“I wish I could help,” he jammed his foot down to clear the lights in time.
“You already have — I’ve saved my cab fare to the airport.” And with that, Karl popped the glove compartment and sifted through the CDs, finally holding aloft a Thin Lizzy album, ‘The Boys Are Back In Town.’ He beamed, as if he’d just seen a photo of an old friend.
Thomas told Karl the bare minimum about his enchanted evening with Jess and Major Eldridge. No point overloading Karl’s sense of moral obligation right now. Predictably, Karl offered his full support, albeit at the end of a new mobile number, while he was away.
“I’ll try and avoid it, just in case the walls have ears where you’re going.”
Karl raised an eyebrow and stayed silent.
* * *
Thomas’s mood had darkened by the time they arrived at Gatwick airport’s short stay car park. Karl picked up on it straight away.
“First time back, eh, Tommo?”
“Uh huh,” he busied himself, trying to find a space. And tried not to think about the terrible time when Miranda had been abducted — from that very car — tracked by Sir Peter Carroll’s cronies. He managed not to dent the dashboard.
“It’ll get easier, Tommo — when you head back here to pick me up.”
Thomas smiled; Karl was all heart. “Thanks, I’ll put in a good word for you at my next counselling session. And I know just the word.” He parked up and carried Karl’s sports bag in for him; he steered well clear of the laptop.
The airport was orchestrated chaos; staff who knew what they were doing, passengers who knew where they were going, and the drifters who knew neither. Karl headed to an early check-in. He took the bag from Thomas, went through the admin, answered the security questions politely and deposited said bag, retaining his laptop.
Admin over, Karl wove his way through a throng of happy travellers, in search of coffee and provisions. Thomas followed in his wake. There was a certain delight in not having to watch the clock too rigorously: Karl’s flight wasn’t for at least two hours. And that was after allowing time to pass through security.
“What if it all goes tits up, Karl?” Might as well say what he was thinking.
“Then I’m on my own and my day job’s looking very shaky.”
“Shit.” Thomas took another slurp of tea and his brain started ticking.
After breakfast, they wandered through the tasteful range of shops and services. There was a strange goodbye feel to everything, and Thomas had to remind himself that Karl would be back in twenty-four hours, give or take.
“Will you at least text me where you’re staying and where your mum . . . you know.” He gazed over the glass partition.
“She’s in Belfast City Hospital — palliative care. It’s fine to talk about it, really. You’re about the only one I can talk to on the subject.” He shifted the laptop bag to his other hand. “I don’t think knowing my hotel is going to do you any good, but I promise to let you know once I’m settled in.”
“Come on, let’s get you through the sentries so you can stock up on expensive presents.” He paused. “How is it supposed to work when you’re out there?”
Karl understood immediately. “Someone will ring me at the hotel — that’s as much as I’ve been told.”
He walked Karl as far as he could, like a parent taking their youngest child to the school gates. He remembered how pleased with himself he’d been when he’d first figured out a way for Karl to see his mother. Only now, as the back of Karl’s head inched along in the sedated conga, to run the gauntlet of a metal detector and an X-ray machine, he didn’t feel nearly so clever.
Once ‘Alley Cat’ O’Neill was half a dozen people along, Thomas went in search of a decent mobile signal. Top of the call list was Ann Crossley, to see if she could get him another appointment with Sir Peter Carroll. There were things to discuss.
Chapter 27
Karl settled in his seat, eyes closed, listening to the drumming of the engines and the chatter around him. The one benefit of such a short flight was a reduced chance of conversation. And he’d stacked the odds further by pretending to be asleep, even during the safety demonstration. Once they were fully airborne, he relented, gazing out on the clouds and marking the distance of years. He remembered now why he’d always hated flying — it had always been there, but he’d never acknowledged it: that first gut-wrenching flight from home.
Ma had seen him off at the airport, mostly for his own protection. “You will ring me when you’re settled? You can reverse the charges if you have to.”
He blushed against the windowpane as he recalled breaking down, and her flicking his hair from his face and telling him to be brave, to make something out of himself and that maybe Jacqueline would get in touch. But she never had.
Clouds rolled on and the memories rushed in to meet them. He was such a skinny thing in those days — that first day on a building site never seemed to end. He was Paddy of course, except to the other Irish. And then, when the collection went round — for the cause back home — he donated without hesitation, to avoid attracting attention. And before he knew it, he was invited to the local Irish Centre, a slice of home that threatened to cut through the identity he’d concocted.
Mam got her phone calls regularly, from one of those bent phone-boxes that were common knowledge to certain people. He didn’t know who had cried the most, the first time, but after that some unspoken pact applied. He never told her how lonely he was and she never asked.
* * *
When the plane broke cloud cover, Karl felt cheated. He wasn’t done with his memories and he wasn’t ready to face up to the aftermath. But it was coming, ready or not. Table up, straight-backed chair, firm jaw; coming into land.
As the plane circled in a wide arc, high over Belfast, he looked down upon shades of green that he’d never expected to see again, and rubbed away a solitary tear. Somewhere, down there, he’d told Jacqueline that he loved her.
The flight spiralled in and the engines changed pitch for the final descent. And then suddenly they were taxiing to the terminal, back in County Antrim after nearly two decades away.
* * *
Despite the red seatbelt sign, the woman beside him unfastened hers and glanced around the cabin. He didn’t make eye contact, but he watched her closely. Maybe she was on the same package deal: the ‘twenty-four hours and fuck off’ city break. True or not, she looked ready to sprint to the steps.
He, on the other hand, was in no rush; it would take as long as it takes. And for what lay ahead, it could take forever and he still wouldn’t be prepared. After an eternity, the doors opened, front and back, and the cattle disembarked. Soon it was just him, a few stragglers and a woman who needed help with her stick. She’d be about his mammy’s age. As he grabbed his laptop and eased into the aisle, he heard a tinny tune playing across the years — ‘The Party’s Over’ by Tony Bennett — his mother’s favourite. Christmas, birthdays, even bad news days, Tony Bennett would fill the house. Even the day dad left had become part of the Tony Bennett montage.
The sign read, Welcome to Belfast City Airport. Jesus, he’d been away so long they’d renamed the place. Outside, the air tasted different, felt different as it stroked his face the way a mother soothes a child. He thought there might have been someone there to meet him. Not Jacqueline — he wasn’t going soft in the head — but maybe some associate of Martin’s or Francis-Andrew’s. The absence reminded him how solitary he’d become. Right now, this minute, the only person he could ring and chat about the enormity of his being here, was Thomas — and that call was scheduled for later.
* * *
He grabbed a taxi, just as the rain started; lazy drips smearing the view as they made the prodigal’s parade along the Sydenham Bypass. It was as a stranger that he watched, weighing up the risk of a walk-around later on, once he’d checked in.
The taxi driver had launched into the blarney from the off, reaching his fourth minute without pausing for breath. “Sure, it’s a gold
en city now — do you come here often?” And then he laughed at the innuendo, probably repeated a hundred times a month.
Karl fended off any probing questions and stuck with the safest line — being back over on business: computers. He looked the part anyway — smart casual. No suit, but not slumming it either.
The driver was still in full flow as they reached the hotel, something about golf at the weekends and again what a golden city Belfast had become. Karl paid him off, faintly embarrassed by the English currency, and went inside. The hotel was mid-range: somewhere between luxury and a doss-house, as befitted the desires of his employers.
As he stood in the foyer, taking stock, he wondered again if the whole smuggled coins routine was bullshit. Think again, he concluded. John Wright might have welcomed him into the fold, but Jack Langton didn’t seem the type to do charity work.
The reception desk carried a plaque declaring: ‘It’s our pleasure to serve you.’ Which sounded like a wild boast. On the far wall was a sepia print of a harpist, fingers extended and her eyes closed in rapture. Elsewhere, he clocked a stylised image of St Patrick. All the place lacked was a little sign with an arrow — Shamrock Museum this way.
One of the three wee lasses finished her call, tugged at the hem of her bright green jacket and leaned towards him. “Good afternoon, how may I help you today?”
He played the game, shelled out a few details on paper — false address, false name to match the booking, and false mobile number — and collected his room key. No early-morning call, thank you, no complimentary newspaper and definitely no booking for an evening show. Not in the way that she meant, anyway. She nodded a little uncomfortably and advised him that he’d be charged for each diverted call.
* * *
John Wright had been kind to him, finding a hotel within walking distance of the hospital. Even so, he hunched his shoulders in as he walked, and kept his gaze low. He walked up and down outside for a minute, getting his head together; he wouldn’t see Ma until after the exchange, but he wanted to just cross the threshold and burst the bubble.
It was a mixture of the old and the new. A temple to medicine and to hope — for those who believed in such things. The last wisps of euphoria at being back on native soil evaporated as he stepped inside and smelt the sanitised air. Somewhere, in that vast complex of corridors and patients, his ma lay dying. He picked his moment, sidled over to a desk and asked after his ma’s whereabouts. The inevitable questions came, but he put his consummate ability to lie into practice and span them a line about being a distant nephew. Once he had what he needed and an assurance that visiting would be fine, he excused himself and high-tailed it out of there. The CCTV was something he’d just have to chance.
The rain outside spattered cold against his face; he kidded himself it was the weather that made him shiver. On the way back to the hotel, he grabbed a local paper, and wondered whether he was already being watched.
As he walked into the lobby, he faked a phone conversation, a ruse to inconspicuously check out the downstairs. No one approaches you when you’re on a mobile call; rather, they tend to avoid you. The only visitors were a couple having tea in the lounge. Karl nodded politely, and took his fake call elsewhere. He hadn’t thought his contact would be two people but if so, at least he’d had a chance to look at them. The man was bulky, in a suit that had seen better times. The woman, more angular in frame and movement, had been the one paying him more attention. He decided, on the balance of probability, that they were probably guests.
He cut the fake call by the main desk, nixed the phone divert and ordered himself some room service. Back in his room, he switched on the television and examined the phone wires for signs of recent tampering. Part of him knew this was nonsense, but his instincts were so hyped, being back, that it was less stress to follow them up than to ignore them. A cup of catering-standard tea, with sacheted milk and two miniature shortbreads, gave him something to sit down for.
He flicked through the newspaper, not really reading anything, but aware he was scanning for names, while the TV blared on. At five o’clock, someone rapped on the door. He’d ordered room service, but that didn’t stop him opening the door carefully, with a fist clenched out of view. False alarm, just fish and chips with mushy peas. He made the guy wait outside while he signed for it then retreated back into his shell.
A presenter on UTV was reviewing the ongoing case of a stolen JCB digger and the ATM machine it had removed from a wall. He finished his meal, wiped the knife clean and put it to one side. Not the best of weapons, more a psychological comfort.
At six o’clock, he made a genuine mobile call. “Is that the Yorkshire Tourist Board?”
“How are you, mate?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Just waiting for the proper business to kick off. Once that’s done, I can get on with my own plans.”
Thomas waited a few seconds. “Definitely ring me when you need picking up — doesn’t matter what time.”
In hindsight, that was a funny remark to make, because he’d already told him the details, but like as not Thomas had forgotten, what with the tub of crocodiles he was waist high in. “Anyhow, I’ll not keep you — I’ll see you tomorrow. If you’re a very good boy, I’ll bring you back a prezzie.”
“A key ring for Miranda might be nice. “
“Alright, I’ll see what I can afford.”
Thomas laughed then, just as he’d hoped. Jesus, when he thought about the money it had cost — well, cost Miranda, actually. He’d make it up to them though, somehow; he’d see to that. Phone call over, Karl went back to his newspaper.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the laptop bag stowed under the desk. He’d seen it emptied at Gatwick when they’d dusted the battery for explosives. He wondered what was on the hard drive. He took a deep breath and reined in his imagination. John Wright wouldn’t put him at risk — not after everything that went down with Thomas and Miranda.
No, then what about Jack Langton? Langton had humiliated him in front of Francis-Andrew and Martin, painted him as a simpleton lackey and courier. Karl smiled; his conclusions were starting to sound as paranoid as some of Thomas’s. True, but when it came to the serpent’s nest of the Surveillance Support Unit, Thomas had largely been right.
He took a step closer to the bag, sucking the moisture back from his lips. Three light raps on the door changed his mind. He glanced to the knife and stashed it in his back pocket. “Who is it?” his hand twitched on the doorknob.
“Are you McNeill?” the accent was strong and local.
“Yeah, just give me a minute,” he looked around the room. If it was a gunman, what the fuck could he do about it anyway? In no way reassured by the thought, he took off the safety chain, opened the door and stepped back.
The man on the other side of the doorway blinked in the dull hall light. Then he looked left and right along the corridor before taking the first step towards Karl. He didn’t look like a killer; matter of fact, he looked even lower-budget material than Karl had been pitched to be. One thing though: he was wearing gloves.
He closed the door behind him. Karl left the TV on, at a level between audible and irritating.
“Where is it, then?”
Twitchy, Karl decided. Maybe this guy was a conscript as well. “It’s down there — help yourself.”
The stranger knelt down beside the bag and unzipped it. The contents hadn’t changed since Karl last saw it, but the guy opened everything very carefully, as if the laptop were fragile. This did not look like a man in the know.
When the deed was done, the guy stood up and wiped his face with the back of his glove; it glistened with sweat. “Did I do everything alright?” his voice wavered.
“Sure, you were fine,” Karl assured him, rapidly reassessing the situation and spotting an opportunity. It was only ten to seven. “Do you want to sit down — you look like you’re gonna fall down. I could order a couple of drinks up?”
The man licked his lips and took a few more sha
llow breaths. “Would that be okay? I mean, is that allowed?”
“Sure — whisky?” Karl smiled at him, poor bastard. The man nodded back. “Irish or Scottish?”
The stranger faltered, as if recognising a test. “Whatever you’re having.”
Karl smiled again and decided to skip the shandy, on this occasion. He played nice on the hotel phone and sat the guy down in a chair. The double whiskies wouldn’t be long in coming, but that still left time for conversation.
“This your first job for the business?” Karl felt like he was leaching confidence from the other guy by the second; it was a good feeling.
He didn’t reply, but he twitched again.
“Sure, come on. Take your coat and your gloves off, relax a little — you’ve done your bit.” Karl knew the guy would have a delivery to make later, but figured this was probably the hardest part for him.
It was a relief when the drinks arrived — it gave them something to do other than avoid conversation. Now, they could drink and avoid conversation. The stranger lifted his glass and snuck a look at his watch.
“We don’t have to chat,” Karl leaned back casually, catching the TV screen out the corner of his eye. The weather forecast — must be getting on for seven.
The mystery man was still huddled in his chair, only now he was sipping his whisky in rhythmic gulps, like he was in a hurry.
“Hey, don’t go rushing on my account!”
He blushed and swallowed. “I, er, have to be somewhere — they’ll be expecting me. Besides, you’ve probably got things to do?”
Karl narrowed his eyes, concentrating hard on not reacting.
By the time Karl closed the door on his visitor, he’d come to a decision. Every instinct was telling him to get out of there; he’d ring John Wright to tell him there’d been a change of plan — but he’d ring him once he was safely touched down at Gatwick. He checked the time — eight minutes past seven. Now was his best chance of getting to the hospital, but what about his bags? Leave them there and maybe they wouldn’t be around when he got back. And what if someone was checking the front door, waiting for him?
Line of Sight Page 18
