The Mission

by Naomi Kryske

“Ten plus,” Mrs. Dunaway answered.

  Jenny sat down next to him, picturing Nick Howard at this age, when the Thompsons had taken him in. “Jack, my name is Jenny, and my dog’s name is Bear. He’s really gentle if you’d like to pat him. You don’t have to say anything.”

  Jack looked up, but he didn’t move. His little body was caved in, like a puppet’s when no one is holding the strings.

  “My husband, Colin, had blue eyes just like yours,” she said. “He was killed, too. I miss him, just like you miss your mum.” She stood. “Being sad is okay. I’m still sad, and I’m a grownup.” She waited, but Jack didn’t respond, even to Bear’s wagging tail.

  “He’s not meaning to be rude,” Mrs. Dunaway said.

  “He isn’t rude, he’s upset,” Jenny told her. “I hope I’ll see you again.”

  “We’re here most days. My husband and I run one of the dry cleaners’ in Highgate, and we take turns walking with Jack. We’ve been told that exercise might help, and being outdoors as well.”

  As Jenny and Simon walked away, she was reminded of the poem, “My Boy Jack,” written by Rudyard Kipling after his son was reported missing in World War I. The Jack she had met was present in body but lost in spirit. Although Kipling’s son was eventually declared killed in action, perhaps some hope existed for this boy. “It was such a sad poem,” she told Simon, “because Kipling was afraid his son was dead.”

  He took her hand, and they walked in silence through Hampstead’s narrow, winding streets. “Nice flowers,” he said, noticing the fresh blooms on either side of her porch. “I see you’ve taken up gardening.”

  “Someone trampled on them. I had to replant them twice.”

  “Vandalism?” he asked.

  “I found ashes on the porch, and on another occasion, coffee grounds. It was irritating.”

  “You should report it. There may have been other incidents in the area.”

  “Do you have time to come in? I’ll make tea.” He seemed relaxed today, comfortable and calm, and not as tired as he had been lately. He romped with Bear while she brewed, Bear giving a series of short happy barks and Simon laughing as he wrestled with him.

  “Bear, sit,” she said when she brought the tea. “Simon, sit,” she laughed. She gave Bear a treat and poured their cups. “Tea is such a comfort. Sometimes I think I should stop drinking it as a habit and make a solitary cup and concentrate instead. You know, breathe in the aroma, sip, and think.”

  “I just want the caffeine,” he confessed.

  “Then you’re missing out on the whole experience,” she teased. “From the sight of the steam rising from the cup to the scent of the lemon, the pressure of the cup against your lips, the warmth and taste on your tongue, and the relaxed feeling it elicits: Tea massages your senses.”

  She had described drinking tea as a sensual experience. At a loss for words, he held out his cup for a refill and thought about how far she had come. When he was first put in charge of her protection, she was recovering from surgery and severe injuries. He had looked for signs of pain to treat, and there had been many. When she had healed somewhat and had become rebellious, he had looked for signs that she would do as she was told. When she got together with Sinclair, he had hoped to see signs of unhappiness, dissatisfaction, some hint that she could be interested in someone else, but there had been none. After Sinclair had been killed, he had looked for signs that she was still interested in living. Now she spoke of her lips and her tongue. Was she coming on to him? “You’re waking up,” he said, his eyes searching her face while trying to quell the rising hope he felt.

  She nodded. “The other day I realized how soft Bear’s fur is. And when I walk him in the morning, I smell the fresh bread at the bakery. Food has flavor again. The small miracles of life, according to Neil Goodwyn. And then I feel guilty, because I’m alive and Colin isn’t.”

  He took her hand. “You’re not meant to feel that. The guilt.”

  His hand was warm and firm. “That’s what Dr. Knowles says. He wants me to forgive myself for being alive.”

  “I want that for you also, love,” he said and saw her smile. He looked at the little dip in her throat just above her collarbone and then the faint scar on her cheek that put him in mind of how he’d come to know her. Her dark hair had a sheen to it, and the lace on her shirt did not completely conceal the skin underneath. “Jenny, I – ” He stopped himself. “I should go.”

  On his way home, Simon was angry with himself. Speaking to Jenny about his feelings would have been wrong. He was spoken for. Marcia loved him, and he was quite fond of her. He wanted to love her. In time, he thought he could. Jenny still had one foot in Sinclair’s grave. Just because she was showing signs of healing didn’t mean that she was ready for a new relationship. Affection and trust from a woman didn’t equal attraction and love. And nothing suggested that she would consider him as a potential partner when the time came. Sinclair had been a bloody toff, for Christ’s sake. He could never fill those shoes.

  CHAPTER 23

  When Jenny saw Simon next, he was tense and troubled. “Look,” he said, punching the newspaper with his finger. “It’s three-and-a-half years on, and these officers are still on the hot seat.”

  She took a minute to skim the article. In September, 1999, two firearms officers had challenged a man who was reported to be carrying a shotgun in a bag. When he turned to face the officers and raised the bag, they fired, and one of the shots killed him. The bag was later found to contain a wooden table leg.

  “There’s going to be a new inquest,” he growled. “Two years ago the Crown Prosecution Service declined to prosecute them. Another inquest could change that. It’s rubbish. Bloody rubbish. I could spit feathers! We would all have done exactly as they did.”

  Bear pushed his nose against Simon’s knee and whined.

  “I don’t understand.”

  He took a deep breath to calm himself and patted the dog’s head. “One of the shots hit the suspect in the back of the head. Both officers insist that the suspect was facing them when they fired, but a new inquest means a new investigation. Anything could happen. Since the incident, the officers have been removed from operations. But we’re all asking ourselves if this could happen to us. We face situations all too often where we believe we are at risk of injury or death. We’re required to take decisions quickly. We can’t be expected to sacrifice ourselves.”

  “And those who aren’t in the line of fire – who have time to examine everything – review your actions,” she said slowly. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “And who have never been in our boots, because they either weren’t police or weren’t firearms officers. But that’s the system,” he acknowledged. “And it’s not fair.”

  “I know what you need,” she smiled, taking his hand. She rubbed his palm gently with both her thumbs.

  He had himself well in hand this day. The black leggings she wore with her sweater hugged her lower frame but didn’t affect him at all. When she placed his hand on her knee briefly to brush her hair behind her ear, he was still unmoved. When she picked up his hand again, her fingers felt unusually soft against his palm, but he forced himself to accept her gesture for what it was, an attempt at comfort from a friend.

  “Maybe you should do this for me, too,” she said after a few minutes. “The inquest into Colin’s death is going to be held soon. I’ve had calls from the Coroner’s Office, the Coroner’s Court Support Service, and Chief Superintendent Higham. I’ve been told I’ll be allowed to question the witnesses. I can’t imagine why.”

  “Will you?”

  Her smile wavered. “I don’t think I’ll be able to say anything at all.” She shook her head briefly to clear the dread. “Simon, could I ask you – I’ve been worried about something.”

  He noted her anxious frown. “Let’s hear it.”

  “I think I’ve changed since Colin’s death. Neil Goodwyn comes by, Nick Howard had to jump-start me, and now I’m seeing Dr. Knowles. I was a
lways proud of my independence, but I’ve needed so much help to get through this, and I’m afraid I’ve become weak and dependent on people.”

  He thought for a moment. “We’ve not walked in your shoes, have we? But leaning on others from time to time doesn’t make you dependent; I rather think it shows judgement, knowing when you need help. When Burly’s wife walked out on him – he’s one of our SFO mates – we kept him with us, but on planning, not operations. He needed a bit less stress on the Job. No one considered him weak. After a time he returned in full.”

  “Do you think I’ll go back to the way I was?”

  “In my book you never left. You’ve made a life for yourself in a country not your own. You take your own decisions. Jenny, it was a shock when Sinclair was killed. It can’t have been easy. You reacted. That’s quite different to being helpless. You’ve come a long way.”

  She gave his hand a squeeze then released it.

  He hugged her before he left but wished he had felt free to do more. Wished she needed him more. Sinclair’s death had derailed her; now she faced reliving those dark days at the inquest. Memories flooded back of her previous courtroom experiences, when she had testified against the bastard who had attacked her and later against his thugs. He had been able to encourage her before each session and after as well. He could not be present to cushion her for this next ordeal. She didn’t expect it of him. Why, then, did he feel that he had let her down? Both her and himself, actually.

  CHAPTER 24

  With difficulty Alcina had been able to control her anger until she left Kosta’s. A busy evening, many new customers, several large groups, but precious small tips, and she was tired. She closed the back door and then kicked it as hard as she could, nearly choking on the expletive she managed to whisper instead of screaming. By the end of the evening, both her feet had hurt, and now she would be limping to the tube station on one of them.

  She hated Greek men, with their self-assured manners and easy laughter. She hated their wives and girlfriends equally as much for the way they talked down to her. She hated them for the food they left on their plates. She hated them for their designer handbags and matching shoes, shoes that were far more stylish than hers. Shoes that cradled feet that did not hurt from long hours of serving others.

  At the tube station she was still on her feet. Through the turn stiles, down the escalator, across the walkways to the correct platform. There, at least, she sat for a few minutes waiting for the train. Once on her way, she rested again, but standing to exit the car was a painful shock. And in the morning she would have the long trek through Hampstead streets on her way to the bakery.

  Leaving the tube station and approaching her flat, she saw a big bag of garbage which had fallen next to the skip in the alley. A small dog was rooting through it. A small, thin dog. Her feet throbbing, she stopped to watch it nevertheless. The dog was hungry. If she’d had food, even scraps, with her, she could probably have lured it into the flat. Then what? Confined it to her kitchen while she decided what to do with it.

  A small dog was ideal. What worked with a small dog would work with a larger one like her target’s. She would bring it bones and meat scraps from the customers’ plates while she perfected her plan.

  And in the meantime she would continue to remind her target that someone was watching her, someone who intended her harm.

  CHAPTER 25

  Easter was a paradox for Jenny. Her dad had an international driver’s license, so he was behind the wheel of Colin’s Audi, which Jenny had never driven, preferring to rely on public transportation. She navigated from the back seat, where she sat with Bear. Bear hadn’t been in a car since Nick Howard had brought him home from the animal center, and Jenny was curious to see what kind of traveler he would be. She needn’t have worried; Bear stretched out on the towel she placed on the back seat and promptly went to sleep.

  They traveled to Kent to spend the holiday with Joanne, and Jenny felt most alive when she withdrew from the family group to sit by Colin’s grave. Joanne had planted flowers near the headstone, and the bursts of color and green grass that covered Colin like a blanket spoke of life. It was sunny and warm, and Jenny shed her sweater and caressed the carved letters of his name. It must have been hard to chisel the letters so perfectly into the cold stone. For a minute she felt that she shared something with the chiseler, because Colin’s death had resulted in something difficult for both of them, but the artisan had probably felt some satisfaction with his completed work, while the grief memorialized by the stone still chipped away at her heart.

  She set the camera down, not sure why she had brought it. She didn’t want to document this site. She wanted to remember Colin smiling and happy, not hidden beneath layers of earth with a monument he would have dwarfed had he stood next to it.

  She told Colin how much she loved him still. “I’ll never forget how we met – and Colin, I’d go through it all again, the fear, the pain, everything, if I could just wake and see your face. And I feel so useless. I can’t bring you back. I can’t even avenge you.” She described Nick Howard’s visits and what a difference having Bear made. “It isn’t the same, though. I used to sleep with you, and now all I have is a dog.” She imagined Colin smiling. “I call him Bear, and I know you can understand why. He’s here with me now, and I do feel less lonely. We’ll be going to the Good Friday service soon – your mum said that Bear would be fine in the house while we’re gone. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  In the morning Jenny’s parents accompanied her to the Sinclair family cemetery. “Colin, my parents were here with me for a few minutes, but since I wanted to be alone with you, they’ve gone back to the house now with Bear. The sun is out again today, shining right on you. It’s a beautiful morning. Is it always morning where you are? Never night?” She leaned against the headstone. “I had a really hard time for a while. When you died, the lights went out, and I wanted to step into the blackness with you. But I couldn’t, because there was a small glow in the background that wouldn’t go out. It had a voice, and the voice said, ‘Choose life.’ I like to think it was your voice, Colin. Anyway, I’m doing a little better now.”

  She took a deep breath. “Colin, the inquest into your death was held recently, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. Chief Superintendent Higham explained that the purpose was to determine how, where, and when you died, but we already knew that, and the verdict, too: unlawful killing. When they read your post-mortem report, I had to leave the courtroom for a while. I know it’s stupid of me, but I didn’t know they’d done that to you, and I just couldn’t listen to them describe all your injuries.” She took one of his handkerchiefs out of her pocket and held it tightly. “The whole thing was deceptive. The court was identified only by an innocuous black sign with white letters. No one wore robes or wigs. Even the judge – or whatever he’s called – wore a suit, because he’s a doctor in addition to his legal training. I wanted him to be old, like a family doctor, but he wasn’t. And the hearing took all day.”

  She paused, trying to think of something positive about the experience she could recount. “There were a lot of witnesses, Colin, a tribute to the thoroughness of the Met’s investigation. The coroner addressed us at the end, your mum and me. He acknowledged how difficult the proceedings were for family members and said we should be proud of you. We are, very proud. And he caught me in the hall as we were leaving to make sure I was all right.” Enough about that, she thought. “Now for good news. Colin, Beth is pregnant! She’s due late in August, and she’s already showing. She says Brian likes her new shape because she has more curves. Would you have felt that way if I had gotten pregnant?”

  After lunch she visited by herself again. “I’m busier now, but mostly it’s just busy-ness. I need a purpose. Dr. Knowles suggested that I keep a journal – did I tell you that I’ve been seeing him? – and that made me sad, because you gave me one long ago, remember? And I’ve filled several since with my silly lists. Colin, Dr. Knowles says tha
t I’ve confused grief and love, that they have become so closely intertwined that I’m afraid to let the grief go for fear the love will go with it. I know that holding onto grief isn’t healthy and letting it go is, but I think that if I do, I’ll feel unfaithful.” That wasn’t quite what she wanted to say. “Grief is a terrible thing, Colin. I don’t want you to feel it. I want to make you proud of me, but I don’t know how.” She sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the rustle of the leaves as the breeze caressed them. “It’s peaceful here, Colin. Like being in church, sort of. I haven’t prayed much since you died. Neil Goodwyn does it for me.”

  She looked up. A speckled brown bird was hovering overhead. Suddenly it dove past her, talons extended, and she realized it was a bird of prey, hunting. She stood up and shouted and waved her arms, but when the bird rose from the grass, it held something, something small, something wriggling, something still alive. Her intervention hadn’t made a difference.

  “Colin,” she panted, “I feel awful. A kestrel – isn’t that the bird that hovers before it strikes? – caught a mouse. It was a sudden attack. The mouse didn’t know the kestrel was stalking it, so it couldn’t get away. I was powerless to stop it.”

  She took a few minutes to catch her breath. “We can’t keep bad things from happening, even to the people we love. Colin, I wish I could have! I wish I’d called you that day and delayed you, or done something to keep you from going to Bond Street, or – ” Her voice broke. “When we were together and I wished for something, you always responded. I miss that so much, because even when you told me you couldn’t grant whatever I’d wished for, I knew you wanted to, and that meant you loved me. Will you always love me? I’ll always love you. I just wish I could show you.” She closed her eyes, thinking it would be easier to hear his voice if he answered, but she heard only her agitated breathing.

  When she visited after dinner, she was more calm. She tried to imagine her monologues as dialogues, waiting to give him time to listen and digest what he heard. “Colin, it has taken me a long time, but I understand now why you did what you did.” She paused. “You had to take a stand against evil. You couldn’t let the bomber win. Your instinct was to protect people, and that was one of the things I respected most about you. F. Scott Fitzgerald said, ‘Show me a hero, and I will write you a tragedy.’ I’ll always wish you were with me, but I wouldn’t ask you to be untrue to yourself. I still don’t know what my life without you is going to look like, but I’m proud of you. Proud and sad at the same time, because we won’t get to have a life together.”