Reaper

by Hurley, Graham

  “Come here,” Buddy hissed.

  Eva looked at him, the gun still in her hand.

  “Come here,” Buddy said again, very low, very urgent.

  She stepped down the cabin towards him. He reached up for her and took the gun, stuffing it down the side of the bunk. Then he pulled her shirt open, hard. Two buttons came off. She was wearing a thin vest underneath, without a bra. He reached down and peeled it off her. She complied without a word, naked from the waist up, undoing the zip on her own jeans, letting the front hang open, straddling him, hands at his shirt, undoing it, moving her bum, her eyes fixed on the small square mirror on the forward bulkhead. A shadow fell over the open doorway. A voice, male, beautifully modulated, enquired whether anyone was in. Buddy, his eyes on Eva’s breasts, smiled.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  A face appeared at the door. Eva closed her eyes. Buddy leaned to the right, looking round her body. The face was young, no more than twenty-five. It peered in, not quite believing what it saw, at once apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

  Buddy shrugged, feeling Eva beginning to freeze on top of him, her body quite rigid.

  “It’s OK,” Buddy said. “What do you want?”

  “I was just wondering …”

  “Yeah?”

  “When you planned to pull out?”

  Buddy frowned for a moment. Under the circumstances, it was a fair question.

  “I don’t know,” he said, looking up at Eva. “It’s up to my friend here.” He paused. “How do you feel, darling? Had enough?”

  Eva opened her eyes. She was furious. She refused to answer. She looked round. The face had gone. The legs were back on the pontoon, hurrying away. Outside, high over the harbour, Buddy could hear yet another helicopter, the heavy chatter of a Sea King, a late arrival, just in time. Eva covered her breasts. Her breasts were nice, larger than Buddy might have expected. He smiled up at her.

  “Is that it then,” he said, “or shall we press on?”

  She got off him and began to pull her clothes on. Buddy looked at her for a moment. Then he laughed, glad of this one small act of revenge.

  “You know something,” he said at last, “I think you’d have preferred to shoot him.”

  Ingle outlined the problem while they were still on the motorway, travelling east, towards Gosport. The secretary at Cruisaway had answered his questions about the harbour. He knew the layout of the place, how to get there, where the marina was, where they might find the yacht. He’d worked out, as well, what the problems would be if – after all – he’d got it right.

  “There’s one marina,” he said, “on the Gosport side.”

  Kee glanced across at him. He’d bought a copy of the Daily Mirror. The report on the Spurs game, a 2–1 home defeat, hadn’t pleased him.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Yeah.” Ingle reached across and lifted the paper from his hands, tossing it over his shoulder, into the back, a single movement, ‘So listen, fuckwit.”

  Kee yawned. “OK,” he said.

  Ingle signalled left, taking the Gosport exit off the motorway, outlining the plan. If the yacht was there, it would be tied up at the marina. The marina wasn’t big. They could be through it and away in ten minutes. He paused.

  “If the yacht’s there,” Ingle said, “we’ll jump it.”

  Kee glanced at him. They both had hand guns, though Ingle was famous for his hatred of them. He detested loud bangs. Kee shrugged.

  “OK,” he said, “but what happens if they’re not there? Or if we don’t find this yacht?”

  Ingle spotted a row of shops on the left-hand side of the road and signalled again. The car began to slow. He reached down, feeling for the parcel shelf. He produced the photos of Buddy and Jude. He gave one of them to Kee.

  “It’s the bloke we’re after,” he said, “in case you were wondering.” He paused. “If it happens at all, it’ll be a button job. The trick is …” He glanced at Kee again. Kee was studying the photo. He looked up. “Not to let them press the button?”

  Ingle nodded. “You got it,” he said.

  The car stopped outside a camera shop. Kee was still looking at the photograph.

  “This won’t be easy,” he said, “there’ll be thousands of punters. Bound to be.”

  “You got it,” Ingle said again. “We’ll need binos. The gear.”

  “We haven’t got binos. You’re half blind, and all I’ve got is a tatty Polaroid.”

  Ingle nodded past him, at the shop. Kee looked at it. The shop was full of cameras. Kee frowned.

  “How does that help us?” he said.

  Ingle began to get out. “They’ll have binoculars,” he said, “all camera shops sell binos.”

  “They cost a fortune.”

  “I know. We’ll use a credit card.”

  Kee looked at him a moment. The motel bill had been bad enough. Ninety quid. Excluding the Scotch.

  “You’ve got a credit card?” he said at last.

  Ingle shook his head. “No,” he said. “But you have.”

  Buddy and Eva took the ferry across the harbour at half past ten. The ferry was crowded, mothers and young kids mostly. A lot of the kids had flags, and Union Jack paper hats. Buddy had seen them on sale at the kiosk beside the ferry terminal. “Give the boys a cheer,” the chalked slogan on the blackboard had read, “stuff it up the Argies.”

  They climbed the stairs to the upper deck and looked down the harbour. Old Portsmouth, the pocket of land on the harbour mouth itself, was already black with people. They lined the railings overlooking the water, three or four deep, and the top of the Round Tower was already packed. There were one or two modest blocks of flats on the harbour-side, post-war buildings, flat roofs, stop-gaps for the blitz damage, and there were flags at the windows, and people out on the balconies, talking and pointing and sipping mugs of coffee. On a scaffold tower, beside one of the pubs, Buddy could see a big television camera, the kind they used for Royal Weddings, and Coronations, and the Opening of Parliament. Buddy looked at it, shaking his head. Another State occasion, he thought. But one with a difference.

  The ferry berthed on the other side, and the passengers streamed off. Buddy and Eva walked up beside the railway station and got into a cab. Buddy named a pub. The cab drove off. Eva looked at him. “Where are we going?” she said.

  Buddy eased the plastic bag between his feet. In it was the transmitter. “Dress circle,” he said, “the best seats.”

  Ingle and Kee took three minutes to find the yacht.

  Kee spotted it first, tied up at the outermost berth on one of the long wooden pontoons. It was smaller than the rest of the yachts, and a good deal less grand. The sails were furled, and there was no one visible on board. They walked slowly towards it, feeling the pontoon beneath their feet, easing up and down with the incoming tide. Ten yards away, Ingle put a hand on Kee’s arm.

  “Steady,” he said.

  Kee glanced at him. His hand was already inside his jacket, clamped around the butt of his gun. If half what Ingle had told him was true, these guys would be in earnest. It was very easy to get killed if you weren’t ready. He looked at Ingle.

  “How do you want to play it?” he said.

  Ingle studied the yacht a moment. He nodded at the fifteen feet of empty pontoon beyond its stern. “You go first,” he said, “go up the end there. Cover me when I go in.”

  Kee looked at him, then shrugged. He walked down to the end of the pontoon. He drew the gun. He settled into a half squat. Ingle walked towards him. He had his own gun out now, held loosely, his hand down beside his body. When he got to the yacht, he climbed quickly aboard, clambering down into the cockpit. Kee watched him carefully, edging closer, giving himself a better angle on the door. Ingle looked at the door, tried it. The door was locked. He took half a step backwards then kicked it in, two kicks, twisting his body to the right, out of the firing line, his back pressed against the cabin. Kee walked towards the yacht, peering inside, the gun held out i
n front of him, both hands, the way they taught you on the ranges at Hendon. He paused, and looked at Ingle. It was a small yacht to hide in.

  “There’s no one there,” he said.

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ingle nodded, and stepped into the cabin, a single movement. Watching him, Kee was surprised at how quick he was, how agile. He clambered carefully aboard, his gun still out. Across the harbour, on the wind, he could hear a tannoy. Able Seaman Flynn. To report to the Purser’s Office. Immediately. Kee stepped down into the cabin. Ingle had already found the mask and flippers stowed away in one of the cupboards under the bunk. He held up the mask. The mask was still wet inside.

  “Shit,” Kee said quietly, “you were right.”

  Buddy and Eva joined the crowds on Spice Island, a finger of land that curled around the eastern edge of the harbour mouth, part of Old Portsmouth. On one side, it was flanked by the harbour itself. On the other was the Camber, a tiny dock of its own, a harbour within a harbour, Portsmouth’s oldest. Between the two areas of water lay an area of cobbled streets, narrow-fronted houses, a couple of boatyards, and the start of the elaborate system of fortifications that stretched away to the east, armouring the city against invasion from the sea. Way back, a couple of hundred years ago, Spice Island had been notorious. The guide books called it the wickedest square mile in Europe, packed with ale houses, brothels, and any other service the sailor might demand. Now, though, it had become genteel, a middle-class enclave in an otherwise rough city.

  Buddy and Eva pushed through the crowds. The pubs were already open and there were lads from downtown standing outside in groups, joshing together, elbows and grins, enjoying the sunshine and the lager. Buddy paused, looking round, the bag in his hand. In places, the atmosphere was carnival. There were street traders with trays full of Union Jacks, balloons on strings, tiny plastic whistles, lettered T-shirts. There was an ancient van parked up on the kerb, back doors open, selling hamburgers and hot dogs. But there were older men here too, men with memories, men who weren’t smiling much. And with them, often, were young women, daughters perhaps, with kids in buggies. The women weren’t smiling either, standing on their toes, trying to get a good view, gazing up the harbour to where the first of the big ships, the one with the helicopters and the jet fighters, the one they’d nearly sold to the Australians, was preparing to cast off.

  Buddy felt a tug at his elbow. It was Eva. “Where do we go?” she said. “Where do we stand?”

  Buddy looked at her. He’d given the answer a great deal of thought. He’d studied the tide times, measured the ships, paced every inch of this cluttered square mile. He took her arm, guiding her away from the water, back through the crowd, just another couple.

  Ingle took the last ferry across the harbour before the service stopped to permit the passage of the big ships. He left Kee behind him, armed with a photo and a pair of binoculars. If you see the bloke, he’d told him, try and get close to him. And if you do get close enough, and he’s doing what we think he’s doing, shoot him.

  Now, aboard the ferry, remembering his own instructions, he tried not to think of the million things that could go wrong. In theory, of course, he should have phoned. He should have contacted his boss, or his boss’s boss, explained the whole thing, told him to get onto the Navy, or the Prime Minister, or the Queen, or whoever it took, and get the thing postponed. If there really was a device, and it was on a timer, then the charge would still go off. But at least it wouldn’t do what he now knew was all too possible: put a huge stopper in this busy stretch of water, sealing it off for God knows how long, turning a careful piece of military stage management into the most public humiliation.

  He closed his eyes a moment, hands on the rail, hearing the press helicopters overhead, imagining what the world would make of it. For a moment, running down to the ferry, he’d been tempted to make the call, finding a phone that worked, getting past the picket of secretaries, trying to convince the sceptics on the other end that he hadn’t been drinking. It would, he knew, be one of the longer calls, with unimaginable political consequences if he’d got it wrong, and when the bloke in the ticket office had told him it was now or never, that the next ferry was an hour away, he’d been relieved. The decision had made itself. He was on his own.

  The ferry nudged the pontoon on the other side. Ingle hurried off, pushing his way through the crowd. Outside the railway station, he took a cab. He’d no idea where Buddy Little might be, but he’d done what he always did, put himself in the other bloke’s shoes, asked himself where he would stand, where he would press the button, and he’d come up with the obvious answer. The cab driver glanced over his shoulder at him.

  “Where to, guv?” he said.

  “The harbour mouth.”

  “Which bit?”

  Ingle looked at the back of his head. “Fuck knows,” he said, “don’t get technical.”

  Buddy took Eva to Hot Walls, a stretch of fortification immediately to the east of the Round Tower. The walls were impressive, twenty feet high, with a broad promenade on the top, and a fine view of the harbour mouth. Built into the walls were bricklined casemates, once equipped with cannon, dominating the deep water channel. Beneath the walls, on the seaward side, was a beach, three hundred yards or so of pebbles, littered with timber and debris from passing ships.

  Buddy and Eva stepped carefully onto the beach. The beach was already packed, the rising tide pressing people back against the massive walls. Eva paused. “Here?” she said.

  Buddy nodded. “Yeah.” He smiled, gazing out. “We need to be at the front. Down by the water.”

  Ingle had climbed to the top of the Round Tower by the time HMS Invincible slipped her moorings and eased down harbour, towards the open sea. On the top of the Tower, every inch of space was occupied, every head turned towards the big grey carrier. Lining the flight deck, standing at ease, were hundreds of sailors, blue uniforms, white caps, white gaiters. Behind them, rotors folded like birds, were the big Sea King helicopters. Between the helicopters, midships, were half a dozen Sea Harriers, the new jump jets, the sunshine glinting off the perspex canopies.

  Ingle watched for a second or two, aware of the silence around him, the hush, almost reverential, before he heard the thin wail of the bosun’s pipe and the men were called to attention, and the officers on the bridge snapped their own salute, the traditional mark of respect when warships put to sea. The crowd around him began to cheer, one or two voices at first, then more, then a huge roar as the men on the bridge began to wave, acknowledging the crowd, the mums, the granddads, the watching millions on TV.

  Ingle took a deep breath, pushing to the front of the crowd, looking back, looking for the face in the photograph, the face by the palm trees, the one man who could turn this rite of passage into catastrophe. There were hundreds of faces, pressed together, some in tears. He quartered the crowd, trying to do it logically, trying not to miss anyone, trying to be thorough, but knowing all the time that he could afford only the swiftest glance, the quickest trawl. Finding nobody, neither Buddy, nor the girl, he pushed back towards the steps, oblivious of the feet he trod on, or the comments he provoked. At the steps, he paused. From here, he could see a beach. The beach was packed. Behind the beach was a long wall, some kind of fortification. On top of the wall were more people, hundreds of them. He glanced over his shoulder. Invincible was perhaps four minutes away. He lifted the glasses and began to sweep the beach, starting at the logical place, starting at the water’s edge. What would I do, he kept saying to himself, where would I stand?

  He saw them almost at once. He racked the focus. He steadied his hands. They were both there. No question. They were standing at the water’s edge. She had her shoes and socks off, her jeans rolled up. The water was lapping over his shoes. He had a plastic bag in his hand. The bag was open. He was looking towards the harbour mouth. He was waiting for the ships. He was ready to do it.

  Ingle hesitated another half-second, fixing their p
osition, tracing the path he’d have to take, back to the hole in the wall where you got onto the beach, where the crowd was thickest. Then he dived for the stairs, scattering a family of four, muttering an apology, his right hand checking for his gun. The gun was still there. He hoped to God he wouldn’t have to use it.

  At the foot of the Tower he paused again, looking for the entrance to the beach. He saw it off to his right, across the flagstones. There were people everywhere. He could hear the roar of the crowd. He could hear the heavier rumble of machinery. Invincible’s engines, he thought. Time running out.

  He sprinted across the flagstones, hitting the back of the crowd. A man turned towards him, seeing the expression on his face, stepping quickly aside. Another man, bigger, began to raise a fist. Ingle hit him first, dropping him with a single dig, muttering another apology. “Police,” he said, as the bloke folded. He pushed on, towards the rectangle of blue that was the beach and the sea beyond. The concrete gave way and he dropped, feeling pebbles beneath his feet. The crowd was thickest here, roaring with anticipation, the carrier still not in sight, but visible any second, the crowd up on the Round Tower going crazy, a frieze of waving arms, flags, balloons, kids on shoulders. Ingle took a deep breath, remembering the line he had to follow, the line that would take him to the man with the plastic bag, carving through the crowd in front of him, knowing that already it was probably too late.

  At the water’s edge, Buddy felt gutted. He’d known it would be like this. He’d spent the weekend anticipating exactly this scene. He’d known it would be packed and emotional. He knew there’d be mums, and wives, and kids. He knew there’d be flags, and muttered prayers, and that big incoherent roar that means God Speed, God Bless You, Come Home Safe. But the reality – this, now – was far, far worse. He wanted to throw the transmitter away, to lift it head high, and whirl it around in the bag, and then let it go, miles out, away from him. He wanted nothing to do with it any more. He wanted out.