“Why?”
“You really want me to answer that?”
“Oh, you don’t need to.”, Philian sighed, “I already know. To get to me. She obviously didn’t tell them anything. But why did she have to die for it? And now, they want to flush me out by ramming it in my face. I killed her Nate. I killed her.”
Unable to think of a response, Carrington remained silent. He did all he could to be there for his friend but the cups of tea, the cigarettes and the whisky were all left untouched as Philian Gregory retreated into a numbed silence. Somehow, the time passed and they both fell asleep in the early hours of the morning, neither wishing to, but both compelled to by the long and busy day that they’d had.
When Carrington woke the following morning, he was alone in the boat. He eased himself out of the chair that had been his bed for the night and walked into the galley. The kettle was warm. A half-drunk cup of coffee had been left on the counter. It was only just after ten in the morning, but Philian was out there in the big old world already. Carrington chose to wait for him to return. They could both do with some time on their own.
“I’ve pulled everything I can.”, Philian hustled into the boat carrying a sheath of papers, “It’s pretty much as we thought. I can’t believe that I missed it. For weeks, we’ve been tootling along oblivious to what’s happened. She didn’t deserve it. Nathan, she didn’t deserve it.”
Managing to control the onset of tears, he settled himself at his small desk and flicked through the pages he’d printed off. Carrington glanced at what they were. All pages from the internet, printed on local library embossed paper. Without hesitation, he began to make preparations for them to move off.
“What’s the big rush?”, Philian joined Carrington as the boat began to drift from the towpath.
“I thought I’d told you,”, Carrington tried to keep his voice calm, “and so many times as well. You can’t stick your head above the parapet and not expect to be seen.”
“But I used the library.”, Philian protested, “No names, no pack-drill. Surely they can’t track me from there?”
“It’s not only about how you get into the internet,”, Carrington explained, steering the boat past the last of the moored craft and picking up speed as he did so, “it’s also about what you do when you get in there.”
“But surely…”
“Surely nothing. Trust me, I’ve been through this too many times. You think that your search for anything about Amanda’s death is anonymous. Tell me, who else would have carried out the search the way you did? Who else would approach the search from the point of view of someone who knew nothing of the event? Only you, mate, only you. And you were wrong about Amanda not giving them anything. They will have found out her involvement in buying the boat before they approached her. So now, they know we’re on a boat and they know where we’ve just been. They’ll already be on the way. Trust me, we need to get as far from town as possible and consider how we hide.”
“But it was on television last night,”, Philian protested, “and I can’t be the only one to be searching Amanda this morning. We’re talking billions of web searches here. They can’t track me from that, can they?”
“Before the programme was aired,”, his friend explained, “they will have punched in a search programme based on what they’d expect you to do if you saw it. All you did was activate it by doing what they knew you’d do. Add to that, the fact that they already have a detailed profile of your previous web use. They know the phrasing you use, the tools that you employ. Yes, there are billions of searches going on, but you will have triggered enough to give them confidence that it was you in that library.”
“Well, let’s turn back then.”
“You what?”
“Let’s turn back and give them what they want. I don’t want others to die. I don’t deserve to be allowed to get away. I’m sick of the running away. Let’s just give ourselves up.”
“Just like that?”, Carrington increased the boat’s speed causing waves to break at the water’s edge, “After all you’ve given up and all you’ve lost? After all you’ve discovered about these people? After promising to fight? No, no way. We don’t give up. I’ve got a better idea.”
Chapter Fifteen
Despite his only having had a couple of hours’ sleep, Philian Gregory was as awake as ever as he left the boat before sunrise and walked along the towpath, heading to the nearest village. It was a still morning, warm enough for the time of year and yet, still retaining some of the chill of the night. As he walked, he thought about Amanda. Would they have got back together? It was entirely possible. Had they had something more than they’d ever really appreciated? Equally possible. They’d chosen to stay single for most of their separation. That had to say something. There was also some sort of spark between them when they’d last met. And yet, they would never know. He tried not to think about what she had suffered to protect him. He only hoped that it had been over quickly. That didn’t make it any easier. He wouldn’t have been as strong. He would have crumbled at the first. But killing her? Those sorts of things didn’t happen in twenty-first century Britain. At least, that would have been his comment last year. This year, he was beginning to understand that maybe they did.
And what of the man who had changed things so drastically? Nathan Carrington, blind drunk, was a helpless, broken and bumbling wreck. Nathan Carrington, pleasantly inebriated was a lot more fun. They were poles apart in many ways, but Philian genuinely felt that he had found a true friend and companion in the most unlikely place. They were certainly an odd couple. And yet, they gelled in some way.
As to Nathan Carrington, sober, well, that remained something of a mystery; the drink had never been responsible for his most important choices in life. It had only ever been an escape from the consequences of those choices. So too was the left-field thinking that Philian still struggled to accept as Nathan’s genuine and considered conclusions about their situation. To an outsider, every word he spoke would smack of paranoid delusions, drug-induced fantasy or the rantings of a madman. He was most lucid though when sober. If he was deluded, he had every right to be. Nothing in his experience had acted to counter his take on things. In fact, it was events that drove his thinking. His was an unpalatable truth, but a truth of sorts nonetheless.
Today, that truth would be put to the test. Amanda’s death was the catalyst that helped solidify Philian’s thinking. There was his worldview, and there was Nathan’s worldview. The two remained far apart but needed to either come closer together or be permanently separated. The reality was that Philian Gregory hadn’t really done much wrong. Set aside the implied allegations about his role in Amanda’s death and there was nothing that he had done that broke any laws; if he handed himself in, they’d soon acquit him. He may have upset his employers. He may have caused disruption and confusion, but nothing he had done had been illegal. Today, he would make a final decision. Tonight, he would either be on his way back to a semblance of his old life, or he would be forever an outcast.
Having made the all-important telephone call from a traditional payphone outside a picture-box Post Office, he returned to the boat. Nathan Carrington wasn’t there. The full bottle of whisky was though, and that reassured Philian. Little detail had been discussed in the early hours of the morning, but each had a part to play and Philian was happy to trust Nathan to do what he needed to do. Firing up the grill, Philian laid out bacon enough for two and cut thick doorstep slices from the loaf of bread that was just about to turn, but which still had some life left in it. Choosing to make this a special meal for the two of them, he broke four eggs into a frying pan and let them form themselves into the half-omelette, half-fried-eggs that he had christened ‘messy eggs’. It was easy to make and gave a bacon sandwich a new dimension.
“Smells good.”, Carrington returned to the boat.
“Don’t worry,”, Philian replied, “yours is alread
y sorted.”
They took the sandwiches through to the lounge and settled in their respective chairs. Neither wanted to break the silence but the last mouthfuls of their breakfast forced one of them to.
“All sorted?”, Nathan asked.
“Yep, and you?”, the reply.
“As much as possible. Still a number of variables but that’s the way it is. You sure you want to go through with this? I can go it alone if you want.”
“No,”, Philian sighed, “that’s fine. We’re in this together. I’m not going to bottle it now. Mind you, we had a good run, didn’t we?”
“Your telling me! It’s been a blast, mate. I could get used to this waterways life. It’s a different world out here. None of the pointing and staring and judgement, well, not quite as much. And so straightforward as well.”
“Not forgetting the pubs, of course,”, Philian laughed.
“And the people.”
“And the scenery.”
“And the silence.”
“And the laughs.”, Philian concluded, “So many laughs, despite everything. It’s living, I guess, real living.”
“But it doesn’t need to end,”, Nathan turned to face Philian directly, “despite your pessimism. Who knows, tomorrow may see us hit the outskirts of Bradford with a new hope in our hearts. For your sake, and for Amanda’s, I’ll do everything I can to make that happen. I owe it to her and I owe it to you. It’s not over yet.”
The rest of the day was spent in nervous anticipation. They were moored in a remote spot that was a safe enough distance from the popular visitor attraction of the Bingley Five-Rise, but near enough to civilisation that they weren’t inaccessible. Bradford and Leeds lay in the distance, barely an hour away by car, but several days cruising by boat. They were cities of contrast. One, a classic example of the truly Northern city adapting to a changed population and the decline of all that had created it. The other, a great city resurrected as an outpost of London and sporting the Harvey Nicholls’ that placed the parent’s stamp on it. Unlike London, however, both cities had suburbs that were tightly contained and had avoided the need for uncontrolled expansion, each being surrounded by some of the wildest and the most beautiful countryside that England had to offer.
It wasn’t the countryside of Wordsworth, swaying with daffodils. No, it was a much less pastoral, earthy countryside, throbbing with the beat of the industrial revolution that it had helped to spawn. The mines that yielded the fuel, now abandoned and returning to nature. The rivers that had been tamed to drive the engines that wove the cloth that clothed the world. And the hills of verdant pasture that lay under thick blankets of snow that passed every Spring to reveal a landscape teeming with animal life.
The view from the M62 Motorway, strangely enough, was better than they were enjoying at their moorings. Which wasn’t such a bad thing, given that they were happy to be able to see less for now, if that meant that they were in turn, less likely to be seen. Philian didn’t want an audience if he was to be escorted away for questioning. Carrington, on the other hand, needed to be sure that he was close enough to civilisation to be able to pan-handle a living.
At seven that evening, they fired up the throwaway mobile that they’d bought some time ago for emergency use. The call came through as soon as the phone picked up a signal. This was the beginning. It was comfortably predictable, even if the end wasn’t. With the briefest of handshakes, they parted company.
It took Hendricks and Powell less than an hour to make the journey from where they were parked up. They’d done the major part of the trip yesterday and had waited in a walker’s car park on the outskirts of Skipton. To have found the fugitives there would have been too good to be true. They weren’t too disappointed then when a comprehensive walk around the whole town yielded no further clues. They were trusting that Philian Gregory had had enough. They’d cast out their line with a tempting bait on it and were sure he’d bite. Why he’d chosen to do so in the way that he had, they weren’t quite sure. Still, there was some logic in his actions. He’d needed to break cover, but he’d also needed time to formulate his response. He was clearly learning something in his time off the radar, but not enough to defeat the combined forces that were ranked behind them.
The Range Rover crested the canal bridge gently. It wasn’t a through road and they had to make sure that they didn’t trap the SUV in a position where it would be hard to make their exit. It was jet black with tinted windows. Not the subtlest of vehicles, but then, its occupants weren’t the subtlest of operators. The interior light provided the only glimpse of the two as they climbed out, although the evening that was drawing in hadn’t yet yielded all of its brightness. They weren’t invisible as they climbed the stile and stood for a moment on the towpath. With a nod, Hendricks indicated the direction they needed to go. There were only two boats there, one of which was unoccupied. The other testified to there being people on board by the lights and the shadows of movement inside.
“Let’s make this count.”, Powell whispered as they stepped gently onto the boat’s stern deck.
Waiting a beat for the inevitable rocking that their boarding had caused to settle down, they lifted the catch on the unlocked door and stepped boldly into the narrow interior. They were greeted with a familiar face.
“Gentlemen,”, Carrington raised his glass to them, “welcome on board. Although it is considered the norm to at least knock first.”
“Carrington?”, Powell said, “I’d say that it was a surprise to see you here, but I’m guessing that the surprise is mainly on your side. I must say, the years aren’t showing too well on you. Still, it’ll all be over soon.”
They both raised pistols in Carrington’s direction and advised him not to move. He hadn’t expected anything less.
“Check for the other one.”, Hendricks said to Powell as he positioned himself next to Carrington with the gun firmly pressed against his captive’s head.
“No sign.”, Powell replied after walking the length of the boat and opening even the smallest of cupboards.
“Want to tell us where he is?”, Hendricks asked Carrington.
“He’s right behind you.”, Carrington smiled.
They turned instinctively, raising their guns to the rear of the boat and readying their shots. There was no target to be seen. Their gun arms swung back to where they’d been but they didn’t get a chance to fire. The acid that Carrington threw at them caused them to drop their weapons and grip their hands in agony.
Seizing the opportunity, Carrington kicked the guns away, replaced the empty glass of acid with a full one and proceeded to empty that one too. Hendricks took the brunt of it, his screams fading as the vapours entered his throat. Powell fared a little better, but not much. He’d always been too vain to wear the glasses he’d been prescribed, choosing contacts instead. Those same contacts now melted and fused with his eyeballs. The damage done and the first act played out, Philian Gregory came back on board and put the two to sleep with a hefty shot of horse tranquiliser. That silenced the boat and gave them time to think. Before that, they needed to do a bit of housekeeping.
With the acid neutralised where it had splashed onto some of the more sensitive parts of the boat and a number of liberal shots of air freshener applied to mask the smell of burnt flesh, Philian retreated to the bow deck where Nathan soon joined him.
“The car’s a problem.”, Philian said as he lit a rare cigarette to calm his nerves and try to settle his stomach.
“Not really.”, Nathan replied, “It’ll have some sort of tracker on board, but we can make that work in our favour. Provided we can find it, which shouldn’t be difficult. As for the car itself, you seem to be forgetting that I did my homework on this one. Just before you reach the farm where I managed to secure the supplies we needed, there’s an abandoned track that leads to an old barn. Conveniently, that barn has an inspection pit. I’ll run the car ther
e later, drop it in the pit and put the covers back on.”
“Can’t we just torch it?”, Philian asked.
“Torch it!”, Carrington smiled at his friend, “You’ve been watching too many low-budget cop dramas. No, we need to buy time. It’ll be found in the end but if we burn it, someone will be onto it straightaway. It’s not as if we can make a fast getaway is it now?”
“Fair point.”
“The only gamble,”, Carrington explained, “is that we don’t know who else they told about their location. The car’s GPS tracker would be sufficient for their bosses, I’m assuming. These two like to work together and most likely considered it too risky to rely on others to pinpoint the phone signal and pass it on. My gut says that they were moving too quickly to contact anyone else. If not, we can wing it tomorrow, but for now, let’s not overcomplicate things.”
“And the two of them?”, Philian asked, tilting his head back to the interior of the boat.
“Leave it with me. It’s been a long time coming and you need to keep your hands clean. You know their fate already. Accept it, please. I’ll work on helping you do that.”
They sat in silence for another ten minutes, only breaking that silence when they heard a muffled moan from inside the boat. They opened the door and moved slowly into the dining area where what was left of Hendricks and Powell had been secured to the bench seats facing each other. Powell was spared the sight of his partner. Not that that was much consolation given that the acid continued to eat its way through his cheekbones having done its worst with his eyes. Hendricks might have looked at Powell, but he chose not to. The pain across his chest and neck was unbearable. For both, there had been an additional present prepared by Carrington. Once they’d been secured, he’d poured a good measure of acid onto their crotches. It was the smell of their genitals burning that Philian was struggling to cope with.
Philian Gregory Page 14
