He thought about the shooting, Harwood bringing down the armed robber as if it were all part of some drill. The sobbing child. Sharon holding him, coming out of it. The moment of stress was past. Maybe the rest was a delusion.
And the ‘rest’ was not over. Major Fisher had tried to make light of it, but the hard fact remained. Ross had left his place of duty to dash off elsewhere. The army’s job, or the R.U.C.’s; anybody’s but his. Brigade would be informed, and a full report was no doubt already on Colonel Souter’s desk.
What now? A reprimand or a change of posting? Another cheerless camp with young marines learning how to become commandos? And for what? To act as the world’s policemen, until local need gave way to local hate?
He picked up the glass again and shook the chips of ice. What’s getting into me? Even Nick Fisher was avoiding him. He would be off to England very soon, to see his wife in hospital, to build another diplomatic bridge.
A shadow moved across the table and Ross said, “All right, I will have another drink. To hell with it!”
The steward remained by the table.
“In the meantime, sir, there’s a call for you. I can be getting you the same again while you’re on the phone.”
“Any idea who . . .”
He picked up the glass. “A lady, sir.”
Calm, even formal. “I’m glad I caught you. I expect you were getting ready to go out and enjoy yourself.”
He pressed the phone harder against his ear. There were voices in the background, not many. One, unmistakably, was Clive Tobin. “Are you O.K., Sharon? Nothing wrong, is there?”
“Fine. If you can’t make it, just say so. I’ll invent some excuse for you.” She laughed. The background voices paused, but only for seconds. Like some one else.
“Of course I’ll come. If you’re sure you’re up to it. I’ve been thinking about Sunday . . .”
He put the telephone down. It was dead.
He called, “Keep the drink till I get back!”
Tobin was probably preparing another sightseeing jaunt for tomorrow. Time meant nothing to him. He had an idea, and everybody jumped. She had sounded tense. Maybe she was still remembering Sunday, and who could blame her?
The same pink-faced subaltern was on duty when he reached the guardhouse. A schoolboy in a green beret. Was I ever like that?
“Is Corporal Harwood about?”
The subaltern stammered, “He’s in the . . . gone to the . . .” He gestured anxiously. “I’ll have him piped at once!” He hurried to a telephone.
Ross calmed himself. His voice had been unnecessarily sharp. There was no point in taking it out on the kid, who had blushed after that chivalrous little gesture with Sharon’s hand right here at this gate.
It was the first thing you learned. Never take it out of a subordinate who can’t retaliate.
The one in question was back. “He’s on his way, sir.”
“I need the car. Otherwise . . .” He saw Harwood striding across the yard, his jaw moving busily to dispose of something he had been sampling in the NAAFI canteen.
“Sir?”
“I’ve got to meet Tobin. Sorry to disturb you again.”
Harwood frowned.
“Car’s out, sir. I only just heard myself.”
The subaltern cut in, flushing, “It was Major Fisher, sir. In a big hurry . . . thought the car was free for the remainder of the day.”
Harwood retorted as sharply as he dared, “It’s all in orders, sir. The car is on stand-by until otherwise stated.”
“I know.” He looked at Ross, and shrugged helplessly. “Major Fisher’s going on leave tomorrow, sir. He was only just told. He wanted to get something before the shops closed. I’m sorry, sir.”
Ross touched his arm. “Something for his wife, I expect.” He smiled. “Major Fisher is in command here, right?” He could feel the tension draining away. For them. And for me.
Harwood said, “I’ll sign for another car, sir. Bit of an old banger, but I’ll get you there.”
He strode away, untroubled now that things had been sorted out: the same man who had acted so calmly, and had used his weapon without panic or hesitation.
It was certainly an old banger in appearance, but it started easily enough, and they were soon on their way, the barbed-wire barriers closing behind them, and Harwood confiding that the car was normally used for carrying officers’ baggage or collecting films for the marines’ cinema. Ross watched the evening sky above the passing houses, deep gold now, and cloudless. There were a few people on the streets, but little traffic. Harwood seemed quite at ease, and chatted about Londonderry and Belfast as he drove at a steady pace, one hand resting on his knee. He had served in Northern Ireland for almost a year and would be returning to Plymouth when his time was up. With luck, he would be promoted to sergeant when that happened.
Ross asked him about his service in the province.
He answered without hesitation. “A few nasty patches, sir. But on the whole, more laughs than tears.”
It would make a good memorial, he thought.
Harwood was saying, “Might even be gettin’ hitched if I get my tapes.”
He put his free hand on the wheel, and added, “Spoke too soon, sir.” So quietly said. It could have been a cat running across the road in front of the car. “Trouble of some sort.” He slid his arm over the back of his seat and Ross saw the gleam of metal as he dragged his rifle beside him.
Blue police lights flashing above a diversion sign, a few uniformed figures standing around, a screen of some kind like part of a tent. Some cars parked beyond the barricade.
Harwood said, “I know another way to the hotel. Once we get the all clear . . .” He opened the window as two constables walked up to the car.
One peered at the docket behind the windscreen; the other looked at Ross’s uniform and rank.
“Been a shootin’, sir. We’re waitin’ for the forensic boys to arrive. My lads will pass you through. No need to delay you.”
They began to move forward again. In the meantime it seemed to have become darker, the near side of the street in deep shadow.
The car stopped, not with a jerk, but almost as if Harwood had been prepared for it.
More police immediately moved toward them.
“Drive on! There’s nothing you can do!”
Harwood remained motionless.
“It’s our car, sir.”
Ross could see it in the failing light. Shattered windows, one door hanging open, the side pockmarked with holes, naked steel through the khaki paint. The corpse was slumped half in and half out of the front seat. As if he had been about to park or drive away.
Not just a few shots, but a volley. There was blood everywhere, like black paint in the shadows. Point-blank range.
A police torch played across some fragments of broken glass in the road, where it must have fallen when the door swung open. And Ross could smell it. Unreal, brutal. Perfume. Fisher’s present for his wife who was in hospital, waiting for him.
The right car. The wrong victim.
“Drive on, Dick.”
It would have been me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The boatshed was huge, like an aircraft hangar, and covered land and water in equal proportions. There were ramps and slipways for some of the larger craft, with tackles dangling from overhead rails. The screech of somebody using a high-speed drill was deafening.
Ross Blackwood watched some marines clambering into a grey-painted launch, a sergeant barking out instructions as it was secured alongside a jetty. Two police boats lay nearby, swaying in the shallows as another vessel surged past. He glanced toward the entrance, a rectangle of sunlight, and saw Corporal Harwood standing beside the Land Rover, wiping the windscreen with a leather, perhaps to pass the time, or to take his mind off the previous vehicle, the car nobody mentioned. As if it had never happened.
There were plenty of smaller boats either propped up on the land, or bobbing together on the water. Sa
iling dinghies, too, used by local service clubs, or possibly owned by people stationed here. Clive Tobin and his little team were down by the main jetty, although it was difficult to imagine what he was finding to film or describe in yet another recording.
Tobin had mentioned the shooting only briefly, and asked him if he had known Major Fisher well. The same Corps, the same rank. Beyond that . . . Even the facts were scanty. A witness had told the police that a youth on a motorcycle had pulled up beside Fisher’s car and fired some sort of automatic pistol at point-blank range as Fisher had been about to step into the road. To pick up a newspaper from a nearby stand, another had suggested. A careless moment, his mind no doubt occupied with details of the next day, going home to see his wife.
Ross clenched his fist inside his pocket. You often thought about yourself, what you would do if this or that happened. You never thought about what it would do to others.
He had received a direct order to stand by and supervise Tobin’s security, and assist the adjutant until Fisher’s replacement arrived. It made him feel more helpless than ever.
Like the night when it had happened, when they had seen the car riddled with bullets, the blood and the perfume. He had called the hotel and to his surprise had been put through directly to Tobin.
I understand, old chap. Matter of duty, eh? I’ll call you tomorrow.
He had had the strange feeling that Tobin already knew what had happened. Accepted it. His world. His life.
He heard footsteps, and Harwood speaking to some one. Somehow he knew it was Sharon.
He turned and saw her walking down the concrete slope from the entrance. A pale windcheater and matching slacks, a green scarf tied over her hair, making a patch of colour.
“I was told you were down here.” She joined him and looked at the marines who were still working on their boat. She had her hands in her pockets, and kept them there. Very erect, tense, one lock of hair rebelliously curling beneath the headscarf. “Is Clive still at it? I see I’ll have to drag him away again.” It was without scorn or bitterness. “I sometimes wonder where he gets his energy.” Then she faced him, and the composure was a lie. “Are you all right, Ross?” She hurried on, as if she expected him to interrupt. “I’ve been so worried, ever since I heard . . . I tried to ring you, but nobody wanted to tell me anything.” She turned her head as the marines laughed at some unheard joke. It seemed to give her time. “I saw the pictures of the car. Your car. It made me realize something. That you can’t always be on the outside, an onlooker. It’s not just something you see on the television, and switch off when it becomes too cruel . . . too close.”
He reached out to hold her arm but she dragged it away.
“It could have been you.” She gestured at the men in the launch. “Or any of them.”
He took her arm, and this time she did not resist. “It shouldn’t happen, but it does. That’s why we’re here, for what it’s worth.” He slipped his arm through hers. “Walk with me. Just us. Just two people.”
They moved along the jetty, their reflections following on the oily water.
She said, “The one who was killed.” He heard the hesitation. “He was at the market that day, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.” He felt her turn to look at him. “I never really got to know him well, beyond the line of duty. That’s probably the best thing about it.”
“It’s not the best thing. He was married. Clive told me.” She had pulled one hand out of her pocket and was gripping his now, like that moment in the market, the frightened children and Harwood with his rifle. And Fisher.
He said, “You and Clive must be pretty close . . .” He got no further.
“Close? Not in that way. He’s been like an anchor for me, a lifeline, but the only real love of his life is Clive Tobin.” She said it without malice. “When Larry was killed he saved my sanity.”
Larry. The first time she had mentioned his name. Like an intrusion, a betrayal.
He heard voices, Tobin’s easy laugh, and felt her fingers tighten around his wrist.
She said, “He hasn’t told me yet.” Again the hesitation. Uncertainty. “But I think we’re going back to London.” Her hand was still, and then, as if unconsciously, it moved a little on his skin. “Probably soon. If that happens, what will you do?”
It was like a door slamming in his face. What had he expected? But the moments remained fixed in his mind, vignettes caught in time. The room full of uniforms. Speeches. Handshakes. Dabbing champagne from her arm. This arm . . .
“Back to general duty, I guess. Maybe the Far East. Listen . . . I want to see you again. To belong . . .” He broke off. “I’m not doing very well, am I?”
“You hardly know me.”
“I want to.”
She looked along the jetty, one of the cameraman’s lights reflecting like a pinpoint in her eyes. Somewhere a voice of authority was shouting orders, boots stamping, like another world. But it was not another world.
She looked at him in that unflinching, direct way.
“Suppose . . .”
“There will always be that word, Sharon.”
She moved to the edge of the jetty and said nothing.
Ross saw the reflected glow of a cigarette in the water and guessed Harwood was waiting by the Land Rover. Watching them, maybe thinking of his own girl, whom he intended to marry when he got the three ‘tapes’ on his sleeve. This would make a good yarn in the NAAFI . . .
He knew it would not go that far.
He felt a new sense of urgency, something beyond his control; nor did he want to control it. There had been too much of that.
“Don’t just leave, Sharon, not without telling me. There’s so much I want to say, to share with you.”
“Have you got another handkerchief, Ross?” When he took it out, she almost snatched it from his hand, and held it to her eyes. “Now look what you’ve done.” But a shadow of the smile remained. “I will tell you, as soon as I hear something. How could I just walk away?”
He heard Harwood call, “He’s on the jetty, chum!”
Loud enough to let him know he was about to be needed, and to warn him. He had heard Tobin too, coming this way, with an edge in his voice as he called after one of his team.
Her eyes moved to the marine as he stamped to attention and saluted, a message pad at the ready. Ross’s world . . .
Ross folded the paper, and thought he heard Harwood slam the Land Rover’s door.
She asked, “What is it?” Chin lifted slightly. Prepared.
“There’s a bit of a flap on. I’ll have an escort to take you and Clive back to the hotel. I’ll ring when I know something.”
“What’s all this about ‘the hotel’?” Tobin was climbing up some steps to join them. “Who says we’re going back there?”
“I do. You’ve finished here, anyway.”
Tobin nodded slowly. “If you say so, Major Blackwood.” Then, “I wish I had you on camera right now, as you really are. The professional fighting man behind the quiet formality. I wondered how soon it would appear.” He swung on his heel and shouted, “Show’s over, lads! Mount up!”
He paused to kick a stone into the water below the jetty.
“I just hope you don’t regret this. Either of you.”
Then he walked toward the sunlight, pausing just long enough to speak with a workman unloading paint cans from a barrow. It was timed, like part of a script. Or perhaps Ross was seeing the real person for the first time.
He said, “I didn’t want it like this. With you, of all people.” He saw her move, felt her hand on his arm, turning him toward the water, her voice quite calm, steady.
“Remember? ‘Walk with me. Just two people.’”
She faced him again, and pulled his hands to her waist, pressing them against her. “Hold me, Ross.” The handkerchief fell to the ground, unheeded. “Take care. For both of us.” The smile would not come. “Go now, Ross. Don’t look back.”
She kissed him quickly. A touch o
f skin, her hair, a last contact.
He saw Harwood climb down beside the Land Rover, one glove half pulled on to his hand, as if he were unwilling to move. To break into something. It seemed to take forever to reach him. The way back . . .
He was leaving her. It was all in his mind. It had never even begun.
Harwood said tentatively, “Back to H.Q., sir?”
“The adjutant’s office.”
He gripped the door and turned around to stare back at the jetty.
A few marines were still working in or near the boats, and the same sergeant was busy with a mobile telephone. The big boatshed could have been empty but for the two of them.
She had not moved, and was looking along the jetty directly at him. Waiting. Knowing.
Then, very slowly, she lifted one hand and, he thought, touched her heart, and held the hand to her mouth, as if blowing him a kiss. Even when she was gone, and the jetty deserted again, she was still there.
He spoke her name aloud, or thought he did.
It was enough.
A sergeant opened the office door for him. “The adjutant knows you’re here, sir. He’ll be along directly.”
Ross thanked him, but did not know him by name, and the fact made him feel still more like an intruder.
He heard the door close behind him; he could guess what most of them were thinking. He walked across the polished floor; even that was different. How could a place have changed so much?
This office had been the head teacher’s room, or maybe the school secretary’s. Beyond the shuttered windows there should have been children’s voices, or the whistles of authority. Now all he could hear was an occasional shouted command, and the stamp of a squad drilling.
He paused by the desk, and, after a moment, touched it. It had been cleaned and dusted, the drawers emptied except for a message tray. Two framed photographs remained: a young woman in a flowered dress, smiling and waving on a beach somewhere. The other was of a small girl in some sort of uniform, a Brownie, he thought. A paper knife with an initialled handle, and a box of pills. The ordinary detritus of a man’s life: it was little enough to mark his death.
Knife Edge (2004) Page 17
