by Anna Legat
‘What if there is a delay? What if the plane is late?’
‘I’ll call you from Heathrow if that happens.’
‘Yes, you must...’ Her eyes are dead serious as she fixes him with a round-eyed gaze, ‘Call me even if it is on time. So that I know when to start on the dinner, so I don’t worry...’
‘I will.’
‘Maybe I could have a word with Will, when you call?’ Before he agrees, she changes her mind. ‘No, maybe not. I want to look at him when I speak to him. When I hear his voice, I want to see his face. It’s so much better that way, don’t you think?’
‘Whatever you say, Pippa, whatever you say...’
XVII
They decide to set off early to beat the morning traffic. Bath is a bottleneck throughout the day, so they will leave before six even though it is dark and miserable outside, and Malik in particular may find it impossible to get out of bed. But he is the first one up and going, splashing in the bathroom, cursing the cold, but soldiering on nonetheless. It would help if he wore something more than just his boxers, Ahmed thinks. His limbs are long and gristly, and his torso painfully skinny. His ribs are stamped into his skin. If you look at him, Malik is no more than a pubescent boy. Come to think about it, he is just that, having only just turned twenty.
They leave without breakfast – too excited to think about eating, not to mention that the fridge is empty and has been since Ahmed joined Malik on his late-night net surfing. Then the Snapchats, fast and furious; then their talks, meticulous planning and plotting. Ahmed didn’t need convincing. After that day at the school gate, he has become duly converted to the cause. It wasn’t a religious conversion, it wasn’t as if he had suddenly experienced some sort of road to Damascus moment. In simple terms, it was Ahmed’s pride – it wouldn’t let him take humiliation without a fight. Ahmed wasn’t one for turning the other cheek. He would spit back in their faces – an eye for an eye. He embraced the cause, body and soul.
Frost has settled onto the windscreen; it’s almost impossible to scrape it off. They leave the car engine running for a few minutes, the fan spinning and blowing hot air, while they go back into the flat for a cup of tea. It isn’t just the car that needs warming up.
On the landing, they run into Harry, who is taking out the rubbish. ‘You’re up bright and early,’ he beams. He looks very much bright and bushy-tailed himself. He is always up at the crack of dawn – old people usually are; there is something in their constitution that won’t let them waste any time of day. It could have something to do with the imminence of dying – the carpe diem thing. Something sharp stabs Ahmed in the gut, but he doesn’t allow himself to acknowledge it. He knows it’s fear, and fear is weakness. He refuses to think beyond the here and now. On reflection, this is also a form of carpe diem. He smiles back at Harry. They’re on the same page even if Harry doesn’t realise that.
‘Looking good, Harry!’ Malik says.
‘I am good,’ the old man chimes. ‘Will is coming. We got a letter yesterday: he’s flying in from Australia – this Saturday!’
‘That’s good news!’
Something is still drilling inside Ahmed’s stomach – that knife being turned and twisted... ‘This Saturday...’ he echoes Harry, hopelessly.
‘You must meet him. I know you’ll like each other.’
‘Yeah... I’d like that...’ Ahmed is feeling positively sick. Saturday, of all days...
‘Are you two off to somewhere?’ Harry asks, eyeing Malik’s backpack.
‘Yeah, we’re going on a little day trip – Cornwall.’
‘Cornwall? It must be beautiful this time of year.’
It is beautiful. They have arrived too early for their agreed rendezvous. They are meeting Sandman at dusk, at around five thirty. To stretch out, they went for a walk, climbing up a cliff alongside the coastal path. There weren’t many walkers around, only an older couple, who shouted a cheery hello. The views from the top of the cliff were amazing: an endless stretch of calm water blending into the wintry pale blue sky and, right at the foot of the cliff, sharp, metallic grey rocks and a bird of prey hovering, almost motionless, ready to swoop. They stood and watched the bird as it went down, hardly touching the surface of the sea, and taking off with a catch in its claws. Not suitably dressed for the chilly weather, they couldn’t stay long and had to keep moving.
They returned to the car a few minutes ago. It is parked in a narrow, residential street of Charlestown, overlooking the fortified inlet where an old wooden schooner is moored, making you think you’re in the middle of a Cornish period drama.
Malik turns on the engine for the heating to kick in. The radio comes on, too. The news is on. They listen in silence as the newsreader confirms that the new US president is Donald Trump.
‘You see what I mean?’ Malik squints at him. Ahmed knows exactly what he means. It goes without saying. They have no choice but to get on with it. No more preaching to the converted.
‘It’s time. Let’s go,’ he tells Malik.
They head for the rendezvous point in a secluded bay with a small pebbly beach. Again, like the cliffs above, it is deserted. It’s that time of year and the early onset of darkness puts off ramblers. As they approach, they can see a boat heading away from the shore. That must be the boat that has brought Sandman here. A figure emerges from behind a stack of large boulders: rather short, wiry and limping. Sandman.
Soon they are standing face to face: the two young and the one old man.
‘Salaam alaykum,’ the old man says without smiling. He has an open, Asiatic face which inspires trust. His eyes are narrow and small, buried under the heavy thick hoods of his eyelids. His complexion is weather-beaten and earthy. He doesn’t have a beard, not the real traditional thing, but a few days’ stubble, which is peppery grey. He doesn’t shake their hands, but hugs them one by one, and kisses them on each cheek. The kisses feel bizarrely paternal. Sandman has the presence of something grander than you, something eternal. No wonder they call him Sandman, a man made of countless pieces. At least, that’s what Ahmed thinks. It’s his interpretation of the man’s name. It suits him, so he won’t be asking him what his real name is. What does it matter, anyway? Would he even tell? The idea is for them to remain strangers.
In the car, Ahmed drives and Malik takes Sandman through the finer points of the plan. ‘We’ve all the components at the ready. It took me over a year to assemble the stuff, bit by small bit not to arouse suspicions.’
‘Very wise of you,’ says Sandman. His accent is thicker than tar, but his English is grammatically correct and clear.
‘We’ve enough to make two devices: one for you and the other one for us.’
‘I’m going for the military target?’ There is a hint of anxiety in Sandman’s voice. Ahmed wonders why. Surely, he’s not afraid! Seasoned mujahedin like him!
‘The Wensbury Plains MOD base, yes,’ Malik’s voice, on the other hand, is bristling with excitement. ‘The train traverses Wensbury Plains. We’ll intercept it immediately after Sexton’s Canning station – it’s the last stop before Bath. Once the train driver is incapacitated, I’ll take over -’
‘Malik is a trainee train driver,’ Ahmed adds and laughs, enjoying the word play, which seems to be lost on the other two.
‘I am,’ Malik says, proud as punch. ‘I’ll stop the train in the middle of the Plains – you get off there and head due east. It’ll be about two miles to the base. I say about ’cos you can’t get a true satellite picture, or any accurate map, but I went there a couple of times, travelled on foot right to the fence of the base. No one saw me; it isn’t properly manned, not the outer perimeter at least.’
‘That’s good,’ says Sandman. ‘I’ll find it.’
‘You’ll have time, plenty of it. About twenty minutes after you get off, we’ll roll into Bath, and there’ll be fireworks galore! It’s the start of the Christmas shopping season – perfect target, perfect timing,’ Ahmed can see in the rear view mirror that Malik is
grinning. He has devised this plan – it’s his baby. ‘I’m guessing all rescue and emergency services will be diverted to Bath. That’ll give you time and opportunity to sneak into the base and cause maximum damage.’
‘God willing,’ Sandman nods his head slowly.
XVIII
The terminal has its own tube station. It is enormous, throbbing with people:passing, running, pushing, overtaking, stopping and taking off again, speaking in foreign tongues Harald can’t begin to comprehend. He has landed on an alien planet. Heathrow is a whole planet in its own right, and Harald Winterbourne is stranded in the middle of it, gagging for air.
It is way too warm. The air is strangely dry and powdery. Despite his considerable height, Harald is an ant dwarfed by this transitory world. He has stopped and is trying to read an electronic board full of endless entries that keep moving upwards and disappearing before he has a chance to get his head around them. He can’t see the flight from Singapore, the one Will is on. The fact that he is five hours too early may have something to do with it.
Something drives into his back, blunt and painful. ‘Oh, I am so sorry!’ cries a woman with a trolley topped with a toddler sitting astride a gigantic piece of luggage. She sounds Australian.
‘Don’t worry,’ Harald assures her.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing!’ she despairs. ‘My husband was picking me up – he’s late. I can’t get hold of him on the phone. I’m so sorry! I don’t know why I’m telling you all this!’
‘You’ve just arrived from Australia?’
‘Yes, visiting my husband’s parents. It’ll be their first time with Gemma,’ she smiles at the toddler, who is eyeing Harald with big, bewildered eyes.
‘I’m picking up my son, also from Australia,’ Harald explains his presence in the middle of this huge hall. ‘Only I’m a touch too early. I don’t know which gate to go to.’
‘It’s all very confusing, isn’t it? Do you know the flight number?’
‘Yes, I’ve got it here.’ He hands her the piece of paper where Pippa in her small, lyrical hand wrote all the details.
The woman glances at it. ‘It’s not due until six o-nine!’ She gives Harald a puzzled look, probably suspecting him of being an escapee from a mental asylum.
He straightens his back, trying to look in charge of his whereabouts and his general direction. ‘Yes, I know. Like I said, I am early. Would you like any help with your luggage?’ He changes the subject. ‘I’ve got time on my hands...’
‘Ah, I shouldn’t -’
‘Lisa!’ A man is running towards them, waving his hand, a distressed and guilty expression on his flushed face.
‘Rob! Where have you been!’
He catches up with her, kisses her, then the little girl, Gemma, who still looks rather confused as to who is who – very much like Harald himself.
‘Traffic! Bloody traffic! Roadworks all the way! The whole bloody motorway is dug up! Don’t ask! Let’s go. I’m parked in a Drop Off zone... Before they tow me away!’ He relieves the woman of the trolley and pushes it forcefully towards some invisible exit. The little girl, Gemma, waves to Harald from the top of the trolley.
‘Bye, bye!’ She smiles at last.
Harald waves back.
At last, the electronic display board is showing Will’s flight! Harald was beginning to doubt this was for real. He started thinking he had dreamt it all up, that Will wasn’t coming at all and that he, Harald, was a confused old man suffering from illusions. He had to call Pippa at home and ask her to check the flight details. He ran his forefinger across the flight itinerary Will has sent, digit by digit, letter by letter as he recited the number. She kept asking if he was all right – as if! She kept saying she wished she was there with Harald. So did he – he wished that too.
He has been standing by this gate in the Arrivals Hall for God only knows how long. His legs are a bit wobbly: it may be tiredness or his nerves. He has a headache; he’s been straining his eyes to examine every passenger emerging from the gate. Could he miss Will? He hasn’t seen him since he was a boy of seventeen! People change. Though a father should be able to recognise his own son in a crowd of strangers, surely! Harald doubts himself. Those wobbly legs are letting him down. He really ought to sit down, but if he does, he will miss Will. More and more people are gathered by the gate. Harald holds on to his prime vantage point at the front of the crowd by sheer willpower. His vision becomes blunt. The constant movement of people renders him giddy. Then it all stops.
The movement stops. The frame freezes. Clarity returns to his eyes. They are fixed on a singular vision – Harald himself. As he was thirty-five years ago. The same height and build, the same posture, even the hat: a leather cowboy hat. He used to wear that same hat. Where is it now?
‘Will!’ he waves just as Will spots him of his own accord, his face breaking into a wide smile, his hand reaching for his hat and waving it back at Harald.
‘Dad!’
Harald can’t execute a single step forward. Bolted to the floor, he waits for his long-lost son to come to him, and embrace him, and hold him up as he shakes in his arms. ‘You haven’t changed, Dad! Same old big oaf!’ Will has tears in his eyes. They look glassy. Harald can’t contain his own. They make their way down to his chin.
‘You’ve grown up! Look at you,’ he mumbles. ‘You’re a man!’
Having pulled away to look at each other, they hug again – a hug that lasts for ever because Harald finds it impossible to tear himself away from Will. He’s not letting him go. Never again.
Will pats his back in a manly gesture, and keeps patting it until, finally, Harald lets go.
‘We’d better be going. We’ve a train to catch. Mum’s waiting with supper... You know how she is... if we’re late -’ He breaks off. ‘Oh my dear God! We thought we’d never see you again!’
‘Sorry, Dad. I had to sort myself out.’
‘I know... I know. Don’t be sorry. You’ve nothing to be sorry for. It’s me -’
‘No!’ Will stops him firmly. ‘We’re not going there.’
‘Quite right, quite right.’
‘So Mum’s waiting at home? In Bath?’
‘Yes. We’ve a train to catch from Paddington. The nineteen twelve to Bristol, Temple Meads. We must be going. Let me help you with your luggage. The supper, you see, it can’t wait!’ He’s babbling pointlessly.
They get to Paddington in good time for Harald to give Pippa a call.
‘Something happened...’ she says faintly when she answers, on the first ring, ‘He hasn’t come...’
‘No, no! He has! I thought I’d call you to let you know we’re on track... He’s here, with me! Will can’t wait to talk to you, to see you!’
‘Oh...’ she gulps. He can envisage her face. That makes him smile.
‘Do you want to have a word with him? He’s right here, beside me.’ Will smiles, but Harald can see he is nervous, probably as nervous as his mother on the other side of the line.
‘Oh dear! I don’t know...’ She is breathing fast.
‘Just say hello. Come on, girl!’
‘All right, yes! No! No, I want to see his face when I talk to him. I really do... I want to hold his hands, feel... Not now, not while he’s standing in the middle of a train station. I may not be able to hear him properly... I’ll miss his first words to me. I can’t miss that. I want to hear every word! I’m deaf, you know!’ She attempts to inject some lightness into her fear, irrational fear as it is, but nonetheless, real.
‘That’s all right. Don’t worry, my love. We’ll be there in no time. It’s only a couple of hours. Not even that.’
As soon as the train rolls into the station, they board it. They find their pre-booked seats. Will leaves his backpack in the luggage area. It is too big to go in the overhead compartment. Harald takes comfort from the size of it. ‘You’re staying for a while, I hope?’ he dares to ask.
‘I’m thinking of staying for good, Dad.’
The doo
r is shut, the train screeches as the brakes are released, and they are on their way.
XIX
The weather has been catastrophically bad. It rained all day yesterday, wild winds uprooting a few trees and making some pathways non-negotiable. The temperature has dropped, too. It only adds to the atmosphere. Oscar and Tommy are huddled up in the rowing boat like two thieves in the night. It is still raining, but the wind has subsided so at least they aren’t tossed and flung around the lake. Large raindrops hit the surface of the water, causing splashes and then ripples. ‘It’s like an air raid,’ Tommy enthuses. ‘We’ve been learning ’bout that at school.’ He grins. His two front teeth are large and white, like Richard’s. He still has his small and sharp milk canines. He keeps poking them with his tongue. Apparently, they are wobbly. Oscar remembers his milk teeth; he used to put them under the pillow for the Tooth Fairy. Things he has forgotten... You forget your childhood if you have no children and grandchildren of your own. It drifts away from you, into the mist of your ageing memory. Tommy has brought it back to the surface, fished it out from the depths. Oscar wishes Tommy was his. He could relive the antics of his distant boyhood through him. With him.
‘We could be like Spitfire pilots,’ Tommy seems to be able to read Oscar’s mind. ‘Like we got shot down over the English Channel, and here we are – scrambling for dry land -’
‘In a leaking old dinghy -’
‘And it’s getting dark, and we’re hungry as hell!’ Tommy is probably speaking from the heart. They had a bag of chips each before they left the station, and nothing since.
‘We’d better catch something to eat before we starve to death.’
They gaze at the surface of the lake, unsettled by the rain, at the spot where they have dropped the bait. Dusk has settled in and the heavy clouds steal whatever is left of daylight.
‘Tell me about Granddad, about the Falklands,’ Tommy asks. He wants to know all the details, so he can impress Robert. It’s time he knew: he’s old enough. ‘Gran told me you were there when he was killed.’ The boy’s eyes shine, reflecting in the black mirror of water.
