Reconstruction

by Mick Herron

  He must have been freezing, Ben thought.

  ‘And I think about what Miro tells me. About place in Oxford.’

  ‘Which place?’

  ‘This place. I remember name, Grandpont. It means big bridge.’

  ‘In Spanish?’

  ‘In French. I speak good French. Better than English.’

  I am not stupid foreign person, Ben remembered. ‘And why did he mention Grandpont?’

  A faraway look came into Jaime’s eyes. ‘He is quite drunk when he say this. Normally he does not drink very much.’

  But when he felt like it, he knew how to tie one on, thought Ben.

  ‘He tell me the world is a strange place. That some people get rich, and others die, and others fall in love. That big business grows fat while children suffer, and a lady ends up working in a nursery in Grandpont in Oxford, and all because of a war that shouldn’t have happened.’ He paused. ‘He say lots more things. But I remember the Grandpont lady, because it is strange thing to say.’

  Ben said –

  But before he said it, the voice of the Daleks broke in again.

  * * *

  We need to know every thing’s all right in there.

  ‘Ask him –’

  Can you hear me, Jaime?

  Yes, thought Fredericks. Ask him if he can hear you.

  He’d have given his left lung for another cigarette, but committing social crimes on prime time wasn’t going to help.

  They knew each other well, Malcolm Fredericks and Peter Faulks, and Fredericks was glad he had Peter onside, but face facts: things had fucked up. They’d lost the inside track once Whistler had dumped the mobile; now they were back to the megaphone, keeping fingers crossed that Jaime would decide it was worth his while to answer.

  You need to give us some signal that everything’s okay. Otherwise we’re going to have to take a closer look, Jaime.

  And why had Whistler dumped the mobile anyway? Spook business: give him an honest axe murderer any day. Faulks said, not through the handset, ‘This isn’t happening.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘We’ve got a negotiator in there. So-called. That should be opening channels up, not closing them down.’ He wiped something from his lip, never taking his eyes from the annexe. ‘Chapman disappeared, I suppose.’

  ‘You spoke to him last.’

  ‘He took Whistler’s BlackBerry with him. It was in my pocket.’

  Fredericks said, ‘We’re supposed to be on the same side. Who’ll be crucified in the dailies if we have to bring bodies out, do you suppose?’

  ‘He came on like he was having an episode. Heart attack or something. Didn’t realize what that was about until five minutes ago.’

  ‘They’re covering their backs.’

  ‘This isn’t a random invasion, Malc. That kid with the gun, I don’t even think he’s a terrorist.’

  ‘It was his choice to pick the gun up.’

  ‘Wasn’t his choice they came after him with it.’ Peter Faulks raised the handset again.

  We need an answer, Jaime. What’s happening in there?

  A gust of wind hit his words and threw them at the annexe. Fredericks imagined them smashing against the woodwork; shattering into disjointed syllables and fractured letters, to lie like dropped Scrabble tiles outside the door.

  But maybe they scraped their way inside, unbroken.

  ‘They’re getting restless.’

  The megaphoned words had the kiddy-cassette to con-tend with, but had snaked in anyway, providing a robotic counterpoint to the jangly rhythms skipping about. You’d have to go some distance to find a less appropriate sound-track, Ben thought.

  ‘Jaime?’ he added.

  Jaime said nothing.

  ‘And they know your name.’

  ‘They hear it before,’ Jaime said. ‘On the bugged phone.’

  That was true. That was more likely than that Bad Sam Chapman had shared info with them: still, it was impossible to know who knew what out there. ‘We need to reach some decisions, Jaime.’

  You need to give us some signal that everything’s okay. Otherwise we’re going to have to take a closer look.

  ‘They don’t like not hearing us. Sooner or later they’re going to do something about that.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I guessed. People who know what they’re doing don’t do things like this.’ That was too fast for Jaime. ‘Things have got confused,’ Ben went on. ‘Everyone’s over-excited.’

  There are an awful lot of guns outside.

  Jaime said, ‘I do not think Miro was thief.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I think other people take this money. The men who chase me last night.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Because they try to kill me,’ Jaime said, ‘of course.’

  ‘Well, that’s a problem too, Jaime. Because Ashton might be out of the picture, but Chapman’s still in it. And the thing about Bad Sam is, he doesn’t like loose ends.’

  Louise Kennedy said, ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s probably best you don’t –’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  He said, ‘Chapman’s kind of a policeman, only not as answerable, if you get my drift. And if he’s as deep in this as he appears to be, then loose ends are a danger to him.’

  ‘But if he took the money, why’s he still around?’

  ‘Well, disappearing immediately the money did might have been a giveaway, don’t you think?’

  ‘Like Miro did . . . ’ ‘Bad Sam, if he did it at all, couldn’t have done it by himself.’ Then he said, ‘Jesus. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.’

  He had the sense of time running out. Of Bad Sam Chapman circling ever closer; prepared to go the usual lengths to find out what they’d been discussing. He had to get out of here soon. They all did.

  ‘You’re telling us because we’re involved,’ Louise said. ‘Go on.’

  He said, ‘Okay, fine. You’re involved. But that stops here.’ He looked at Jaime. ‘You should let them go now, Jaime.’

  Jaime blinked. ‘Let them go?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve got what you wanted. I’m here now. Let them go.’

  ‘And you will make it all right?’

  ‘I can help you with that. They can’t.’

  Louise said, ‘Wait a minute –’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘If I let them go, the police arrest me.’

  ‘And if you don’t, they’ll kill you. Do it, Jaime. The two of us, we’ll work out what happens next.’

  ‘I let them go, I’ll be –’

  We need an answer, Jaime. What’s happening in there?

  ‘I will be alone,’ Jaime said.

  ‘No you won’t,’ Ben told him. ‘I’ll be here.’

  They were talking about letting her go. That much broke through Judy’s wall, the wall she’d been building since she’d crawled from the earlier ruck-up: Judy lying like a duvet on top of gun-boy, exactly this far from death: the space between your thumbnail and your thumb. Armed policemen had come and gone, and she’d had her eyes jammed shut throughout, but she knew without being told that they’d just itched to open fire on lovely boy, and spray his terrorist arse all over the walls. And she’d have been gone too. Didn’t matter who shot her: she’d have been as dead either way. And she knew something else: that the secret service man who’d come poncing in like he was God’s gift hadn’t given a tinker’s cuss for Judy Ainsworth – he’d sent the policemen packing because he didn’t want gun-boy hurt. That was what things had come to. Judy Ainsworth, innocent victim, was worth less than the animal who’d trapped them here in the first place. Every day you got up, you struggled, you did your best. And in the end, life sucked you down the plughole and spat you into a drain.

  What happens next?

  What happened next didn’t matter, so long as it didn’t involve Judy. Everyone left in the annexe could die in a blaze of hot met
al and collapsing scenery. Just so long as she was watching from the sidelines.

  And then something else struck her – if she could walk away from all this, she wouldn’t reach home empty-handed. She wasn’t a fool, for all these people thought her an idiot; she knew that none of this was unregarded. The eyes of the world must have been focused on the nursery for hours. There’d be TV crews slavering for footage; newspapers foraging; chequebooks opening. Her story would be sought out and fought over – it would be bought and paid for.

  And it would be her story.

  For the first time in what felt like hours, Judy Ainsworth opened her eyes.

  ‘Let the children go, Jaime.’

  ‘If I open the door . . .’

  ‘If you open the door, nothing. The boys can go, their father can take them. I’ll shut the door again. That’s it.’

  ‘I have fewer hostages.’

  ‘You’re not going to hurt them. So what’s the point of keeping them here?’

  ‘Those men tried to kill me. This morning, Bad Sam, this Ashton. If I give myself up, they kill me again.’

  ‘Ashton’s not killing anyone soon, Jaime. And I can help you with Bad Sam. But not in here, not as long as you’re armed. Not as long as you’re keeping hostages.’

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘That’s the reason I’m here, Jaime. You asked for me, remember? Because Miro said you could trust me.’

  Jaime looked down at the bundle on the floor that was Judy. The woman had opened her eyes, Ben noticed, and he hoped to God she wasn’t about to try another run for it. ‘Once they walk out, everyone will relax a little. Things will get easier.’

  ‘And what happens to me?’

  ‘I’ll make sure you’re safe. When we leave, it’ll be with people you can trust.’

  ‘Where is Chapman now?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’m in here, remember?’

  Judy said, ‘Let me go.’

  It was the first time she’d used her voice in a while, and it scratched her throat coming out.

  Louise’s eyes flashed. ‘Are you not finished yet?’

  ‘I shouldn’t even be here. I –’

  ‘There are children here. Do you really think you’re more important –’

  ‘Yes.’

  Eliot said, ‘You stupid –’

  ‘– children, for God’s –’

  ‘– bitch, if he doesn’t –’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘– I will!’

  ‘Shut up,’ Ben repeated. ‘All of you.’

  And thought: If I was him right now, I’d put a bullet through the ceiling.

  Against her wall, safe in her cage, Trixie was going through the motions again; squeak squeak squeak squeak. You had to wonder what kind of mileage the average hamster achieved in its average life.

  He said, ‘Judy. We’re all getting out of here, alive. You have to wait your turn, that’s all.’

  ‘And what if things go wrong?’

  ‘They’re not going to go wrong.’

  Louise said, ‘Jesus Christ!’; such contempt in her delivery, he could only hope it was aimed at Judy, not him.

  ‘He’s not going to kill those children,’ Judy said. ‘If he kills anyone it’ll be me. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘He’s not going to kill anyone,’ Louise said.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say you stupid –’

  ‘Shut up, Judy. You nearly got us killed already, so just fucking shut up. Now.’

  oranges and lemons

  say the bells of St Clement’s

  Ben, looking at Louise, saw her teeth: they looked wicked. Sharp, and flecked with white. And then she clamped her mouth shut, as if heeding her own instructions, and her glance flicked to the boys at Eliot’s side.

  squeak squeak squeak squeak

  He said, ‘All of you. He’ll let all of you go. He only needs me.’

  Jaime said, ‘No.’

  Judy said, very quickly, ‘If you don’t let me go I’ll tell them what you’ve been saying you want that? You want them to know what you’ve been saying with this fucking racket filling their ears up? I’ll tell this Chapman what you’ve been saying about him.’

  Louise just shook her head.

  Ben said, ‘Judy. Judy? You want to be very careful what you say to anyone. Especially him.’

  ‘Then let me go!’

  In Ben’s dreams, Jaime raised the gun, put a bullet through the ceiling.

  here comes the chopper

  to chop off your head

  He felt like he needed a bath, or a scouring with a wire brush, but neither would get him really clean; besides, neither was available, so he made do with a cigarette. He’d turned left on exiting Deirdre Walker’s, then left again at the river: he was following this back towards Grandpont now. A helicopter buzzed overhead, and a swarm of midges at face level. In the river, a lost swan drifted regally. After a while the path wound round to a bridge, at the far end of which lay the nature park. If he approached this way he’d end up on the recreation ground, surrounded by trigger-happy policemen.

  Sam Chapman had no gun. Ashton had been armed – for obvious reasons – but Bad Sam didn’t routinely carry, so far without fatal consequences. Ashton had once referred to Sam’s habit as ‘going commando’, which was not without wit, but where had his gun got Ashton? Bad Sam, meanwhile, had grass underfoot and no artillery weighing him down. The Deirdre Walkers of this world didn’t warrant a bullet. He could still have done with a shower, though.

  The woman had been Catty. That was the lost frigging dwarf, as far as Bad Sam Chapman was concerned. As for Happy, Sam would have drowned him in the sink.

  His collar rasped against his neck. The dead weight of his switched-off mobile slapped against his thigh.

  Up ahead, but out of sight, something new was happening.

  ‘Door’s opening.’

  Faulks knew this. He’d seen doors open before.

  ‘Someone’s –’

  ‘Yes. Move back.’

  The crowd behind the cordon caught the event a second later, and reacted as crowds do: as if the same strange idea had struck each particle of it at once. This manifested, briefly, as a hush. And then new noises intruded, mostly variations on the same digital buzz, as God alone knew how many recording devices thrummed into life.

  Faulks’ hand clasped more tightly round his handset, and as soon as he realized this, a worry sparked into life: what other hands were tightening now? Some of them clutching weaponry? While the door opened, and some-one stepped out . . .

  Specifically, he was thinking of DS Bain.

  Who might also have tensed at that moment, but you wouldn’t have known it from watching. There was no tremor in the barrel of the rifle; no twitch in the muscles of the mouth. From a Bain’s-eye view, too, the world remained steady: the crosshairs fixed in place, though the target had not yet been acquired.

  Whoever came through that door belonged to Bain.

  Nobody else on ground level mattered.

  Peter Craven was among them. He was crouched between stacks of outdoor play equipment on the terrace bordering the nursery; had retreated here after leaving the annexe with no prisoner in tow; no hostage rescued. His focus since had been the door. His outstretched arms rested on a plastic-wrapped bale of hay, part of a set used as outdoor building blocks which lent the air of a sanitized Western to proceedings; the more so since he held a gun. And what he was finding, despite this gun, was that it remained possible to wander, mentally; to let concentration slip, and, instead of living the moment, imagine its triumphant conclusion – recounting it later to Tasha or the Supe; supplying their responses: thoughtful approbation from the Supe; enthusiastic adulation from Tasha, involving certain other elements it was best not to be distracted by right now – that was what Peter Craven was discovering: how very very hard it was to remain fixed in the moment. He could have learned a lot from Bain. He blinked, and the door started opening, and yes: his fingers
tensed on his itchy weapon.

  No door had ever opened as slowly as this.

  Christine Pedlar broke apart from Dave Osborne without realizing there was anything to break apart from: only gentle touching, arm against arm. They had been standing close was all. And Dave was forgotten, might have shattered into atoms the moment the door moved . . . Christine was behind the cordon, cattled with the rest of the onlookers, some of whom were professional; the rest simply duped by reality TV into thinking observation involvement. You’d better talk to the police, Dave had said. And she’d agreed, but her objection still ran – Why? Will they do things differently then? – and after smoking the cigarette and making her way back to the street, had snaked her way to the front of the crowd, which was as close as she could come to her children. And now the door was opening, and Dave Osborne had ceased to exist . . .

  Let it be my boys let it be my boys. There was no end to this sentence. It looped eternally, because eternity could be neatly encompassed within a finite amount of time. Eternity was what it took a door to open, when your boys might be on the other side: safe and well and leaping for her arms; or bound and bloodied and dead, leaping nowhere. Or neither. Or both – there were two of them, and one could be dead and the other living, and if so which would she choose, which would she choose? That thought struck her like a madman with a cricket bat – answer, quickly, now – there was no way she would ever for-get that thought. No way she would forget answering it. And then the door was open

  and blinking into the light, like a mole emerging from spring cleaning, came Judy Ainsworth: exactly the same Judy who’d turned up for work four hours previously, but piss-stained and dumpier and confirmed in her world-view: that things existed to make her life worse, that every-thing would always be this way. She hadn’t intentionally opened the door slowly; the handle had weaselled in her grasp. Behind her, the Gun was taking aim – she wouldn’t even hear the bang – and still the door wouldn’t open, still those children were watching, but the Gun wasn’t going to open fire on those children; it wasn’t like she was reaching safety at their expense – she was the victim here, just like always. The handle worked at last, and she stepped out into what should have been an ordinary day.