Line of Sight

by DEREK THOMPSON

  He peered at the map on the wall and traced the fire escape route out — almost certainly alarmed. He grabbed the duvet and used it to manhandle the laptop into the bag and zip it up. Time to get moving; he’d chance his luck on getting out through the kitchens. If he moved quickly and confidently, by the time anyone stopped him he’d be more likely to get through than be turned back. As he collected his things and opened the door, a gem of an idea occurred to him.

  The stairs were always preferable to the lift, more space and free movement in both directions. And easier to turn back if he had to. As he walked down calmly, he concocted the sentences in his head, of how the room service meal had contained a piece of plastic wrapping. And how he wanted to see the chef in private to discuss it, rather than make a scene.

  At the bottom of the stairs on the ground floor, he paused and leant round to check the desk. Experience had taught him that it was all about intention and body language. Act as if you’re unimportant and people usually treated you accordingly. Not so much invisible as inconsequential.

  On the count of four . . . he swung sharp right and kept walking, into the restaurant and up to the double doors at the end.

  The maître d’ bounded up to him. “Excuse me, sir, I’m afraid that area is out of bounds for customers,” followed by a fake and slightly perturbed smile.

  Karl put his sports bag down and leaned in towards him. “I’d like a word with the chef about my room service; I thought it’d be better in private rather than out here.” He kept his voice steady and low, somewhere between a request and a bollocking.

  The maître d’ nodded for an instant. “If you’ll kindly wait here, sir, I’ll go and fetch her.”

  Karl watched the door swing after him and followed. The three of them all collided on the other side of the door. Karl got in there first and pulled the chef to one side. In the few seconds of meeting her, he surmised that she looked like a decent person — someone who could do with a boost. And besides, she was a brunette.

  “Can I have a wee word?” he was all smiles as he let go of her. “I’m a mystery shopper,” he revealed, loud enough for the maître d’, and anyone ear-wigging, to hear. He squeezed her arm. “I just want to say that my fish and chips was really first rate. Before I make out my little report, would it be asking too much to have a quick tour of the kitchens?”

  She flushed and looked to the maître d’ who said nothing. “That’d be okay.”

  Karl turned to him. “And listen, let’s not mention this to any of the other staff. Anonymity is paramount in this business.”

  The maître d’ skipped out, grinning like an idiot. Karl stashed his bags in a corner and let the chef show him around. Okay, so he was having her on, but wasn’t the joy on her face real? She didn’t explain who he was to any of the other staff, and showed him round — good girl. She was maybe in her late twenties, and for no reason at all, he suddenly thought back to the woman in the army test lab: the one who had died.

  “I think that’ll be fine, thank you,” he stopped her abruptly. Maybe it was just the heat and steam, but he could feel the sweat oozing out of him. He drew a twenty from his wallet and handed it to her. And could she let him out the back now, to avoid the reception staff?

  The young lad in the car park stamped out his cigarette as Karl emerged. Karl didn’t hang around to explain himself; he had an appointment to keep. A cab would have been less aggravation, but also easier to spot. He kept to the backstreets as much as possible and walked at speed.

  Chapter 28

  Getting into the hospital wasn’t difficult. He’d opted for the first point of entry and after that it was a case of finding his way. The searching gave him something to fix his mind upon, something to drive out the only reason for his being there — to say a final goodbye to the only family member he really cared about.

  He thought of Thomas, who rarely saw his family, by choice. Strange how the lives of people around us follow parallel trails. As if we instinctively choose friends on the basis of some mysterious fellowship. And that, he told himself softly, was why he shouldn’t drink whisky.

  He took his time on the final flight of stairs, steeling himself for the inevitable. There was one person at the nurse’s station and he was grateful for that. “Excuse me, is it possible to see Mrs McNeill — is, er, anybody with her at the moment?” He tried not to screw his face up at the ‘Mrs’ part. Despite an unspeakable divorce — and come to that, the rest of the family still might not know about it — she’d never reverted to her family name.

  She told him he was in luck, for want of a better term. But, she warned him, Mrs McNeill was very weak and might not be very responsive.

  “I’d like a little time with her alone — I’ve not been able to see her for a while.”

  She nodded enthusiastically, as if touched by his thoughtfulness. “It’s the one from last room, on the left.”

  Karl walked solemnly through the sickly heat and stale air, forcing a path between the vapour of antiseptic and decay. The closer he came to that fateful door, the more his legs dragged. Until, finally, he was outside, turning the handle.

  The light was dimmed and the figure in bed still. It hadn’t been that long since he’d seen her face to face — a couple of years at most — and they’d had use of webcams and phone calls in between. Even so, he wasn’t prepared for the frail creature before him.

  A tiny wail escaped his lips. “Ah, Ma.” Before he could say anything further, his eyes had filled up. He put the bags down and approached the bed reverently. The memory of her favourite song rose up like an apparition, and even though his heart began to fracture, he started humming, because he thought she might respond to it.

  His mother’s eyelid flickered after the first few bars of ‘The Party’s Over.’ Her jaw lowered and her glazed eyes seemed to be trying to focus. He rushed to the side of the bed and held her hand; her skin was parchment.

  “Is that you, my brave boy?” she gasped for the words.

  The tears came in floods now, echoing back to the phonebox, where she’d told him to build a new life in England, and to make her proud.

  He hummed to the end of a verse. “Aye, it’s me, Ma.”

  She squeezed his thumb. “Brave boy,” she said, tilting her head towards him slowly, her smile rising gently like a tired moon.

  The door catch slowly clicked and a nurse popped her head around the door. “I just need to check on her — I won’t be long.”

  He made as if to get up, but she shook her head and commenced her duties. Her voice was bright and airy, talking directly to his mother in a light, lyrical voice. She looked the epitome of youth. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Ah, it’s lovely for her to have visitors. I gather she doesn’t have much family — her son moved abroad, apparently, so her niece was telling me last week.”

  He turned his face away without answering her and glowered. Bastards. Despite years of being away, he could rattle off a list of at least a dozen family members — they couldn’t all have moved out of Country Antrim.

  When the nurse left, he took a little while to digest his thoughts and surrender to the stillness. There was a peace to be had there in the dulled light — with just the sound of his mother’s sighing breaths. He glanced down at her and tenderly laid her palm on top of the sheet. Then he shifted in closer and went back to Tony Bennett, only now he sang the words close to her ear.

  A deep smile spread across her face. And although he couldn’t hear her, he could see her parched lips moving. He closed his eyes and continued singing to the end, his hand touching hers. And when he opened his eyes again, she was in a deep slumber; for all he knew, it was the final sleep.

  “I love you, Ma,” he whispered, bending forward to kiss her. It may have been the pressure of him moving, but it felt as if she pushed against his fingers in response. He chose to believe that.

  He stayed there in the gloom, saying nothing and seeing
little, just feeling her presence. Nothing happened in that time of waiting, except there came a point when he knew it was time to go. He said goodbye for the last time and kissed her again.

  “I’m away now, Ma, your brave boy has to go.” He stared at her intently, not really sure what he was looking for. Signs, probably, that she wouldn’t wake again. Better that than the idea of her thinking, next morning, that she’d only dreamed of him and he’d never made it back. He took a deep sigh; it was over. He’d done what he’d wanted to do and now he’d have to live with the consequences.

  He slipped away from her in stages, controlling his movements, so as not to disturb her. He paused at the door, watching the light from the ward reach across the floor to her bed. It always came to this — the parent old and infirm, the child watching helplessly. It was the natural order; only he’d been away for so long that he’d forgotten that.

  The bags came out one at the time, his foot propping the door. Then he carefully clicked the door shut behind him and wiped his face again. There was nothing more for him there and everything to lose.

  As he passed the other rooms, he saw silhouettes against the blinds, and imagined the relatives preparing for the inevitable — if it was ever really possible to prepare. The same nurse was at the desk. She paused from her paperwork and offered him a consoling smile. He looked away to the door at the far end, and started walking.

  As he shouldered the swing door, a shadow approached him: Martin. This was probably it — the long awaited bullet. Well, here on in, he could do his worst.

  Martin’s hands were in his pocket. He drew them both out together — gloves, but no weapon. “Karl,” the word sounded hollow. “I’m sorry about your ma.”

  He stared him down, didn’t reply. Focused instead on not ripping his fucking head off.

  Martin sighed. “A lot of water under the bridge, McNeill. Perhaps it’s time to lay the past to rest.”

  Karl squinted at him — was that a glimmer in Martin’s eye. He remembered the table knife in his back pocket and wondered how quickly he could plunge it into the bastard. No, he straightened up; he’d be better off getting on that plane and never coming back.

  Martin extended his right hand. Karl looked at it, hanging in space like a lifeline. “You should know this, McNeill: Jacqueline never married.”

  Karl advanced his own hand, but took his time about it. “When you see her, tell her, neither did I.”

  Their hands met, solid and unyielding, gripping like a death hold. Then the moment passed and Martin withdrew his gauntlet. As he walked away, leaving Karl standing in the middle of the corridor, Karl started walking too, slowly and steadily.

  A commotion ahead made him stop in his tracks. Martin looked through the glass of the door, at the uniforms that had filled the frame, then back at Karl.

  “McNeill,” he snarled, and Karl thought he was reaching for a gun.

  But when the door swung in, the uniforms ignored Martin altogether and made a beeline for Karl.

  “Karl McNeill? Stay right where you are — Special Branch.”

  Next thing he knew he was tackled to the wall, sports bag crashing to the floor. Then the laptop bag was manhandled off him, his arms were bent back and he felt the sharp cold of handcuffs against his skin. As they twisted him round, Martin looked on, open-mouthed, then casually made his way out the door.

  * * *

  For thirty minutes, Karl had sat at the desk, waiting for someone to attend to him. He had been fingerprinted and his hands tested for chemicals, but hardly anyone had said a word. He stared at the wooden floor and replayed the mess in his head, over and over, flexing his hands every now and again as if to dispel the memory of the cuffs.

  Martin had looked stunned when it happened; not pleased or satisfied, but shocked. Then again, maybe Francis-Andrew had orchestrated it? Well, whoever it had been, he was really fucked now.

  Another face appeared at the window for a matter of seconds and then hastily retreated. He wasn’t even sure how it worked anymore — how many hours could they hold him without a solicitor? And what the hell would they charge him with? He closed his eyes and tried to doze, desperate to stop thinking.

  The rattle of the doorknob startled him and he sat to attention. There were two of them — both from the sharp-suits-and-short-haircuts brigade. They took seats opposite and slapped a size-zero buff folder on the desk.

  “Cup of tea?” the older of the two was Scottish, Glaswegian at a push. He looked to his underling, as if to say, ‘Don’t get comfortable.’

  “Milk and one sugar, please. Any chance of a biscuit?” Humour was always his first line of defence, and right now he needed defending.

  The older cop nodded; Junior left the room. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  He opted for ignorance, in spades. “Nah, I went to hospital to see my mother — she’s dying; you can check.”

  “We already did. But that’s not the only reason you’re here, is it Karl?”

  “How does this work — do I get a phone call?”

  “I don’t think so, not this time.”

  He clammed up and tried to play the waiting game. Tea arrived, with a cluster of biscuits on a paper plate. Some of the tea had jumped ship.

  “Sorry about that,” Junior said, passing it over. “Pre-dunked.”

  The older guy looked like his face would split if he laughed — with little chance of that happening today.

  “Do you like mysteries, Karl?”

  He took it as rhetorical and didn’t answer.

  “Because here’s the thing, Karl. I have information that makes no sense at all. There’s no record of you entering Northern Ireland — by legitimate means — in the last twenty years. Yet here you are today, walking out of a hospital. And you’re a floater — Surveillance Support Unit, over in London. But you’re also ex-mob, only your file is restricted.”

  Karl bit at another biscuit. So far, so safe.

  “Now, I can live with all of that, but there was residue on your right hand — chemical residue. Are you following my drift?”

  He tried to subdue the sense of confusion and outrage, half-listening while backtracking in his brain to identify the source of the residue. Taxi? No contact. Hotel and room service? Unlikely. That left the deliveryman in his hotel room . . . or Martin. He nearly cracked a gallows smile; Martin . . . the Judas handshake — bingo, as Thomas would say.

  “I take it you’ve been to my hotel room?”

  The Scottish guy smiled, as if to say, ‘What do you think?’

  A knock at the door interrupted the proceedings. The Scottish guy barked a command as a head poked through.

  “The call’s come through, sir . . .” the face receded.

  The senior officer looked a little crestfallen as he turned to his junior. “He’s clean; squeaky clean.”

  “But what about the residue?” Junior replied and they both looked in Karl’s direction.

  He coughed self-consciously. What was he going to tell them — keep an eye on prominent local businessmen? He had no proof, beyond gut instinct, process of elimination and a grudge that spanned two decades — a grudge that had now been fed and watered.

  “Know what I think, McNeill?” Older cop picked up the file and tapped the edge on the desk, as if straightening the pages. “I think you’ve been sent here on a job, exploiting your own mother as a cover. And I have to say, I don’t like uninvited guests on my patch — do you follow me?”

  Karl nodded, out of respect.

  “I’m sure you’ve got some classified need-to-know bollocks to hide behind, but come on, just between the three of us, before they crate you out of here, is there something I ought to know?”

  Karl took a sip of tea as they stared at him. “Tell you what, give me your card and I’ll get back to you once I’m over the water; seriously.”

  Scottish bloke’s eyes lit up like tallow candles as he passed over a card, face down. Karl smiled back — after all, who doesn’t like useful co
ntacts in their line of work?

  “What happens now?” Karl figured they were getting near the end.

  “Your things will be returned to you and you’ll be removed from our soil tonight — someone’s flying in to escort you back.”

  “So,” Karl pondered aloud, “as far as anyone else is concerned, I’ve been arrested and detained. Which means, if anyone finds out otherwise, we’ll know where to come.” It was clear that the time for talking was over.

  * * *

  Christine Gerrard was about the last person Karl had expected to see in Belfast.

  “Apparently this will ensure you trust me.” She handed him a small envelope.

  He checked the back, smiled when he saw it was sealed with wax and ripped it open. Inside was a post-it note bearing three letters: KGB. A smile spread across his face: KGB — Kosovo Girl’s Brigade. A moniker he’d used once with Thomas when he was trying to gain his trust.

  Christine didn’t say a lot in the car. Just as well — Karl felt too numb to speak. His ma was ending her days without him. That bastard, Martin, had nearly had him put away, and the way he read it, the only reason he was out now was because Thomas had done God knows what to pull some strings.

  The car was heading northwest, out on the A52. He didn’t want to say anything, but the Harbour airport was south. Christine seemed relaxed though. His mind wandered back to Stuart Fraser, the older Scottish cop, who’d given him his card. Bollocks. He glanced at Christine then reached for his mobile and the card.

  “Stuart — it’s Karl McNeill. Listen, if you do go to the hospital, please be discreet; none of the family knows I’ve been here and it’s got to stay that way. Sure, uh huh . . . a deal’s a deal. Thanks, buddy.”

  Christine waited until the mobile went down. “We’re flying out of Aldergrove, into Brize Norton. I thought it was best, under the circumstances.”

  It sounded like a loaded statement. Karl tensed up, waiting for a barrage of questions. Not hearing any was worse.