He looked round, desperate. Eva was watching him carefully. She was carrying the gun. He knew it. He didn’t care a toss about the gun. She could shoot him for all he cared. But that still didn’t solve the problem. He was here because he loved his wife. He was here because she was hurt. To make her better, he had to go through with it. To make her better, he had to apply a little violence of his own. With luck, no one would die. With luck, no one would even be injured. To that extent, he knew he’d squared the circle. But the rest of it: the crowd, the flags, his Queen, his country … He shook his head, thinking of Jude again. Means and ends, he thought. Means and fucking ends. He looked at Eva. He nodded. It’ll be all right, the nod said. You’ve got me by the balls. We’re nearly through.
He looked to the right, at the stretch of water between the Round Tower and the low line of HMS Dolphin on the Gosport side. Any second now, the carrier would appear. He’d planned it all out. He’d trigger the charge only when she was fully clear. That way, at the speed she was doing, no more than six knots, she’d settle in the channel just south of the harbour mouth. With luck, the rudder crippled, she’d swing broadside on. It would take days to drag her clear.
He closed his eyes a moment, then reached down into the bag. He pulled out the transmitter. The business end was connected to the main control box by a long rubber-coated cable. It had to be submerged to work. He waded a little deeper into the sea, and let it fall into the water. He still had the control box in his hand. He looked up. The bow of the carrier had appeared. Next came the flight deck. He swallowed hard. They were doing it for real. There were men, for God’s sake, sailors, lining the flight deck. He looked down again, refusing to watch, not wanting to be part of it, trying to spare himself any more grief. He looked round for the girl, Eva, wondering if she absorbed any particle of this extraordinary scene, whether it raised her temperature a single degree.
He frowned. The girl had gone. She wasn’t there any more. He looked to the left. All he could see were faces. He looked to the right. More faces. Then he saw her. She was talking to a tall guy, greasy hair, long black coat. He had a wide, flat face. He was sweating. He was trying to push the girl away. He wouldn’t take his eyes off Buddy.
Buddy blinked, and glanced over his shoulder. The carrier was half out now, half visible. Fifteen seconds, he thought. Come on. Come on. He looked at the crowd again. Eva was still with the guy. He had something in his hand, something black. Buddy stared at it. It was a gun.
Buddy felt the fear rise in him. He turned away. He looked at the carrier. He didn’t know what to do. He glanced over his shoulder. The guy in black had the gun up now, pointing it. At him. Eva lunged at him, pulling at his arm. The arm came down. Distracted, the guy chopped her, a short, vicious blow. Buddy heard her scream. He looked seaward again. The carrier was clear. He shut his eyes. His finger found the button. He heard the cheers of the crowd, rolling along the beach. He heard the ship’s engines. He heard a child, quite clearly, call for his dad. And then he pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Buddy ran along the beach, splashing through the shallows, keeping pace with the big grey carrier. He’d snatched a flag from some kid who’d been looking the other way. He’d got rid of the plastic bag with the radio transmitter, hurling it away, sending it in a long arc, out, over the sea. The crowd on the beach cheered him on, roars of approval, this sturdy little man with the Union Jack, galloping by, soaking wet beneath the knees, huge grin on his face, waving his flag like mad, just like the rest of them. Buddy half saw them, half didn’t, this blur of bodies. He was looking out to sea. He was looking at the carrier. The carrier was intact. He was deliriously happy.
At the end of the beach, the crowd thinned. Here, the tide was lapping at the foot of the walls. Buddy ran through the icy water, and up the steps beside the stubby pier, pausing for a moment before ducking out, through the sally-port, back onto the street. Behind him, the beach was a mass of colour, reds, whites, blues, the cheers still rolling out across the water, heads turning back now, towards the harbour mouth, waiting for the second of the two ships, HMS Hermes, the old lady of the Task Force. Invincible was already picking up speed, away in the mist, the grey water boiling at her stern, leaving behind the flotilla of tugs and launches that had shepherded her through the harbour narrows. Buddy watched her go, the blue line of sailors on the flight deck at ease again, her voyage south finally under way. He muttered a prayer, wished her God Speed, glancing back along the beach again, looking for the girl, the bloke in the black coat, finding neither.
Out in the street, it was quieter. Buddy headed east, skirting the Square Tower, moving quickly, a steady jog, staying close to the waterfront. Up on his right, on the grassy slopes of Long Curtain, the crowds were thick again, the same faces, the same flags, the same anxious sense of pride, of not quite knowing where this giddy adventure might end. Buddy glanced over his shoulder. The road behind him was empty.
At the end of Long Curtain, the last of the elaborate nineteenth-century fortifications, there was a funfair, a couple of acres of Ferris wheels, and space rides, and roller coasters. On the seaward side, there was a wooden jetty, terminus for the cross-Solent pleasure trips, and the crowd were pressed against the railings, watching Hermes nosing out of the harbour, another lump in the national throat. Buddy pushed quickly through, the flag still in his hand. For him, the spectacle, the pageant, had ended. He’d pushed his button. He’d paid his respects. And now he needed a telephone.
He found a box a couple of minutes later, beside a public lavatory, set back from the seafront. He pushed inside and lifted the receiver. The phone worked. He fumbled for change, finding a fifty-pence piece. He inserted the coin, dialling his own number, turning round, watching the road behind him. This was something new, real paranoia, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.
The number answered. He bent to the phone, recognizing Gus’s voice. Gus sounded anxious.
“Buddy?”
“Yeah?”
“What the fuck’s going on? There’s been a bloke here from—”
Buddy cut him short, watching the road again, seeing a police car cruising slowly by, a hundred yards away.
“Listen,” he said, “you’ve got to meet me. Soon as possible.”
There was a brief silence. Then Gus came back again. His voice had changed. The anxiety had gone. They might have been back on the rigs. Nasty little problem. Something to get his teeth into.
“Right,” he said, “tell me where.”
“Pompey. There’s a pub called the Castle. It’s in Somers-town. You know Somerstown?”
“Yeah.”
“OK.” He paused. The police car had gone. “Soon as possible, mate. Oh …” he paused again, “and bring some money.”
“How much money?”
“Lots.”
He put the phone down and pushed out of the box. Hermes, the second carrier, was out in the deep water channel now, the flight deck packed with helicopters. The crowd was surging along the promenade, trying to keep pace, and half a mile out to sea, Buddy glimpsed the arse end of Invincible disappearing into the murk. Buddy watched her for a moment, glad, and then turned on his heel and began to walk quickly away, across the Common, towards the pub. As he did, he saw a television crew roll by, in a beige Volvo estate. The cameraman was standing on the front passenger seat, the upper half of his body through the open sunshine roof. The camera on his shoulder was pointing seawards, panning across the crowd on the promenade, the grey ghost of the carrier vanishing into the mist beyond. Buddy smiled at the irony of it, the cameraman’s eagerness. He could hear him telling the driver to slow down, to flatten the bumps in the road, to help him get the pictures the world was waiting for. Wrong story, he thought, remembering the big guy in black, the length of his hair, the expression on his face. He watched the Volvo a moment longer, then set off again, inland.
Ingle found the squad car back in the street, away from the crowd. He r
an towards it, the water still squelching in his trainers. The two officers looked up at him, suspicious, as he got to the car, leaning against it, hands outstretched against the roof, panting. He could hear the crowds behind him, down on the beach, up on the fortifications. The diver, the man in the water, had fled. Ingle had tried to follow him, stepping out from the crowd, into the shallows, same trick, but the girl had got in the way again, stopping him, throwing her hands around him, making it impossible for him to move. In the end he’d had to hit her again, a short vicious jab, lots of weight, and she’d gone down like a stone, moaning softly. Several men in the crowd had seen him do it, and he knew he had to get out before one of them summoned the bottle to lump him. And so he’d pushed back towards the street, checking on the ships as he went, the two carriers, safe.
Now, the younger of the two officers inspected his Special Branch ID card through the passenger window. Ingle tapped his watch. He needed the radio. He needed to close the city. Before the diver surfaced somewhere else. The door opened. The officer got out, reaching for his cap. Ingle looked at him. The thing was a game, and he was tiring fast. “Pass a message?’ he said.
The officer nodded, back towards the car, the force radio tucked under the dashboard. “Sure,” he said, “help yourself.”
Connolly sat in the lounge bar of the Skelligs Hotel, drinking tea. He’d phoned Buddy’s number as soon as they’d arrived. He’d got through after the usual tussle with the local operator, and he’d spoken to some friend of Buddy’s. He’d said his name was Gus. He said he’d been staying the weekend. And he said Buddy would be back soon. Connolly had thought about leaving Jude’s message for Gus to pass on, but in the end he’d decided against it, giving Gus the number of the hotel, and asking him to tell Buddy to ring. He’d wait, he said. He’d wait for Buddy to make the call. It was very important. He should get through as soon as he could.
Now, on his second cup of tea, he picked up the conversation with Thompson. They’d talked on the way down from the farmhouse. They’d walked the four miles back to the cars, rounding a bend in the road and coming suddenly upon the wreck of the Capri. Thompson had paused by the roadside, inspecting it with professional satisfaction, peering into the burned-out shell of the car. Inside, there was a body slumped over the steering wheel. The legs were missing, and the head had gone too, and what remained of the flesh had been charred by the explosion and the fire. Beside the car was another body, and Thompson had stood over it for a moment, stirring it with his foot. The man was lying on his face in the road. There was a gun in his hand, an automatic of some kind. Connolly had looked at his hand, seeing the line of letters tattooed across his knuckles. L-O-V-E Connolly had blinked, hesitating a moment in the weak spring sunshine, recognizing the hand. McParland, he’d thought, Scullen’s bodyguard.
There’d been two other cars parked a little distance down the road, an ancient Renault, and a newer Vauxhall. Thompson had produced the keys to the Vauxhall, and they’d driven down to the coast, Connolly sitting up front, watching Thompson tuning the radio in the dashboard, dialling up a particular frequency, establishing contact with the man they’d left behind, in the farmhouse.
“Still there, Guvnor,” he’d said, “no sign of interference.”
In Waterville, they’d stopped at the first hotel, a grey sombre building beside a lake on the outskirts of the town. After Connolly had phoned Buddy’s number and talked to Gus, he’d lifted the receiver again, meaning to call Mairead, but when he’d got through to the operator, and given her the first digits of the Belfast code, a hand had descended on the cradle and cut him off. The hand had belonged to Thompson. He’d offered no explanation, just a slightly apologetic smile and a suggestion that they share a pot of tea. Thompson had ordered, settling into a table by the window, talking idly about the prospects for the First Division Championship, and Connolly had listened to him, saying nothing, gazing out at the reeds, thinking of the body in the burned-out car. The bloke behind the wheel hadn’t got a head. His body simply ended at the neck. And here they were, sipping tea, discussing football.
By one o’clock, they’d been waiting in the hotel for an hour and a half. Thompson looked at his watch. He’d stopped speculating about West Ham, and was half-way through the Irish Times. Connolly leaned forward.
“Listen,’ he said, “leave me here if you want. I’ll find my own way back.”
Thompson glanced up. “Back where?”
“Belfast.”
He looked at Connolly for a moment, amused for some reason, then he bent to the paper again. “Yeah?” he said.
Gus arrived at the pub in time for a late lunch. Buddy bought him a bottle of light ale with the top off, two pork pies, and a packet of crisps. He took them back to the table. He didn’t sit down. Gus looked up at him. He’d cut himself shaving, and there were thin wisps of cotton wool still matted in the scab.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“We’re off.”
“Where?”
Buddy pocketed the food and made for the door. Gus caught up with him, outside, in the street. “What’s going on?” he said again.
Buddy looked up and down the street. There were kids playing football outside a betting shop, and an old woman in a housecoat shovelling dog shit into the gutter. Otherwise the street was empty. Buddy nodded at Gus’s car. It was parked across the road. “Let’s go,” he said.
Gus crossed the road behind him, doing up his coat. Buddy stood on the pavement, waiting for Gus to unlock the doors. Gus looked at him across the car. He was angry now, and Buddy could see it in his face. Gus could be difficult when he chose to, and now was obviously the time.
“Do you want the message or not?” he said.
Buddy frowned, still waiting for him to open the door.
“What message?”
“About Jude.”
“What about Jude?”
Gus looked at him for a moment. “I’ve got a number in Ireland,” he said. “The bloke wants you to phone.”
They went back to the pub. There was a pay phone in the corridor outside the lavatories. Gus gave Buddy the phone number in Waterville. The bloke, he said, had phoned late morning. His name was Connolly. He wanted to talk to Buddy about his wife. He’d said it was urgent. Buddy lifted the phone and got through to the operator. He gave her the number and put two pounds in the box. Waiting in the darkened corridor, the air smelling of disinfectant, he realized his hands were trembling. He got through to the hotel. He gave the receptionist Connolly’s name. There was a brief silence. Buddy wondered how long two pounds would last. He looked behind him for Gus in case he needed more change. Gus had gone. He bent to the phone again. Connolly, he thought. Bound to be Irish. Name like that. Someone picked up the phone at the other end. An educated voice, soft, definitely English.
“Buddy?”
“Yeah.”
“My name’s Connolly.” The voice paused. “You need to get here.”
“Where?”
“Ireland. Place called Waterville.” He paused. “It’s in Kerry. On the coast.”
Buddy nodded, writing down the details, hoping he’d be able to read his own scrawl. He returned to the phone. “Where’s Jude?” He said. “Where’s my wife?”
There was a brief silence. A ticking on the line. Then the English voice came back again. “She’s up the road,” he said, “it’s not far.”
“You’ve seen her?”
“Yes.”
“Is she all right?”
Buddy shut his eyes. The carrier, he thought. The plastic bag. The voice came back again.
“You should come over. Today.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“How do I do that?”
“I don’t know.” There was another pause. “When you get to Waterville, find the Skelligs Hotel. I’ll stay here. I’ll expect you tonight.”
Buddy began to scribble the name of the hotel. The line went dead. He looked at the receiver. Gus had appear
ed again, from the lavatory. He’d obviously been for a leak. Buddy looked at him. He nodded at the telephone.
“How is she?” he said.
Buddy shrugged. “No idea,” he said, “I’ve gotta go to Ireland. To find out.”
They left the pub again. They sat in the car together, Buddy gave Gus the pork pies and the crisps and the bottle of light ale. Gus lined them up on the dashboard, not opening any of them. Then he leaned back in the seat, making himself comfortable.
“OK,” he said, “so tell me. What’s been going on?”
Buddy glanced at him. A couple of minutes hard thinking about getting to Ireland had produced only one solution. He’d have to fly. Not scheduled. Not through any of the commercial airports. But some other way that would take them by surprise. They’d be watching the ferries, the airlines. They’d found him on the beach. They’d find him there. Bound to. He glanced across at Gus. Gus was looking out of the window. He was getting angry again.
“I asked you a question,” he said.
“Yeah. I know.”
“So what’s it about?”
Buddy hesitated a moment. “Drive and I’ll tell you,” he said.
Gus looked at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Promise.”
Gus shrugged and reached for the keys. “OK,” he said. “Where to?”
“Chichester.”
They drove north, through a maze of streets until they hit a main road. Then they followed the signs for the coastal motorway. By the Ferryport, where the motorway entered the city, there was a roundabout. Two of the five exits were partially blocked by squad cars. Buddy had got as far as Pascale and the offer of the operation. He looked at the roundabout. Then he touched Gus lightly on the arm.
“Take the third exit,” he said quietly.
“That goes down through the city again.”
“I know. Just do it.”
Gus glanced across at him, then shrugged. He swung onto the roundabout, and Buddy kept his head low as they swept round. Accelerating south, back into the city, Buddy told him to find a side road, any side road. Gus did what he was told, turning into a bleak estate of council flats. They stopped in a cul-de-sac. Gus turned the car round. Then Buddy got out. Gus looked up at him.
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