“I’ve thought about you, Sharon. Quite a lot.”
For an instant, he saw the uncertainty. Like a warning. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a little package. She held it out.
“A bit late, I’m afraid.” He opened it; it was the handkerchief he had used to mop up the spilled champagne, beautifully pressed and tied with a piece of ribbon. “Just in case you couldn’t lay your hands on another ironing board.”
She zipped the bag shut and looked up briskly. “Shall we go? You can tell me what’s been happening while we drive.”
He took her arm and guided her toward the steps and the barbed wire.
There seemed to be far more people hanging around than when he had arrived. She was probably used to it. Took it for granted.
The same subaltern was on duty. She offered her hand to him; he hesitated, then lowered his head to kiss it. When he straightened up again his young face was pink with embarrassment and pleasure.
The car was waiting, a military police vehicle parked close behind it with the engine running.
Ross climbed into the car and sat beside her. The driver was another redcap.
“Seat belts, please, miss. And, er, sir.”
She fastened the clip and placed her bag between them.
“Just to be on the safe side,” she said.
The barrier was still there.
Early morning, and the sky was clear and drained of colour. It was Sunday.
Ross Blackwood had already lowered a nearside window and could hear the mutter of the engine, like an intrusion. Once a busy T-junction, with traffic lights to control the ebb and flow of daily life, nothing moved here now, and where there had been buildings, a few shops and some offices, there was open space. Only the shape and direction of the road could be identified on the map.
“Pull over and stop here. This should be about right.”
He glanced at the driver, Corporal Dick Harwood. Only a few weeks, but it felt as if he had known him for years.
It was like that in the Corps. But he could never claim that he had got used to it.
When the engine stopped the silence and stillness were all the more intense. There were some carefully arranged piles of bricks and other debris left by the bulldozers until another day. Tomorrow. He opened the door and stretched his legs. One building remained, but was already partly demolished. It must have been stronger than the others. He looked at the bulldozer tracks across what had been a strip of parkland, perhaps with gardens where people had walked their dogs, or waited for friends or lovers. The ruin nearby had been a police station.
He glanced at his watch. Clive Tobin would be here soon. Right now, if he was as punctual as usual. What would he discover this time? He had been out and around with him every day for a week and he felt no closer to him. Sometimes abrupt and impatient, Tobin also had an indisputable ability to hit the nail on its metaphorical head in his search for background and truth. Without prejudice, without criticism. Once he had said, “In this work I have to be a neutral. I can’t afford to be biased.”
Harwood commented, “Some one’s up an’ about, sir. The God bosun, anyway!”
Ross heard the church bells and thought of the old photograph in the study, the foundation of which now lay somewhere buried under a new motorway. Where no birds sing.
“Here he comes, sir.” Harwood swung out of the car and straightened his beret.
What did he think about all this, Ross wondered. A waste of time? A big name over here just to please the brass? Roll on my twelve.
It was the same minibus Tobin had been using since his arrival, with just enough room for his cameraman, picture editor and driver. No armed guards, nothing which might antagonize one faction or the other. But even Clive Tobin, an accepted celebrity, must be uneasy sometimes.
“Ah, Ross, on the ball as usual!”
He was wearing a black leather jacket with a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck, and dark sunglasses. When he removed them to stare around at the demolished site, he showed no sign of strain or tiredness.
“This the place?” He kicked at a loose stone. “They’ll be throwing up new buildings everywhere once they can make a little peace for themselves.” He kicked another stone. “Tell me about it.”
Ross pointed at the remaining ruin.
“Police station. Came under mortar attack. Sparked off the massive countermeasures about seven years ago. Operation Motorman, it was called. Over twenty thousand troops were used to clear the old no-go areas. Even the navy took part, and brought landing craft all the way up the River Foyle. Made things a lot easier to contain.”
Tobin nodded. “Unless you lived here, of course.” But he smiled. “You’ve done your research – that’s good. I understand you were far away at the time. Far East, wasn’t it?”
Ross heard the others climbing down from the bus. Sharon Warwick was not among them.
“You’ve done your research too, apparently.”
The cameraman looked around and said, “Not much here, Clive.”
Tobin waved his sunglasses. “Just a few shots, Mark. The usual. For openers.”
The others moved away, glad to be doing something.
Ross said, “Sharon taking today off?”
“Hardly. I expect she’s told you, I drive them all the way!” He looked at him keenly. “You like her, don’t you? I can always tell, with people I care about.” He was watching the camera crew now, but did not appear to see them. “She’s a good girl. She puts up with a lot, especially from me!” His arm shot out. “No, Mark, more to the left, those trees, or what’s left of them!” He nodded. “That’s the ticket, man!”
He continued in the same unhurried tone as before. “I expect you know, her husband was killed in an air crash. Bloody fine photographer, too. Did a lot of work for me. It happened during the Palestine trouble. He was in a helicopter. Might have been an accident, but I think it was deliberate. The chopper was burned out, and the authorities, as they say, didn’t want to know.” He held up his binoculars. “They’d only been married a week when it happened. I blame myself sometimes. He wanted the job, and I wanted him. End of story. Or is it?”
“Ready, Clive!” The other man was holding a mirror. “Looks good!”
Tobin frowned.
“Not too sweaty, am I?”
“You’ll look great.”
Corporal Harwood muttered, “This lot aren’t supposed to be here!”
It was another car, with military insignia on either door.
A sergeant leaned out of a window, and called, “Keep your party up here, will you, sir? Spot of bother just reported.”
The car was already moving again. Ross asked, “Where is it?”
“Miles from here, sir. You’ll be O.K. if you stay put.” Calm, matter-of-fact, just obeying orders. He added, almost as an afterthought, “At the old market, Mahons Place.” The car accelerated.
Ross turned, as the cameraman said, “What’s up, Clive?”
Tobin was stooping to pick up the mirror from the road.
He said, “The market he mentioned,” and for the first time he seemed unable to control his voice. “It’s where she was going, I forget why. I didn’t think . . .”
Ross seized Harwood’s arm.
“Do you know it?” and almost pushed him against the car. “Then move it! Fast as you can!”
The car was lurching over scattered bricks before he could think. Your duty is to keep with Clive Tobin.
He felt the door jar against his elbow as Harwood swerved around a corner. A few terraced houses, an old man with a broom calling something and pointing as the car shot past.
He heard Harwood swear. Then, “Christ, I thought I’d missed the bloody street!” Another bend, and two policemen dropping a metal barricade and jumping clear. A blurred notice with an arrow. Mahons Place.
For a second he thought Harwood had driven into something solid, although they were still moving. But one of the windscreen wipers was missing and
there was dust everywhere, like smoke. An explosion.
Harwood slammed on the brakes, hands pressed against the wheel, taking the strain as a whole length of timber flew across the bonnet as if it were paper blowing in the wind.
Ross was out of the car, fingers dragging at his pistol holster, eyes stinging with dust.
Harwood was coughing, but managed to call, “With you, Major!”
They were both running, the sound of their feet unusually loud and echoing. As if they were the only two people alive. He felt the gun in his hand, but did not recall drawing it; only his mind seemed to be reaching out ahead, preparing him.
An overturned vegetable barrow, its contents strewn across the road, some still rolling. Two figures, men or women he did not know, crouched in a doorway, perhaps at the back of a building in the adjoining street. The dust was clearing now, leaving the taste of charred wood on his lips.
A market. There was no sign of any activity. It was still early, but the church bells had been ringing. Nothing made sense any more.
Harwood’s arm swung against him. “There, sir!” A low-roofed building with one wide entrance, like a garage or warehouse. The smoke was drifting from it. He thought he heard voices. Something came alive, moving beside an upended heap of empty milk crates, and croaked with fear as the pistol steadied a foot away from his face.
“Don’t shoot! For God’s sake!”
Harwood called, “Easy, matey! Stand very still, right?” The gun in his hands was steady, unwavering.
Ross wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Harwood was not even slightly out of breath. Neither am I.
“What happened?”
The man was still crouching. “Down there, in the fish market. A bomb – some one havin’ a go at the offices.”
He was making no sense. Harwood said, “Sunday. Good time to blow a safe.” He was nodding, excited. Sharing it.
Ross said, “We’re going in.” Harwood would follow. He did not have to be told.
A robbery. Not the IRA or any other faction. The army would be here at any second. Some one else . . . He could smell fish. Then he was running again.
The so-called fish market was suddenly ablaze with lights. Perhaps the explosion had blown the others, but it only made the scene more unreal: trolleys of fish waiting to be unloaded for display, scattered pieces of ice like broken glass in the hard glare, and in the far corner about a dozen people, mostly women, three with children. Some one was sobbing, close to hysteria.
All Ross saw was the man with the gun: he had two companions as far as he could see through the trapped smoke, one clinging to the other, his face bleeding, and obviously in great pain. A foul-up with the explosives. The ‘bomb’. His mind snapped into place like a safety catch. Not professionals, then. These were the most dangerous kind.
He said, “Drop the gun! Do it now!”
“Says who!” The gun moved jerkily. “I’ll take a couple with me, you bastard!”
A child began to scream. The gun wavered; his nerve was cracking. Somewhere, in another world, a whistle was blowing, car doors slamming.
Like sights hardening into focus. The gun moving toward the terrified child, but another figure was also there. That same two-piece suit, the honey-coloured hair, silver in the glaring lights, her arms around the child, hugging, soothing.
Ross walked toward them. Unhurriedly, or so it felt. Even his heart seemed to have stopped.
He said, “It’s over! Drop it!”
The man swung toward him, the flash of the gun lighting his face, the shock as it fell from his hands.
Harwood strode past, the semi-automatic rifle barely smoking.
“Still!” But the other two were staring at him, already unable to move. The one with the bloodied face was looking at the figure sprawled across the melting ice. Even the children were quiet.
Ross walked toward her, thankful, ashamed, empty. It was beyond words or description.
The child was being prised away, he assumed by her mother, but she was staring back at Sharon, smiling and sobbing at the same time.
He said, “I’m sorry, Sharon. For this to happen . . . If only I’d known.”
She had her arms around his waist. Not hugging, not moving. Taking deep breaths.
She said, “Ross. You could have been killed. Don’t you know that?” She raised her head, and her face was only inches from his. “He’d already shot a security man.” Her head jerked. “Out at the back.” And her arms clasped him again, as if she could not release him.
The place was filling with uniforms, army, R.U.C., and figures in white coats, complaining harshly about “the damage done to our fish!” It was madness, and he wanted to laugh aloud. He saw Harwood on his knees beside the body of the man he had shot. There was an officer, too. He also wore a green beret.
He felt her hand covering his, and the pistol still gripped at his waist.
He said quietly, “I would have killed him,” and tried to smile. “Does that tell you something?”
A policeman paused to touch his arm, and said, “Well done, sir. Some robbery – they fucked that one up, an’ no mistake! Bloody safe was empty anyway, even I knew that!” He strode away, grinning.
She had not let go of his hand.
“How did you know, Ross?”
But the other green beret was here now. It was Major Fisher.
“You took a chance, Ross. I’d have had a ton of reports to write if anything had happened to you. That’d be all I’d need.” There were flashes, brighter even than the overhead glare. “The goddamned press is here now, would you believe. I’ll soon put a stop to that!”
Ross reached down to take her arm, but she shook her head.
“No. Hold me. I nearly died just now. I thought you’d be killed.”
He could feel her shaking.
“That would make a perfect shot! But some people might not understand!”
It was Clive Tobin, laughing at them, hands on hips as if he were directing a film. Relaxed, not a hair out of place.
An hour; was that all? And he had seemed to be almost in a state of shock.
Fisher said, “You are not supposed to be here, Mr. Tobin.”
“Oh, call me Clive, for God’s sake, Major!” He pointed to Ross. “Neither is he, remember? Just as well he was, in my book!”
Some of the others laughed.
Ross saw a stretcher going past. The security guard. His face was covered.
Harwood was passing and gave him a quick thumbs-up. The gunman was still alive, anyway.
Ross touched her hair very gently, surprised that his hand was so steady. He sensed Tobin turning to watch, and said over his shoulder, “I thought you said you were always neutral, Clive?”
Tobin shrugged. “Some days, more neutral than others.”
Men and women were emerging now, venturing into the street, some pausing to stare at the cars and the uniforms or the debris left by the blast. Curiosity, rather than any show of emotion. They had gone beyond that.
Tobin looked at the sky. “Now, where were we? Back to the old crossroads, I think. So let’s be moving, people, shall we?”
The professional had come to the rescue.
Harwood was reversing the car; a Range Rover was picking up some of Major Fisher’s marines. A solitary R.U.C. officer held a telephone to his ear. Business as usual.
She walked with him into the pale sunlight, his hand on her arm, her eyes straight ahead.
She saw the car, Harwood’s eyes in the driving mirror moving quickly away; she must have heard Tobin’s voice calling to some one in the market.
Ross pressed her arm, waiting for her to pull away.
He said, “I want to see you again. Soon. It’s the way I feel.”
There were shouts and even some laughter as a flight of pigeons fluttered noisily over the newly erected stalls. One woman was pointing at them, pulling her daughter by the hand, trying to take her attention. But the child was gazing at Sharon, the tear stains still clear
on her cheeks.
Sharon looked across at her and smiled. The child returned it.
She said simply, “I’d like that. We’ll find time.” She turned her face and looked at him. “We’ll make time.”
He got into the car, and saw the space left by the missing wiper. Had it been that close?
The car began to move, and he said, “Thanks, Dick. You did well. Bloody well.”
Harwood settled back in his seat, letting the strain peel away.
“That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it, sir?”
Ross could almost feel Harwood’s relief. It’s what we do.
He saw the minibus turning on to the main road, the blink of a flash bulb somewhere.
We’ll make time. It was enough.
Ross Blackwood glanced around the room before sitting down by a table and placing his glass within easy reach. This part of the company H.Q. had been a school in more peaceful times, and still looked like it. When he had been invited to the junior N.C.O.s’ mess for a drink, he had seen a blackboard on one of the walls. It was not difficult to see it as it had been.
He took out the letter and unfolded it. Just reading it brought it all back, except that it was still impossible to suppress the image of the old house, and accept that it had gone. Maybe on the next visit . . . He picked up the glass but it was almost empty; even the ice was melting. It was early evening, but the sun was still high outside, what he could see of it.
He began again. He could almost hear Joanna’s voice. Her laugh.
As I told you, John has been such a great help around the stables, I could not have managed without him. Nothing ever seems to get him down. He remembered their meeting, the firm handshake, and his sister’s comment. Getting his feet under the table . . . And why not? Joanna was strong, but she was human. And alone.
He twisted round in the chair. There was only one other occupant in the room, face covered by a newspaper, snoring gently. Beyond the door he could hear voices, music, the television. Perhaps a game of liar dice to pass away the time.
He looked at the clock above the sealed fireplace. It had been a short day for him; he had been with Tobin for less than two hours, watching his camera crew film a street scene from the top floor of the post office. Sharon had not been with them. Tobin had passed it off with his usual comment about being a slave driver. She’s typing up the final worksheet. Why she can never grow long fingernails!
Knife Edge (2004) Page 16
