn’t interested in gratitude or a course of action that would make him feel better about himself. He was involved because it was the right thing to do, precisely because he was in a position to make the journey to Libya and call upon favours that would have been beyond the capability of someone like Samir, or just about anyone else.
He was going to do it because he could help, because he had a long ledger of sins for which he had to atone, and because the only way he could atone was by helping others.
#
HE ARRIVED in Dover at midnight. There was a Premier Inn on Marine Parade, overlooking the harbour and the sea beyond. The car park was quiet. Milton found a space, locked the car, and took his bag into the reception. A middle-aged woman was behind the desk.
“Do you have any vacancies?”
“Plenty,” she said. “Hotel’s half empty. Want one with a sea view?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He filled out the papers, paid in advance, took the key and followed the woman’s directions to his room. He unlocked the door and went inside. It was blandly utilitarian, as he had known it would be—the same bed, wardrobe and bureau as he would have found in any other branch of the chain anywhere in the country. The bathroom was similarly simple. He undressed and stood under the shower for fifteen minutes, closing his eyes and letting the hot water run down his face. He took a towel, wrapped it around his waist and went back into the bedroom. He unlocked the window and opened it, pulling it all the way back so that he could light a cigarette and blow the smoke outside without setting off the alarms. He stood there until the cigarette was finished, the net curtain fanning out behind him from the breeze, smelling the salt and looking out over the dark water to the lights on the harbour wall.
He looked at the sea. He thought of Samir and Nadia and the journey that they had undertaken to put their pasts behind them. They had put themselves at great risk in the hope of finding a better future for themselves in Europe, but now Samir was being held in a detention centre, most likely just waiting to be deported back to the country he had fled, and his sister was lost amid the London sex trade with no easy way for Milton to find her. That assumed, of course, that she was even still alive. There was no guarantee of that.
Three drunken men came out of the pub on the corner of the Parade and made their way along the path in front of the hotel. They were loud and rowdy, catcalling the two girls who were passing on the other side of the street, jeering as the women ignored them and increased their pace. Milton tossed the dog-end out of the window, closed it, and went to lie down on the bed. His body was sore, the phantom aches of a thousand injuries pulsing just that little bit more like they always did when he was tired. It had never bothered him before, especially not when he could drink the pain away.
He was getting old.
He fell asleep quickly, dreaming of the sea.
Chapter Nineteen
HICKS WOKE at six the next morning. His sleep had not been particularly refreshing, and he was groggy as he rolled off the sofa and went through into the bathroom. He ran the cold tap until the basin was filled, cupped his hands and filled them with water, and then dunked his face. He pulled back the shower curtain, stepped into the bath and turned the cold tap. He let the cold water play over his body, standing there for a minute until his skin was tingling. He stepped out, wrapped a towel around his midriff, and went back to the sitting room.
Sarah was waiting for him.
“Sorry,” he said, gesturing down at the towel. “I didn’t know you were up.”
She looked at him with an amused cast to her face. “I’ve been awake for an hour.”
Hicks’s clothes were on the sofa next to the girl. “Let me just get dressed,” he said, stooping to collect them and taking them back to the bathroom to put them on. She certainly seemed to have found some attitude overnight; the anxiety was more difficult to detect now, seemingly replaced by a little sass. Hicks hadn’t been expecting that.
She was waiting for him when he returned.
“You want a drink?” he offered. “Coffee?”
“No,” she said, drawing her legs up and hugging them to her chest. “How long am I going to have to stay here?”
Hicks had been thinking about that, too. The idea of remaining in Milton’s small flat all day wasn’t appealing; they would be at each other’s throats before long.
“We don’t have to stay,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“We could go for a walk?”
“John said I shouldn’t go out.”
“Not around here. But we can go somewhere it will be safe. No one will see you. Fancy it?”
“I don’t know.”
“He said you had to stay with me. I know what I’m doing, Sarah. Come on. Get your coat. We’ll go for a drive.”
#
HICKS’S RANGE ROVER had smoked privacy glass and, once Sarah realised that it was impossible to see into it from the outside, she began to relax. Hicks brought the car right up to the door, reached over to open the passenger side door, and waited for Sarah to hurry inside. She did, closing the door behind her, and Hicks pu
t the vehicle into gear and drove off.
She was quiet until they were heading northeast on the A12.
“Where is John going?”
“He has something he needs to do.”
“Where?”
“He didn’t tell me,” Hicks lied. “But you don’t need to worry.”
“I’m not worried about him. I don’t even know him. I’m worried about me.”
“Everything is fine. Nothing is going to happen.”
Sarah settled back in the seat and stared out of the window. Hicks reached down to the console, switched over to CarPlay and found a Spotify compilation that he had put together. It was a collection of prog rock classics, with cuts from Steve Hackett, Roxy Music, Spock’s Beard, Deep Purple and Marillion. He selected ‘Bird Has Flown.’
“What is this?”
Hicks looked across the cabin. Sarah had wrinkled her nose in distaste.
“Deep Purple. You don’t like it?”
“Are you kidding? It’s horrible.”
Hicks smiled and gestured to the console. “Help yourself,” he said.
She took a moment to master the Spotify interface, but, when she had, she quickly navigated to Kendrick Lamar and selected ‘A.D.H.D.’ Hicks did not listen to much current music, but even he recognised the languid, trippy beats that introduced the track.
“Better?” he said.
She smiled at him. “Much.”
They passed through Leytonstone, beneath the North Circular and then on through Woodford and Buckhurst Hill. Hicks had lived in Loughton after leaving school and he began to remember the landmarks. He turned onto Epping New Road, turned left at Cross Roads and pulled over into the car park that accommodated the High Beach Tea Hut.
He switched off the engine and the music stopped.
“Where are we?”
“Epping Forest. I used to run in the woods. You don’t have to worry out here—no one will see us. Want to go for a walk?”
Hicks blipped the locks and led the way to the kiosk. He bought two coffees in polystyrene cups and led the way into the woods. Sarah was wearing trainers, but the ground was firm and the footing secure; he knew a circular route that was a couple of miles long and figured that would be the most suitable for the purposes of getting a little exercise and fresh air. It was a chance to talk to her, too, and to get her to relax her guard. It would be easier to look after her if she trusted him.
“It is nice here,” she said, breathing deeply. “It reminds me of home.”
“Where are you from?” Hicks asked her.
“Tartus. There is a mountain range; it catches the water that is blown from the Mediterranean. There are woods and forest, a little like this.”
“Tartus is in Syria?”
“Yes. Do you know it?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve never been. The nearest I ever got to Syria was when I went to Cyprus on holiday.” He realised how gauche that sounded the moment the words left his lips. “Sorry,” he said.
She waved the apology away. “Why would you want to go there? It was bad enough before, with Assad and his secret police, but it is like hell today. The militias and the government, they don’t care about the people. They fight for the city, and if anyone is in their way, they kill them. There is no future for anyone there. I left as soon as I could.”
“How?”
She looked down at her feet as she spoke. “My parents were killed and I was left on my own. I sold our house. It was worth one hundred thousand dollars, yet the buyer only offered ten. I had no choice—I had to take it. I took a bus north and paid the bribes to get across the border. I was taken to a people smuggler in a café in the centre of town. He said he would get me to Greece for five thousand dollars. He said I would travel by land via Edirne, but then he changed his mind and said I would sail from Izmir. The boat broke down, but the Greek coast guards came and took us to a refugee camp. I travelled to France, to the Jungle. And that is where I was sold to the Albanians.”
“And then brought here?”
“Yes,” she said. “A false passport. They say I owe them for that, and I must pay it back by working for them.”
They walked in silence for a moment.
“Do you know what you’ll do now?” Hicks asked.
“John says he will help me. He seems like he is a good man. I trust him, I think.”
“He is,” Hicks said. “You can.”
“You, too. You have a friendly face.”
She looked up from the ground and smiled at him. It changed everything about her face—the austere expression, the distrusting eyes, the lowered brows. They were quickly replaced by sparkle and brightness that underlined her easy, natural beauty.
They reached the halfway point and started to turn back toward the car.
“What about you?”
“There’s not much to tell,” Hicks said.
“You were a soldier?”
“That’s right.”
“You have fought?”
“I have.”
“You have killed before?”
Hicks turned to look at her. “Why would you want to know something like that?”
She held his eye. “Have you?”
Hicks took a moment to think about what to say. “Yes,” he said at last. “That was my job.”
“Many men?”
Hicks shook his head. “I don’t think we need to talk about that.”
“More than one?”
He shook his head again. “If you’re asking because you want to know that I can look after you, then you don’t need to worry. I can.”
“John killed a man. In the flat. Did you know?”
“Yes,” Hicks said, a little uncomfortable with her seeming preoccupation with death.
“You are like John?”
Hicks didn’t answer that for a moment. He knew that Milton had killed more than just the Albanian. He didn’t know how many men and women had been unfortunate enough to have had their files passed to him, but he knew that there would have been plenty. Dozens? Probably. Hicks had undergone the selection procedure that would have seen him admitted into Group Fifteen, the agency that had employed Milton. It had been Milton who had been responsible for rejecting his application. No reason had been given, and Hicks had never asked for an explanation after meeting Milton again. But, seeing what his career had done to Milton—the solitude that he wore like a badge of honour, the conscience that was so obviously tormented—Hicks found that he was glad that he had been turned down.
Sarah was looking at him expectantly.
“Let’s change the subject,” he said.
Sarah was content to walk in silence and didn’t seem interested in asking Hicks anything else about himself. He found himself relaxing in her company, lulled by the steady cadence of their feet on the trail and the chirping of birds as they flitted between the branches overhead.
“Is John paying you?” she said at last.
“For what?”
“Looking after me.”
“No.”
“So why do you do it?”
“I owe him a favour.”
“He seems like that sort of man.”
“What sort?”
“The sort who is owed favours. I think he is the sort of man who likes to help people.”
“I suppose he does,” Hicks said, thinking of his own history with Milton.
“Thank you,” she said at last.
“For what?”
“For this. You do not know me. You do not owe me anything, yet you are here. That is kind.”
They turned the last, darkened corner and emerged from the vegetation into the open space of the car park again. They made their way across to the Range Rover and Hicks opened the doors. He pressed the engine start button and the console flickered to life. Sarah didn’t wait for an invitation: she waited for the apps to appear, scrolled through to Spotify, selected it and browsed through until she found the entry for Eminem.
“I can’t tempt y
ou with some Roxy Music?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
‘The Way I Am’ started to play as Hicks fed revs to the engine and rolled out of the car park. Sarah turned her head and gazed out of the window as they picked up speed. He could see her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were closed and she was gently nodding her head to the beats.
Hicks headed back to the south.
Chapter Twenty
MILTON SHOWERED, dressed in a pair of clean black jeans, a grey crew neck T-shirt and a black bomber jacket. He checked that he had his passport, phone and charger, cigarettes and lighter, car keys and cash, and left his room.
Breakfast was being served in a dining room that was just as bland and functional as the bedroom he had left behind. There were two businessmen sharing a table, and a woman in a skirt and jacket who eyed Milton up as he went to the table and helped himself to a glass of orange juice and a croissant. He ordered a full English breakfast and a pot of coffee and polished it all off while reading the news on his phone.
The businessmen left, and then the woman. Milton finished his third cup of coffee, collected his bag and took it outside. He smoked a cigarette, enjoying the cool breeze that was blowing in off the water and watching as a large ferry moved sluggishly out of the harbour.
He finished the cigarette, ground it underfoot, got into his car and set off.
#
MILTON DROVE to the detention centre, went through the rigmarole of signing in and passed into the reception room again. Two volunteers were waiting inside, setting up their table and fanning out a series of leaflets. Milton went over and took one; it was written in Arabic, and the cover featured a picture of a man and woman who beamed out at the camera with happy smiles. It all seemed very false.
“Hello,” said one of the volunteers. “Are you a relative?”
“A friend.” He held up the leaflet for her to see. “That happen often?”
“What do you mean?”
“Smiles and laughter. A happy ending.”
