Reaper

by Hurley, Graham

  He turned back into the kitchen and checked the chick peas. Soon, he knew, they’d have to think of selling the horses. He hadn’t raised the issue with Jude, fearing the consequences, but the stable’s current income was barely enough to cover running costs. Long term, that kind of arithmetic made no sense, and whatever happened next – whether Jude had the operation or not, whether it worked or not – there was no way she’d be able to run a riding school. Even Buddy had been obliged to admit that. No. What they’d do later, for the rest of their lives, was anyone’s guess, but it certainly wouldn’t include horses. Ever.

  He turned the gas down under the chick peas and wandered slowly round the cottage. Room by room, he tried to visualize what it might be like, Jude back again, all the necessary adaptations in place. If he believed the people at the hospital, if he did it their way, the place would look more like a recovery ward than a home. She’d need a room of her own, somewhere on the ground floor. She’d need a bed, and a special mattress, and some kind of apparatus for getting her into a wheelchair, a block and tackle arrangement, vintage North Sea stuff. She’d need a wheelchair, probably motorized, and they’d have to do something about the bathroom.

  At the moment, the bathroom was upstairs, beside the tiny bedroom. For Jude, that was hopeless. She’d need somewhere downstairs, wide access, fully tiled. Somewhere she could be washed all over, minimum fuss, lots of room. Because she’d be incontinent, she’d have to have nappies, or a colostomy, a hole in her belly with a bag attached. The bag would need regular changing. Hygiene would be all-important, lots of antiseptic, the smell of it everywhere. Her body would need to be lifted, and turned in the bed every two hours in case she developed bedsores, and then ulcers, big black holes in the flesh, going rotten at the edges. He’d seen a couple in the hospital and smelled them. They smelled of a butcher’s stall in the market at the end of a hot day. They smelled of death and decay. That’s what you couldn’t let happen. That’s what you stood guard against.

  He could do it, of course, and he would. He’d tackle it methodically, one job after another, twenty-four hours a day. He’d fill her up in the morning, and empty her at night, and attend to the endless routine maintenance she’d need, just to keep her alive. That would be no problem. On the contrary, it would be like diving on the rigs again, fighting the daily battle, patching up the stuff underwater, keeping the elements at bay, never winning, but never losing either. God knows, with the right mix of State benefits and other handouts, they might even have enough for the odd bottle of Guinness, the odd shampoo.

  No, the mechanics would be OK. What really worried him was the insides of her head, the one cubic foot of her that still worked. What would happen in there? The days unspooling? The endless indignities? The utter reliance on someone else? The sense of total helplessness? With anyone, that would be depressing enough. But with Jude, being Jude, he just couldn’t believe she’d survive. Or want to.

  He wandered back into the kitchen and sat on the stool again. The nurse he’d befriended at the hospital had told him Jude would probably be in for three months. That was how long it would take to complete the physiotherapy programmes, and relearn the handful of tasks that special aids might still make possible. Reading. Eating. Drinking. Maybe even writing. After three months, she’d have mastered all there was to master, and the rest would be down to them. Here. In this tiny cottage. With no money, and no prospects, and a future that simply promised more of the same.

  Buddy brooded, eyeing the article, the picture of Jude, remembering again the day on the cliffs. The girl in the paper had written of a miracle. For miracles, Buddy had no time at all. Miracle was the word you used when everything else had failed. No. What Jude needed, what they both needed, was some luck. The rest – the vision to know what to do, the money to make it possible, the guts to see it through – was down to him. Somehow, he’d get her to the States in one piece. Of that, he was quite certain.

  Ten miles away, in a small terraced house in the middle of Southampton, a woman of twenty-nine opened her kitchen drawer and removed a pair of scissors. She took the scissors next door into the tiny living room. On the table, beside a plateful of cooling spaghetti, was the local paper.

  She’d already ringed the article about the girl who’d fallen off the horse. Now she read it again, then scissored round her carefully pencilled line. She folded it twice into a small square and slipped it into an envelope. Reaching for a pen, and a piece of paper, she began to scribble a note, trying to remember the name of the guy who’d been in charge of the ASU, here, in Southampton, nearly a decade back. The Quartermaster, she remembered, had called him Cross-bones. It had been worth a laugh at the time, amongst the four of them, but she’d been impressed by the man, the way he conducted himself. Intellectually, he’d been head and shoulders above the rest, and when they’d blown the QEII job, saddling themselves with 400lbs of nitroglycerine and a sackful of detonators, he’d been the last to leave for Fish-guard, and the ferry.

  She sat at the table, searching for the name, picturing the man, a face older than his years, the way he ate the meals she’d prepared, kept himself spotless, his careful, fastidious ways. She smiled, the name finally coming back to her. Crossbones … Scullen … Padraig …

  She wrote his name at the top of the page, the simple letter “P”, and paused, thinking again about the QEII. She’d always regretted not seeing it through. The ship, its name, had been the perfect symbol. The plan, then, had hinged on smuggling the explosives aboard. Now, looking at the article, she began to wonder whether they hadn’t missed a trick or two. Maybe they should have gone underwater, used a specialist, blown the boat up as it sailed away down the Solent, the usual gaggle of TV cameras on the dockside, the usual line of cars on the beach, a ready-made audience. In a couple of brief paragraphs, nothing too explicit, she floated the idea. Captain Harrison, she wrote, has probably retired. But his good lady sails on, ever the temptress …

  She left the rest to Scullen’s imagination, and recommended he read the enclosed article. She sealed the envelope, and turned it over. From memory, in black capitals, she wrote a Dublin address, and then concealed the envelope inside the pages of a much-thumbed Russian novel. She returned the novel to a shelf of books above her ancient radio, and fed the rest of the newspaper, page by page, into the fire. The flames licked up at the chimney breast, and she watched them for a moment before returning to the table. Tomorrow, she thought, she’d post the thing. Maybe Scullen would find a use for it. Maybe someone else. If it came to anything, if they liked the idea, then maybe they’d give her a call again, add a little spice to an otherwise dull old life.

  She smiled, thinking of the old days again. They’d called him something else, too. Reaper.

  TWELVE

  Connolly stood in the tiny, shadowed antiquarian bookshop off the Charing Cross Road, looking for a present for Leeson.

  He’d been back in London for a week now, staying with his mother in the neat little house in Carshalton. It had been the briefest convalescence, hours of sitting around in the dusty snug at the back of the house, a pile of newspapers at his elbow, familiar smells, the same old dents in the same old buttoned cushions, and a stream of constant chatter from his mother, next door, in the kitchen.

  She’d fed him huge meals, and incessant cups of tea, demanding – in return – some small clue to what he got up to, back at the University, in Belfast. He’d told her about the job, about his students, about the lighter side of college politics. He’d explained that his courses had gone down well, that he was making a bit of a name for himself, and that there was every chance that his probationary period as a lecturer would lead to the offer of a full-time job. When she enquired about the rest of it – his private life, what he did evenings and weekends – he said it was a busy place, lively people, and that he was never short of friends. Beyond that, he wasn’t prepared to go. That other life of his, Mairead and the handful of relationships that had gone before, at Cambridge, he’d never s
hared with her. Not then. Not now.

  Connolly selected a book of letters home from a remote hill station in Southern India, late nineteenth century, and joined the queue at the table at the back of the shop where the proprietor sat over the cash box. Outside, the book wrapped in old newspapers, he walked the length of Charing Cross Road, thinking again of Belfast. He’d already phoned Mairead a couple of times from Carshalton, waiting until his mother was off for her daily shop. Mairead, at first, had been guarded. She’d been waiting to hear from him, she’d said, and he hadn’t phoned, and in the end she’d begun to fear the worst. Connolly, his feet curled under him on the dusty old sofa, had wondered what the worst might be, but he hadn’t pursued the thought, telling her instead that everything was fine, the job done, and that he’d be back in a couple of days. Whether, at first, she’d believed him, he didn’t know, but he’d prattled on about this and that, and it was his tone of voice, sunny again and upbeat, that broke the ice. He’d felt the temperature between them warming. She’d told him about her Da’s win on the pools, £145 for a 20p stake, about a new jumper she’d found for Bronagh at the Social. She’d said that it hadn’t stopped raining since he’d left, and there was ice in the lavatory in the mornings, and by the end of the second call they were back to the way it had always been. She’d missed him, and so had the kids, and she couldn’t wait to have him home again. Home. He’d smiled at the word, putting the phone down, gazing round.

  Now, he sat on the tube out to Hammersmith, the book in his lap, his single bag between his feet. He’d spend an hour or so with Leeson, have a pot of tea, make his excuses, and leave. The Dan Air flight to Belfast was scheduled out of Gatwick at ten past six. With luck, he’d be back in Belfast, at Mairead’s, in time for a late supper.

  At Hammersmith, Connolly ducked out of the station and walked the mile and a half to Leeson’s house. For late January, the weather was warm, a hint of spring, snowdrops dusting one or two of the better-kept front gardens. Connolly smiled, glad that the winter was three-quarters gone, glad that the nights were drawing out, glad to be spared so much darkness.

  Outside Leeson’s house, he paused, then stepped through the gate and rang the door bell. A black cat looked up in the next garden, watching him. He meowed at it, softly. The cat yawned, and disappeared. He rang the bell again. Nothing happened. Connolly glanced at his watch and frowned. He’d phoned Leeson from Victoria Station only two hours ago. He knew the man should be in. He lifted his hand to ring the bell a third time, and as he did so he realized that the front door was slightly open, just an inch or so. He pushed it gently. The door swung inwards. Connolly paused, then stepped inside.

  “Francis?”

  There was no answer. He walked slowly along the hall. The door to the kitchen was closed. He paused at the end of the hall. The door to the living room was open.

  “Francis?”

  Again, nothing. Connolly hesitated. There was something about the house, the tick of the clock, his own voice, the old questions, his voice less sure of itself.

  “Francis?”

  He stepped into the living room and looked round. The room was empty. The gas fire was on and there were a couple of tea cups and a milk jug on the table. Beside the tea cups was a willow-pattern plate. On the plate, neatly arranged in a circle, was a small pile of ginger biscuits. His favourite. Connolly stood by the fire for a second, then looked down at the milk jug. It was empty. Leeson, ever careless, had gone out in search of milk.

  Connolly loosened his anorak, put the book carefully on the table, and went back out into the hail. At the most, Leeson would be ten minutes. By the time he came back, Connolly would have the kettle boiled, and the teapot full.

  He opened the kitchen door. The kitchen was small and narrow. The sink and the cooker and a fitted unit ran the length of one side. The rest was occupied by a table, two chairs and a tall fridge. Leeson was sat against the fridge. His jacket was off, and his tie was loosened, and there was a small black hole where his left eye had once been. There was blood on his chest, and blood on the lino, and blood – still fresh – on the side of the fridge. His glasses lay in pieces on the floor.

  Connolly blinked, feeling for the edge of the table, steadying himself. Then he stepped forward, knowing in his heart that Leeson was dead, but knowing too that he should check. He touched him lightly, then eased his body away from the fridge. His body was heavy, deadweight. Most of the back of his head was missing, and the hole in the fridge was crusted with hair and pieces of brain. Connolly closed his eyes a moment, letting Leeson’s body slump against the fridge. Then he stepped back.

  There was a movement behind him, in the hall. Connolly stiffened, feeling a new chill steal towards his heart. He’d left the front door open. Someone had come in. Slowly, he turned round. A big man stood in the hall. He was about thirty. He had long, lank, greasy hair, and a flat face, and he needed a shave. His hands were in his pockets, and he was smiling.

  “Name’s Ingle,” he said pleasantly, “Special Branch.”

  They took him to Paddington Green police station in the back of an unmarked Vauxhall Cavalier. He sat between Ingle and another man. He asked Ingle twice whether he was under arrest. The first time Ingle just smiled. The second time he asked why. Connolly said he’d get out otherwise. Ingle said nothing. The car drove on.

  At Paddington Green, the car drove into the police station. The police station was large and modern, iron grilles over the windows, a large pair of electronic gates at the foot of a vehicle ramp. The gates swung open as the car approached, and closed again behind them.

  Ingle got out first, and held the door open for Connolly. Connolly followed him into the building, along a corridor, down a flight of steps, into the basement. The driver of the car walked behind him. Connolly could hear him whistling. Something topical. “Physical.” Olivia Newton John. Leeson’s dead, Connolly wanted to say. Leeson’s dead, and the best you can do is whistle.

  The basement housed the holding area. There was a row of cells with modern reinforced steel doors and a long flap in the middle. Ingle pushed a door open with his foot and peered inside. The cell was empty. Connolly stood in the corridor.

  “No,” he said.

  Ingle smiled again. “For your own good,” he said.

  “I want a solicitor.”

  The other man, the driver, hit Connolly hard on the side of his head. The blow came from behind and took him by surprise. He staggered for a moment, and then recovered his balance. There was a ringing in his right ear. The driver hit him again, from the front this time, a short, vicious jab, central solar plexus. Connolly doubled up under the blow, hearing his own gasp of pain, the breath driven from him. He stayed on his knees on the floor for a moment, waiting for the third blow, fighting for breath. Ingle bent over him, helping him to his feet. He smelled of cheap cigars and something else, an aftershave of some kind, a sharp chemical smell. He was still holding the door open.

  “In,” Ingle said.

  Connolly tried to protest, to demand a solicitor again, but no sound came out. He looked at Ingle for a moment, then shrugged, and limped into the cell, hearing the door shut behind him, the automatic locks engaging, the sound of footsteps disappearing down the corridor. The driver was suggesting a cup of tea. Ingle was declining the offer.

  Connolly stood in the middle of the cell. There was a toilet and a raised area of concrete. The concrete was covered with wooden boards and obviously served as a bed. Connolly stumbled across to the toilet. There were two cigarette ends in the bowl. He shut his eyes for a moment, and he saw Leeson’s face again, the blood on the fridge, one eye pulped, and he began to vomit, holding his stomach as he threw up, trying to ease the pain. After a while, he stepped back wiping his mouth. The smell was already filling the cell.

  He sat on the wooden boards for perhaps five minutes. High on the wall, there was a window, squares of thick bubbled glass. He got up and tried to look out. There was daylight beyond the glass, but no view. He sat down ag
ain, his ear not hurting quite so much, the pain in his belly ebbing away. Surreal, he thought. Pure Kafka.

  After a minute or so, he called out. He called his name. He asked for someone to talk to him. Nothing happened.

  The footsteps returned an hour later. The door opened and Ingle stood there. He’d taken off his coat. He was wearing a big sloppy pullover, no shape whatsoever, and a pair of jeans. The jeans had a patch on the knee. He held the door open and handed Connolly a cup of tea. Connolly looked at him. “What is this?” he said.

  Ingle smiled. “Milk, guvnor. Two sugars.”

  “I meant all this. What’s going on?”

  Ingle gave him the tea. “Drink it,” he said. “Make you feel better.”

  Ingle sat down on the floor, back against the wall. He took out a packet of thin cigars and offered one to Connolly. Connolly shook his head.

  “Mind if I do?” Ingle said, nodding at the lavatory in the corner. “Might help.”

  Connolly shrugged and sipped the tea. It was too sweet for his taste but it was better than nothing. Ingle watched him, blowing small imperfect smoke rings and playing with a box of matches. He had big hands, spade nails, very dirty. Connolly finished the tea. “Just tell me what you want,” he said. “Please.”

  Ingle looked at him for a moment, coal black eyes under a curtain of greasy hair, and Connolly realized exactly what it was that was strange about the man. Despite the circumstances – Leeson, the cell, the pain in his ear – he exuded no menace. On the contrary, he was detached, almost sympathetic. His whole manner invited intimacy. Connolly should trust this man. He should talk to him.

  Ingle stirred. “My friend’s upstairs,” he said. “He has an ulcer. Gets bad sometimes. Makes him unreasonable.” He nodded towards the lavatory again. “He gets wound up about results. Meant no real harm.”