As far as the eye can see

by Phil Walden

  But Start had been adamant. What else had they got? If the archivist was right and none had survived, that in itself told them something. Their cross would be located in a remote area and it could now be well hidden. And Start claimed to know the one person who might possibly have knowledge of its whereabouts, someone who knew these rivers, drains and backwaters inside out.

  Hence they found themselves trawling the countryside in search of the Sheikh. The cab barely coped with what passed for main roads in this territory but struggled still more as it slid and skidded along the minor single lane tracks which criss-crossed the waterlogged fields. At least the trails, raised high above the surrounding ground, afforded them a clear and uninterrupted view but a long morning brought no joy.

  Olivia flipped open the partition window. “This is a complete waste of time.”

  “Keep your eyes peeled.”

  “That maniac could be anywhere.”

  “The last couple of days he’s been seen around here.”

  “Here, there, anywhere. How can you tell? It all looks the same.”

  The cab braked sharply. Start peered out across the fields.

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  “Over there.” He pointed through the windscreen.

  She turned and scanned the featureless scene around them. “Where? I can’t see anything.”

  “There!” Start’s impatient finger jabbed out towards a thin streak of white smoke curling skywards in the distance. The lone figure of a man was crouched at its source.

  “Is it him?”

  Start swung open the cab door. “I think so. But there’s only one way to find out.”

  “No way, I’m not going anywhere near him.”

  “Please yourself.” He leapt out, slammed the door shut and strode away. He clung close to the dyke, the narrow pathway providing a semblance of stability for his smooth heels. He cursed as he slipped and slid on the wet grass. A pair of swans briefly looked up before gliding haughtily away. It was as if they sensed he was alien to the landscape, that he did not belong and so they had nothing to fear, that to them, he simply did not exist. Nor did he seem to matter to the solitary figure in the distance. Despite Start’s warning calls, the man stayed perfectly still as he approached, his back turned resolutely away.

  Start drew closer. The Sheikh, dressed head to toe in camouflaged gear, knelt over a large deep bucket, set down next to a small camp fire. He reached into the bucket. His hand snatched a wriggling eel, its long thin body arching and bending furiously in its desperation to escape. He held the creature firm to the ground. A knife swiftly severed its trapped head. The body twitched, at first frenetically, before gradually slowing to a terminal halt. Start squatted behind.

  “Some catch you got there. Planning a fry up?”

  The Sheikh’s knife slid down the length of the eel, slicing it open, and scraping away the exposed organs.

  Start persisted. “Listen, I need your help. You know these waters.”

  The Sheikh deftly cut the fish into one inch portions, before tossing each in turn into a heated pan on top of the fire.

  “I’m looking for a carving…of a cross,” Start added. The meat began to sizzle violently. “A Puritan cross. I think it’s located near to water, on a building, a monument or something.”

  The Sheikh neither answered nor moved.

  I’ll have to put him at ease, Start thought, befriend him, be helpful. So he leant forward, picked up a large spoon and moved to stir the pan.

  In a flash the Sheikh seized Start and smashed him to the floor, forcing his face firmly into the soggy soil. A knee rammed into the small of Start’s back, paralysing his legs, crushing his arms, the glinting blade of a hunting knife an inch from his jugular vein. Pain racked through his entire body. Suffocating, he fought to twist his head a little to the left. He gulped in air.

  “It’s okay,” gasped Start. “It’s okay. Take it easy.”

  The bloodied knife edged closer. Start began to fear for his life when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pair of mud splattered patent leather boots yards from his face. For once, not that he would ever let her know it, he was glad to see Olivia.

  “Get off him! Leave him alone!” she shouted.

  Instantly the Sheikh’s fierce grip on Start loosened, and then was released all together. Start swung around to see the Sheikh standing above him, staring in fear at the furious figure of Olivia, his mouth open but unable to speak. Instead he turned and ran, straight through the fire, knocking the pan aside, his terror ridden face glancing back frantically as he sprinted away.

  Olivia helped Start to his feet. They watched as the figure of the Sheikh disappeared down a bank at the end of the spur of the dyke.

  Start brushed aside her supporting arm. “Why did you have to interfere? I was handling that.”

  “Looked like it.”

  He rubbed his sore neck. “Now we’ve lost him.”

  “How about ‘I’m so grateful, Olivia.’?”

  “What for?”

  “Saving your life?”

  “I got too near. I scared him. That’s all.” They began to retrace their steps back along the dyke.

  “I still think you’re wrong about him,” insisted Olivia.

  “So you keep saying.”

  “Ex squaddies like him need help. An expose would make the government listen, force them to do something.”

  “They’re not interested. They won’t help.”

  “And living in this hell hole will?”

  Start squinted to look out across the fields. The running figure of the Sheikh could just be discerned in the distance. “Here he can rest…think…heal. This is a place for healing.”

  They walked off in silence. As they reached the cab, perched precariously on the edge of the dyke, Start’s mobile phone shrilled from his pocket.

  “Jack?” He turned away from Olivia’s expectant face. “When was this? Did he leave a name?” He cut the call, flung open the car door and jumped in.

  Olivia clambered into the back. “What is it, Start?”

  He fired the engine. “Someone’s called the paper. They recognised Angel.”

  The car’s wheels spun, gripped and slithered back along the track.

  *

  The speed of the journey back to the offices of the Eastern Mail was quicker than usual. This was for two reasons. Firstly, Olivia loudly and continuously urged Start on, and secondly, and not unrelated, he was anxious to get there if it would just shut her up. As they piled up the steps to the building, she paced ahead and was impatiently seated in Deacon’s office as Start entered.

  “It was an anonymous call,” Olivia announced as he entered.

  Start ignored her. “Jack?”

  “It’s like she said,” Deacon replied. “He claimed he knew her at school. A man’s voice, heavily disguised. Sounded very nervous, had a bit of a stutter.”

  “So what did he say?”

  “He gave the name of a public school. Hereward College. I looked it up. It’s about twenty miles west of here, just on the edge of the Fens. Only four hundred on roll. It takes day and boarding pupils.”

  “Did he tell you Angel’s real name?” Olivia asked.

  “No, afraid not. But he seemed very keen that we visit the headmaster, a man called Faversham. Reckons he’d be able to tell us a lot more.”

  “What are we waiting for?” Olivia declared. “We should go right now.”

  Deacon watched Start’s eyes roll in annoyance. But he wasn’t fooled. She had undoubtedly been good for him. Lit a little bit of the old fire, sparked his interest in some proper journalism for the first time in ages. He had hoped she would. Start was worth saving and Deacon was now more determined than ever to deliver that salvation.

  So maybe it was time to cut him some slack. Give him time to breathe. Too much pressure might extinguish the newly kindled flame.

  “You’re going nowhere, young lady,” Deacon ordered.

  “What?” said
Olivia.

  “You’re due a day back here in the office. Sort out the paperwork. Bit of filing. I could do with some help.”

  A relieved Start was already leaving the office. “Do you good. Get those precious hands dirty.”

  She snapped, “Like you’d remember!” But her words bounced back off a closed door. He’d gone.

  *

  Hereward College was one of those educational institutions which tended to slip under the radar of the wider public’s awareness. It sat on a low hill just west of the old stagecoach road to London, in an area where the Fens end and the low slopes of Northamptonshire begin. Its Tudor turrets could be seen for miles around, to some a representation of all that was traditional, stable and good about England, but to others the thrusting brick boasted of presumed superiority and inherited privilege. It could in no way be called a leading independent school but additions to the buildings in the Georgian era, and recent twentieth century modernisation had preserved its reputation as a provider of a solid rounded education and as a route into the higher echelons of British governance, business and society. Indeed, in the last fifty years it could count amongst its alumni one foreign secretary, two Home Office ministers, three members of Parliament and half a dozen chief executives of companies in the FTSE 100. And, as if in response to the illustrious and rebellious historical figure from whom the school took its name, those who pursued a political career, although covering the full spectrum of parties, had a slight tendency to gravitate to the left.

  Such credentials cut no ice with Joe Start. He simply saw these left leaning, posh boys as opportunists who had jumped on the radical bandwagon, having found their traditional right wing alternative full to capacity. To him it reeked of the establishment just covering its back, ensuring control of all shades of possible government; plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.

  He despised visiting these places. It had taken him a week to get around to it. A week without that irritating and irrepressible force of nature forever on at him, asking questions and demanding answers, assaulting his mind and pricking his conscience. So he’d had a drink or two. So what? Who wouldn’t? Olivia was an exhausting companion. But deep inside Start could not deny that the story of Angel was getting to him. It had aroused the old instincts, had stimulated his curiosity, enough to obtain the e-fit and to press Jack to publish it in the paper. It had finally dawned on him that this was one story he could not ignore and one he would have to see through.

  So, here he was, crunching across the gravel strewn driveway, through the Tudor rose decorated portal to present himself at reception in the grandiose hall. A sour faced woman advised him brusquely that the headmaster was not available. He was outside watching the school team play rugby and anyway he saw no one without a prior appointment. Start’s response was to say nothing, and with her loud protests ringing in his ear, he marched off down the hall towards the green fields which he could see through the large stone embossed window at the end of the corridor.

  Start had always been a football man. He had played it throughout his youth, being widely regarded as something of a speedy winger, before advancing age and slowing pace relegated him to the position of full back. A chronic knee problem had forced retirement in his early thirties. He still missed the game but consolation came via his support of a lower league team, a source of much amusement to friends and colleagues in his latter days in London. It was a sentiment with which it was hard to argue, since apart from a couple of promotions, quickly followed by successive relegations and the odd increasingly distant cup run, the team had delivered almost thirty years of unmitigated misery. To some supporting a football team was like choosing a friend but to Start it was a member of the family. You were born to it. You had no choice. You couldn’t change it even if you wanted to.

  He hated rugby. His old school had briefly flirted with it, but met with indifference and resistance, so much so that they struggled to put out a regular team. What was the point of an egg shaped ball anyway? The bounce was never true. It rewarded luck not skill.

  But if Start disliked rugby, he hated the people who played it even more. All that false camaraderie; what goes on tour stays on tour bollocks. Actions as socially disreputable as any working class hooliganism somehow translated into middle class high jinks in the eyes of the forgiving police and judiciary. What was so special about them anyway, the baying professional horde of lawyers, accountants, estate agents and the like? Each and every one would cut the other’s throat if there was a buck in it for them. Start regarded them as middle class purveyors of licensed fraud on an epic scale. His infamous Globe exposure of excessive behaviour, ticket profiteering and bloodletting amongst the blue blazers had hardly endeared him to the Twickenham hierarchy and he’d thrived on that. But he had made enemies; he had no doubt that his eventual dismissal and exit from the capital resulted in many a champagne cork popping in righteous retribution and raucous celebration.

  Trisha had more than once accused him of having a chip on his shoulder. Deacon went even further, claiming to see a veritable bagful with scraps to boot. So what if he mangled the metaphor. At least he understood. Jack was a product of the post war generation, the baby boomers, who had seen opportunities open up before them, all of which had been inaccessible to their parents. But a lot of hard graft went into taking the chances on offer. It had not come easily. Trish, on the other hand, had never known a day’s hardship in her life, never had to fight for status and recognition. Start resented that and perhaps that bitterness had contributed to the breakdown of their relationship. He was sure of one thing. This affluent bunch running and tackling around a muddy school field and their smug pin striped forebears in swish offices across the country were the fuel which had fired his career in one long protracted act of revenge. Had she been privy to his thoughts at that moment, Trish would surely have pointed out that any retribution had ultimately been theirs.

  A rugby ball tumbled through the air and flew dead centre between a pair of white, mud caked posts. The piercing sound of a whistle signalled the end of the match. A small crowd of pupils and adult spectators applauded whilst the two teams ritually and half-heartedly exchanged three cheers.

  William Faversham finished clapping. He pulled his overcoat tight around his sixty year old body and turned to see Start striding towards him. He held up a two way radio. “I take it you are Mr Start?”

  “And I take it you are the head teacher of this school?”

  “Headmaster. You know you really should make an appointment. I’m a very busy man.”

  Start watched the dirt stained teams trudge by. “I can see that. This won’t take long.” He thrust the e-fit of Angel under his nose. “Recognise her?”

  Faversham gave the faintest flicker of recognition, one not lost on his interrogator. “No. I’ve never seen her before.”

  Start’s intuition told him to step back, tread warily. “We’re just trying to put a name to a face. One of our sources suggested we try here.”

  “And who was that, may I ask?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that?”

  “Well whoever they were, I’m afraid they were mistaken. You’ve had a wasted trip.”

  “Could she have been a pupil here, say around the early nineteen nineties?”

  “Impossible. The college only went co-ed in two thousand.”

  “Might she have worked here?”

  “In those days we rarely employed young girls, an unwelcome distraction for the boys.” His expression seemed suddenly to soften as if he felt that cooperation rather than confrontation would ultimately get rid of this unwanted intrusion. “But I’m happy to check.”

  The two walked back across the school fields towards the main building, with Faversham eager to extol the architectural nuances of its Tudor porch and elegant Georgian wings. Inside, Start winked at the scowling receptionist, who turned away in haughty disgust. He followed Faversham up a set of windy stairs to an office directly below the twin turrets. Faversham s
wept past a faded leather chair and began to rustle through the top draw of his desk, digging out some keys and unlocking a large filing cabinet.

  “I keep all the records in here.” He plucked out a folder.

  “Here it is: names, dates and addresses.” He passed it across.

  Start glanced at the file heading. “This only covers the period from nineteen ninety six. Is it possible for you to go back a little earlier?”

  Faversham stepped towards the balcony window overlooking the quad. “I’m sorry. I only came to the school in ninety four. My predecessor, how can I put it, lacked a little rigour. It took time to put things right.”

  Something didn’t smell right. Perhaps Faversham had been just a little too eager to show him the file. Why the need? He could have held onto it and simply told him. Perhaps it was the instant move away to the window, the breaking of eye contact, as if a nerve had been struck, a painful memory revived. Time to be careful, not to arouse suspicion, above all to let him think all was swallowed and believed.

  Start joined him at the window. “I won’t keep you any longer. You must be anxious to get on. Thanks for your time and for taking the trouble to look.”

  Down below the school cadet squad began to parade to the sound of thunderous orders and synchronised marching boots. In tight measured rows they pounded up and down, discipline, camaraderie and unity being moulded, honed and drummed into each and every one of them. Here were born the bonds of the old school tie, the cloned sense of privilege and entitlement which would serve and sustain them all their lives.