by Tom Bale
'Anyway, in my panic I swerved towards the verge, while also looking
round for Brel. I hit a fallen branch, burst the tyre and went flying.’
'What about the motorbike? Did it stop?’
'Sadly, no. And I didn’t recognise him. One of Oliver Felton’s friends,
perhaps. I shall have words with that young man.’
Joe held her gaze for a moment. Her eyes were cornflower blue
and very clear, with a vitality that made her look thirty-something
rather than in her sixties. Of all the island’s residents, Angela was
the only one Joe really trusted, the only one he’d come close to
confiding in.
'It’s nothing to do with Oliver,’ he told her. 'In fact, it’s probably
my fault.’
He ran through his brief conversation with the fisherman and
concluded by spreading his hands in an expression of guilt. 'If I hadn’t
been playing the eco-warrior, this wouldn’t have happened.’
'Nonsense. For all you know the man always rides like a maniac.
Besides, you’re quite right to challenge litter louts.’ She gave a
mischievous wink. 'If I had my way, I’d kneecap the halfwits who
throw cigarette butts from their cars. Polluting beaches should be a
capital offence.’
He grinned. 'Well, I’m still sorry it happened. Are you hurt?’
'Not really.’ With no hint of bashfulness, she hoisted the hem of
her dress to mid-thigh. There were grass stains on her shins and a
large graze oozing blood on her right knee. Joe was surprised to hear
a cheerful laugh.
'A schoolboy wound. I look like something out of Just William.’
She refused his offer to fetch the first-aid kit. “I’ll clean it up when I
get home. And then try to get this damn machine roadworthy again.’
I can help you there,’ Joe said. He raised a hand even before she
spoke. 'No arguments. I’m doing it.’
'Very well. But you don’t have to.’
She stood back as he turned the bike upside down, resting it on
the handlebars and saddle, then fetched a box of patches from the
garage. He’d used one a few days ago for an emergency repair on a
big inflatable crocodile that Jaden had burst while playing in the pool.
There were no tyre levers, but he had a Leatherman multi-tool. The
f’l “e, wrapped in a handkerchief to stop it scratching the rim, would
do the job just as well.
Joe rolled the tyre off the rim on one side and the inner tube
flopped out like a dead black eel. He used the bike’s hand pump to
inflate it and locate the puncture: a single tiny hole.
'There we go. Shouldn’t take long to fix.’
'Actually, I’m not sure if I do have a repair kit at home,’ Angela
said. 'I’m very grateful to you.’
'It’s nothing. As a kid I spent half my life messing around with
bikes.’ Joe grew wistful. 'When I was promoted to detective sergeant
I treated myself to a Marin. First brand new bike I’d ever had. I did
the whole South Downs Way a couple of times, before the girls were
born.’
You should get one now.’
'Hmm.’
Angela smiled at his non-committal response. She knew he wouldn’t
buy a bike because that would feel too much like putting down roots;
and Terror’s Reach wasn’t his home, not really.
Although retired, Angela did voluntary work as a counsellor for a
charity in Portsmouth, helping young people with a range of issues
including drug and alcohol dependencies. Consequently she was a
good listener: one who knew when to intervene and when to say
nothing.
Hunched over the bike, Joe found the truth easier to tell. 'Even if
it didn’t cause your accident, I overreacted. It was bloody stupid, risking
a fight over a discarded water bottle.’
'But there wasn’t a fight. You might have felt aggression, and that’s
perfectly natural. All the more so in your circumstances. The crucial
thing is that you controlled it.’
'Only because he backed down. I didn’t even think about Jaden in
that moment. And I’m there to protect him.’
'I can’t imagine Cassie’s children being safer with anyone else.
Don’t forget, a healthy dose of aggression is what the family are paying
you for. It’s part of the job description – as long as it’s channelled
correctly.’
'Maybe that’s the thing. It’s so peaceful here, there’s nowhere to
channel it.’ He waved towards the wheelbarrow. 'Except for work like
this.’
'From what you’ve told me, the crux of your problem is practically
irresolvable. There’s really no alternative to what you’re already doing.
Getting through it, one day at a time.’
Joe pushed his hand through his hair. 'I suppose so. I just thought
I’d gone beyond wanting to settle disputes with my fists. Now it seems
like the impulse was just lying dormant.’
Angela considered for a moment. 'Well, then perhaps you have to
accept that it’s part of who you are. That means coming to terms with
it. Living with it when it’s dormant, and when it’s awake.’
He looked up at her. Her face was solemn, even vaguely sad.
'At the risk of sounding terribly mystical,’ she added, 'I’d suggest it
might be there for a purpose.’
After patching the hole in the inner tube, Joe checked for other punctures,
then ran his hand round the rim to make sure there were no
thorns or grit left inside. He replaced the inner tube, worked the tyre
back into place and finished inflating it.
Angela beamed at him. 'Thank you, Joe. I was dreading what a
drama Donald would have made of this.’
Least I can do.’ He spun the wheel and heard it rub against one
of the brake blocks. 'It’s a bit buckled. Might need straightening.’
Oh, I’m sure it was like that before. It’s an ancient, creaking old
wreck.’ She laughed. 'Just like its owner.’
Joe shook his head, unsure what to say. He could see Angela
reddening slightly. He turned the bike the right way up and rolled it
forward, testing the brakes. They squealed a little, but worked fine.
Angela climbed on and adjusted her sunhat. She called to Brel,
who trotted over, happier for having had a rest. Joe accompanied them
to the gates. There was a car approaching from the north, a sleekooking
Renault with a man at the wheel. He was doing about forty:
not a crazy speed, but still too fast for the island.
'Rather than tempt fate, I’ll wait for him to pass,’ Angela said.
'That’s the guy who’s trying to sell Felton’s place, isn’t it?’
'The estate agent. Yes.’ There was a wry note in her voice, for which
she offered no explanation. Not in the mood for gossip right now, Joe
surmised.
The Renault slowed for a left-hand bend just beyond the Nasenko
property and disappeared from view. Angela pushed down on her right
pedal and wobbled out onto the road.
'Thanks again, Joe. I owe you a favour.’
'No, you gave me some good advice. We’re quits.’
He watched her pick up speed as she cycled towards home. Already
he could feel the negativi
ty returning, seeping through his mind like
a stain. For no matter what Angela had said, he did bear responsibility
for her accident.
It was a salutary reminder to Joe that it wasn’t only good deeds that
were paid forward, but bad ones as well. Another tiny measure of guilt; another bitter taste in his gullet.
Five
Liam Devlin couldn’t bear inactivity. After meeting the others at the
staging post on an industrial estate south of Havant, there had been
a couple of hours with little to do but check over their equipment
and wait. The whole time he was aware of a manic energy surging
through his body. He felt like an overcharged battery, leaking heat
from his pores like acid.
Then came the bad news from Gough. Liam had had concerns
about surveillance from the beginning. Although the beach wasn’t an
ideal vantage point, it was the safest place they could find. The trees
opposite the homes would have been perfect, but all it took was
someone’s dog sniffing them out. . .
On the plus side, Gough’s early retreat gave Liam good reason to
bring the operation forward. Only the first stage, and only by an hour
or so, but at least he’d be moving. There was plenty of waiting still
to come, once they were in place, but that would be easier to handle.
For one thing, he’d have a distraction.
Priya had arrived late for the rendezvous. She was polite but
aloof. She kept to herself during the afternoon, ignoring the repetitive
small talk and jittery gallows humour. A frosty little bitch: that
was the consensus Liam picked up from the others. They were
knuckle draggers, mostly; the type of men who hated authority in
any form. The idea of a woman as second-in-command wasn’t just
alien, but repugnant. The colour of her skin didn’t sit well with
some of them, either.
For Liam, it was different. He was top dog on this mission and he
made sure everyone knew it. Also, his background was white-collar,
so he was used to dealing with snotty bitches in all shapes and shades.
Priya’s typically female air of superiority didn’t threaten him in the
slightest. On the contrary: it gave him a thrill.
From the moment he first set eyes on her, he knew he had to have
her. With a bit of luck and a lot of willpower, he might be able to
keep that desire under control till the job was done. But if not. . .
If not, he’d do it whenever he got the chance.
Liam looked like a bandit in an old-fashioned western. He’d grown his
dark hair to shoulder length. He had a long, drooping moustache,
modelled on the one sometimes sported by the singer Nick Cave, and
he’d gone without shaving for a couple of days. The combination of
the moustache, the stubble and the granite-grey eyes gave him exactly
the right persona: he was one mean sonofabitch. Not to be messed with.
The new look worked equally well as a disguise. He was dressed
like a builder, in heavy boots, jeans and a tight black singlet. When
the job was done he’d shave and cut his hair short. With a good suit
and a neat side-parting, no one would connect him to the grubby
desperado who’d raided the homes of some of the wealthiest men in
Britain.
If there was a drawback, it was that 'grubby desperado’ didn’t seem
to do it for Priya. So far she’d hardly spared him a glance.
That was okay, Liam decided. He liked a challenge. It made the
eventual conquest all the more satisfying.
With Angela’s misfortune weighing on his conscience, Joe worked
furiously for thirty or forty minutes. When he finally paused, the
muscles of his arms and back were screaming for relief and his body
was dripping with sweat. But he felt a lot better.
He peeled off his T-shirt and mopped his face with it. The sun was
high above him, mercilessly hot. A couple of black-headed gulls drifted
silently overhead. There was almost no birdsong, he realised; just a
distant forlorn chirping from the woods across the road.
Joe walked over to the pallet of paving blocks, where he’d left his
watch for safety. It was three forty-five. Time to get that swim he’d
promised himself.
He was putting on the watch when the sound of an approaching
vehicle made him look up. With traffic so rare on the island, he had
spent enough time out front that he could recognise most of the local
cars by their engine tones. This one was unfamiliar.
It was a white Ford Transit, two years old, the bodywork faded but
clean. A sign on the side in plain black lettering said CC Construction. Below that, in a font too small to read quickly, an 0845 number. No
web address or trade-association logo.
There was only one man in the cab: slim, youngish, with unruly
dark hair and a gunslinger’s moustache. He gave Joe the briefest of
glances, then turned his attention back to the road, his brow furrowed
with intense concentration. Either deep in thought or pissed off about
something.
Probably the latter, Joe guessed. Builders’ vans weren’t a particularly
unusual sight on Terror’s Reach, but at this time on a Friday he’d
have expected to see them heading in the opposite direction, back
towards the mainland and the nearest pub.
Joe was turning away when an audible thud from the rear of the
van caused him to hesitate. The Transit veered slightly, as if the driver
had been startled by the noise. Then the van straightened up and
accelerated away. Before it disappeared around the bend in the road
Joe memorised the registration mark. No real reason, but old habits
died hard.
He went on thinking about it as he tidied up. The likeliest possibility
was that some equipment had shifted or fallen over. But the
thud hadn’t sounded hard and metallic; it had been soft and muffled.
Yielding, like flesh. It reminded him of the noise a disruptive prisoner
made, throwing himself against the side of a police van.
Except that didn’t make any sense. If there was someone else in
there, why weren’t they sitting up front with the driver?
As Liam drew alongside the Nasenko house, his attention was caught
by a man on the driveway. Late thirties, dark hair, tall and muscular.
He was staring straight at the Transit. Liam focused on the road,
sneaking another look as he drove past.
A thump from the back echoed through the van. The shock made
him jerk the steering wheel.
'Shit,’ he muttered. Sit still, you silly bitch.
He corrected the steering and checked the mirror. Saw the man
watching as the van rounded the bend and the Nasenko house slipped
out of sight. That must be the fella on the beach who’d rattled Gough.
Seeing him, Liam could understand why.
Easing up on the accelerator, he grabbed his phone and pressed
the speed dial.
'What?’
'Just passed some big bastard, paving the driveway. That’s the other
bodyguard, I take it?’
Yes. But you have no need to worry about him.’
You sure? He looks pretty handy.’
'Don’t worry, I tell you. Soon he will be gone from
here. The others
are ready, yes?’
'Oh, yes. Everyone’s ready.’ Liam smiled. 'Ready and raring to go.’
Six
Angela Weaver freewheeled onto her driveway and half dismounted, balancing gracefully on one pedal as she rolled along the path at the
side of the house. She felt tremendously relieved that Joe had come
to her aid. It meant she didn’t have to mention the accident to Donald
at all. Her only regret was making that clumsy joke about her similarity
to the bike. An ancient, creaking old wreck. What had she been
thinking?
She regularly encountered Joe on the beach, usually reading or
sketching with pencils. Over a period of months, as they’d sat and
talked, he had gradually revealed more about himself and his
chequered past. She was flattered that he’d taken her into his confidence.
He was a lovely man, who for the most part endured his
suffering with good grace. He didn’t deserve the fate that had befallen
him.
Then again, Angela thought, who did?
She propped the bike against the fence and turned to make sure
Brel had followed her into the garden. Before going in she checked
the graze on her knee. It was drying up nicely, but cleaning it out
with witch hazel could wait. First she needed a cup of tea and a sit
down.
She took a couple of deep breaths to compose herself. Rubbed her
hands over her face, took off her hat and patted her hair into some
kind of order. Silly, really. She could stroll in wearing clown makeup
and a bright orange fright wig and Donald would be hard-pressed
to notice.
She opened the back door and stepped inside, and as she crossed
the threshold a familiar melancholy descended.
Angela had once watched an intense, beautiful film called House
of Sand and Fog, and it had inspired her to christen her home in a
similar fashion. For the past two years this had been the House of
Sorrow and Fury, and although she could never countenance leaving
it, she also knew she could never quite feel happy here any more.
Donald was sitting at the scarred pine table in their large old
fashioned kitchen, engrossed in a recipe book. Impervious to the heat,
he was wearing his favourite gardening clothes: old brown cords and
a threadbare check shirt. He didn’t acknowledge Angela’s presence
until the dog padded over and collapsed, panting, at his feet.
'Nice ride?’
