Nicola’s gaping at him as though he’s speaking Klingon. Silently, she repeats his words: Robert told me. Her brow is crinkled, one corner of her lip curled upwards. He knows that expression. She’s genuinely perplexed.
‘Oh my God,’ she breathes, as realisation dawns. ‘Oh my God. What the fuck did he tell you? Did he say we flushed her down a toilet or something?’
‘Into the Thames, off Battersea Bridge.’
‘I don’t believe this!’ She puts her hand to her face, smothering a whooping kind of shriek. ‘Robert Lacey! You’ve got to be kidding me. What a knob. He couldn’t tell the truth to save his life—literally! If he’d told the truth he’d still be alive. Look.’
Suddenly she’s broken away from her trio of bodyguards. She marches past Sam to a corner of the storeroom, stretches her graceful body to lift something down from a high shelf.
‘Here,’ she says, turning around. ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’
It’s a cardboard tube, about a foot high and six inches across, covered in pictures of red roses.
Abi takes a step closer, obviously fascinated. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Harriet’s ashes,’ declares Nicola. ‘They’ve been in this room—on this shelf—since Saturday afternoon, which is when Robert collected them from the funeral director. He hadn’t decided what to do with them. All he had to do when you arrived this morning was walk in here, pick this up, hand it over to you. Job done. He’d still be alive. None of this would have happened.’
‘Why on earth would he say he threw it in the river?’ asks Abi.
Nicola shrugs. ‘Probably because he liked to lie. Because he liked to wind Sam up. Because he didn’t want Harriet’s ashes going back to Tyndale, back to Sam’s dad. He’d never have expected you to turn up with a shotgun, Sam.’
Sam is barely listening. He can’t take his eyes off the rose-covered tube. It’s what he came here for. He watches as Nicola lays it on the benchtop beside his gun, and then dusts off her hands. It’s an unconscious movement; she’s brushing non-existent dust from her palms with long, slow strokes.
‘I’d like to go now.’ She speaks smoothly, as though she’s accidentally fallen into the tiger enclosure at the safari park and is trying to keep the prowling animal calm while she climbs out again. ‘Okay, Sam? I’ve told the truth like you said. I need to collect Julia. Social services had to step in ’cos I’ve got no family in London. She’s with strangers, she’ll be beside herself. You don’t want that, do you?’
He doesn’t want that. He picks up the gun in his right hand, the cardboard tube of ashes in his left.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘It’s time for everybody to leave.’
Nicola leads the way out of the storeroom. The scene in the kitchen makes her stop dead in the doorway for a moment. She has to step around Robert’s body, and over the trail of blood, muttering, ‘God save me,’ under her breath.
The brightly lit café feels like home, as though they’ve lived here for weeks. Their mugs and plates and teapots are still scattered around the tables. It’s warm, it smells of tea. Not much point in doing the washing-up; he doesn’t imagine Tuckbox will be open for business again any time soon. Neil helps Nicola to drag the barricade away from the street door.
Meanwhile Abi is on the silver café phone, keeping the negotiator in the loop.
‘We’re all coming out,’ she says. ‘All of us. Yes, Sam too. I think Nicola will be first.’
The tables are out of the way now. Nicola unbolts the street door, top and bottom, and turns the key.
‘This is for Julia,’ Sam says, handing her the message he wrote on a serviette. ‘For when she’s older.’
‘How much older?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll leave that to your judgement. Please give it to her.’
She nods, slipping the folded serviette into the pocket of her jeans. She doesn’t seem frightened of him anymore. He’s pleased about that. After all, she’s got rid of both the devil and the deep blue sea. Two birds with one stone.
‘How is she?’ he asks.
‘Julia’s great! She’s talking even more, loads of new words, she’s so funny. She’s going to nursery school.’
‘Will she be all right?’
‘She’ll be fine.’
He wishes they had longer. There’s so much more he wants to say; so much more he wants to know.
‘Look after her, will you?’
She smiles at him as she opens the door.
‘You know I will, Sam. Give me that, at least. I may have been a shitty girlfriend but I’m a good mum.’
‘Give her my love. Please. D’you promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Read her a story tonight. The Tiger Who Came to Tea.’
She has one foot over the threshold when she turns back. She takes his face in her two hands, kisses him on the mouth.
‘Sorry, Sam,’ she murmurs. ‘Good luck.’
The next moment she’s dashing out into the street. She’s gone. The door is standing open, letting in the icy wind.
The three hostages are getting ready to follow her. Neil’s threading a piece of string under Buddy’s collar. Mutesi has shrugged into her anorak and is zipping it up. Abi’s still talking to the negotiator, who seems to be giving instructions.
‘Eliza says to remind you to put your gun down now,’ she tells Sam. ‘It’ll be like the O.K. Corral in Wilton Street if you step outside carrying that bloody thing.’
‘All right.’ He slides into the booth, puts the box of ashes on the table. ‘You lot go on. I’ll follow you.’
‘Why?’
‘I just want to do a couple of things before I leave.’
The stock of his shotgun is resting on the floor; he has a leg each side of the barrel. He picks up the last mug of tea Mutesi made him and swigs it straight down. It’s lukewarm. Better than nothing. For some reason he was craving that little bit of comfort.
The three of them are standing by the door, watching him.
‘Coming now?’ asks Abi.
‘In a minute.’
They seem nonplussed, glancing at one another. Mutesi jerks her chin towards the door.
‘We will step outside together, Sam. You and me. It’s time to face the rest of your life.’
When he shakes his head, she sighs. She slips out of her anorak, folds it neatly and drapes it across a chair. Neil’s locking the door again. Abi is whispering into the phone. We’ve got a problem. After a moment, she hands it to Sam.
‘Eliza wants to talk to you,’ she says.
Eliza
‘Nicola Rosedale has just left Tuckbox,’ announces Ashwin. ‘She’s unhurt.’
Paul gives a breathy whistle of relief. ‘That’s very good news.’
Abi Garcia has been keeping up a running commentary over the café phone. ‘Nicola’s out … we’re on our way.’
‘Has he put the gun down?’ asks Eliza. ‘Tell him he must put it down now. He must not on any account emerge with it. Okay? Make sure his hands are empty when he steps outside. There’s a fair bit of firepower lined up beyond that door.’
‘Okay.’
The negotiators listen as Abigail passes on the message in her own words. It’ll be like the O.K. Corral in Wilton Street.
‘Are you coming out now?’ asks Eliza.
‘Any second.’
‘Walk slowly, clearly showing that your hands are empty, just to avoid any misunderstanding. Leave the café phone behind. Leave everything behind. The whole place is a crime scene. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
Eliza’s drawing a mass of heavy bars on her notepad. Ashwin is blinking compulsively behind his glasses. Even Paul seems to keep forgetting to breathe. The end of a siege is one of the most dangerous moments for hostages. A mistake, a change of heart, a last-minute cock-up—there’s plenty of scope for carnage. A minute crawls by. The hostages seem to be taking a long time to appear, but then people don’t always sprint joyfully into the a
rms of the police. Sometimes they need time to adjust.
Abigail’s voice is on the line again.
‘We’ve got a problem.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Sam’s not coming with us after all. I don’t know what he’s planning but I don’t think it’s good.’
‘Is he still threatening you?’
‘No.’
‘Let me talk to him,’ says Eliza. ‘You three need to leave now. You hear me? Right now. I want you, Neil and Mutesi out of that building. Give Sam the phone and then leave.’
When Sam comes on the line, he sounds calm, almost jolly.
‘Hi, Eliza.’
‘Hi, Sam. You found Nicola?’
‘I did. Pretty funny really. You were a bit fucked, weren’t you, when I kept asking where she was and you knew full well she was under that sink the whole time.’
‘I’ll see you in a minute, okay? I’ll be waiting at the cordon when you come out. They’ll bring you to me. I’ll stay with you for a while, make sure you’re looked after.’
‘Yeah … maybe not.’
‘Come on, Sam.’
‘It’s the right time for me to go. I’ve decided. Just need the courage now. I’ve had this darkness inside me ever since I was a kid. It’s never going to leave me. I’ve tried to fight it but there’s no point anymore.’
‘You think that now, but—’
‘I’ve nothing left, you see? Everything’s gone. My home, my family. I’ve killed a man. I’ll never get past that. And I think I’d rather die than end up in prison. I’ve got a bit of a phobia. Something my aunt once told me.’
‘It wouldn’t be forever.’
‘It’d be years. I might be an old man when I come out. Listen, though, ’cos there’s a couple of things I’d like you to do.’ He sounds like someone in a business meeting, ticking off things on his to-do list. ‘Mutesi, Abi, Neil. You know why they got caught up in this? Because they’re heroes. The only reason they didn’t run away with all the others is because they were trying to help. They should get medals. Also, Neil and his dog need somewhere to live.’
‘I can’t promise that.’
‘Please. He and Buddy have got to stay together.’
He’s making plans for his own departure, tidying up as best he can. All Eliza can do is find some reason for him to be ambivalent about his death.
‘Can you imagine Julia growing up?’ she asks. ‘Leaving school, maybe going to university? Getting married one day? Imagine! She’ll be a clever, lovely young woman. You’ll walk her up the aisle … Sam? Are you there? Sam?’
‘I’m not much good to Julia now.’
‘You’re her dad.’
‘Thanks for listening to me today,’ he says. ‘Believe it or not, I feel a lot better for being listened to. You’re good at your job. I feel ready now.’
‘Sam—’
‘Over and out.’
‘Wait! Sam, wait—’
But he’s gone.
She dreads the next sound. It will arrive in stereo, travelling simultaneously through the air and down the line. She’s heard it before: a single shot. She knows the horrible finality of that sound.
Flying a jet down a canyon. One mistake and you’re embedded in the cliffs. Or someone else is.
THIRTY-SIX
Sam
He drops the phone onto the table. He can hear Eliza’s voice—Sam, wait—as he lowers his head until the barrel is pressing under his chin. His forefinger is stretching to release the safety catch.
This darkness is his childhood friend. This is the same inky emptiness that led him to make a noose in the boys’ changing room. It’s been biding its time all these years. He feels relief now that he’s finally giving in to it. He’s surprised: it was so hard to make the decision to die, but now that the moment has arrived, it seems a lot easier than making the decision to live.
The passing seconds are heavy, stretched by the massiveness of this thing he is about to do. There’ll be an inquest for him, another one for Robert. The incident at Tuckbox will be all over the news. People will keep press cuttings and one day Julia will read them. What will she think of him?
‘Sam? Mate?’
He opens his eyes to see Neil crouching down, his bearded face close to Sam’s.
‘Mate. I’m serious now. Do me a favour and take your finger away from that trigger, will you?’
Sam manages a bit of a smile—not easy when you’ve got a barrel digging into your chin.
‘You’ll have to see yourselves out,’ he says. ‘Go on. All of you. Get lost.’
Neil exchanges glances with the two women. His face is mobile, creased by life—once you’ve noticed that in him, the dirt and tangled hair are irrelevant. Sam wishes he’d known him before now. He wishes he’d known all of them. The strangers we pass on the street.
‘Actually, I’d rather stay in this nice warm café,’ says Neil.
‘I don’t think I’ll be off just yet either,’ says Abi. ‘I think I’ll hang about right here, if it’s all the same with you.’
‘Mm.’ That’s Mutesi. He hears her footsteps, a contented sigh as she sinks heavily into an armchair. ‘We are all very comfortable.’
He doesn’t want them to see. This isn’t their darkness. They shouldn’t be drenched in it.
‘Please will you all fuck off,’ he begs them. ‘Please. I mean it.’
Nobody moves. Buddy’s tail swishes the floor.
He’s not scared anymore. He feels giddy with his impending liberation. He doesn’t have to be any longer. The coldness of metal, the familiar smell of gun oil. This trigger doesn’t take much pressure to fire. It’s always been on the light side. Dad used to complain about that.
The clock on the wall has a loud tick. He hasn’t even noticed that until now.
Tick-tick, tick-tick. Five. Four.
He hears Abi draw in a sharp breath.
‘Sam! Sam, hang on a minute. Tell us about Julia. Maybe we could meet her after this is all over. I’d like to meet her.’
She’s playing for time. Nice of her. She could be gone by now. She could be skipping down the street, back to normality, back to her baby-shaking client and that guy half the nation heard on the radio—the one who obviously worships her, who offered to take her place. He hopes they’ll be happy.
He shuts his eyes. Three. Two.
‘There was a nightwatchman,’ says Mutesi.
They all look around at her. Even Sam. There’s something in her voice that compels it. She nods slowly, as though giving herself permission.
‘The nightwatchman. Sometimes he and I sat on wooden chairs under a tree outside the hospital and chatted about our children. When I was working on the ward at night, I’d see his light and know that he was patrolling. I was happy to think that we were safe in his care.’
She covers her eyelids with both her hands.
‘I can see him now. Yes, there he is. Holding his kerosene lamp.’
Mutesi
Shadowy behind the oily plumes of smoke: a tall figure in a yellow cotton shirt. Thin shoulders, a bony face.
His name was Philippe. His name is Philippe. He wasn’t especially handsome nor especially clever; nor, she honestly believes, was he especially wicked before the hate crawled into his mind. He was like her, just an ordinary person doing an ordinary job. When he talked about his children, his smile was very bright. Elegant hands—she remembers those, especially. She can still hear his reedy voice, chuckling about that baby son of his.
You could taste the approach of the madness. Eddies of hatred on the wind. Propaganda on the radio. The neighbour whose child you helped to deliver begins to avoid you, she won’t meet your eye. Colleagues huddling in corners; sidelong glances when you walk down the street. Rumours. She thinks sadly of whispered discussions with her husband, the plans they made to save their children if the worst should happen. Then the president’s plane came down and a monster was unleashed.
‘My country lost its mind,�
�� she says. ‘In one hundred days about a million people were slaughtered. Can you even take that in? I can’t. I can’t at all, and I was there. Babies, grandparents, young teenagers—killed like animals, killed in horrible ways, piled up like rubbish. Every one of them has their own story. People nowadays are so fond of their crime dramas, their serial killer Sunday night miniseries. Well, I am not fond of those because I’ve seen serial killing on an industrial scale. I know an ordinary person can get out of bed in the morning and get dressed and think of new ways to murder innocent children.’
Nobody speaks. She takes a long breath while she orders her thoughts.
‘They used the radio to plant seeds. We like to think of the radio as a friendly thing, don’t we? We’ve been listening today to the traffic and travel and the news. The chat. The music. But in those days in Rwanda it spilled out hatred all day long, saying the Tutsi were cockroaches, that we were a dirty race who must be exterminated. Again and again the country was told this. If you tell lies often enough, people begin to believe them. That is brainwashing.’
She can hear it now, the voice of the presenter on Radio Mille Collines. The chirpy song.
Let us rejoice, friends
Cockroaches have been exterminated.
Let us rejoice, friends
God is never wrong.
‘They broadcast lists of names, described exactly where people could be found. So the militia—the Interahamwe—took up every weapon they could find, even homemade ones, machetes and spears and clubs, or sometimes guns and grenades that were provided to them. They went from house to house. There was nowhere for anyone to hide. People ran to us because my husband was a pastor. He tried to offer sanctuary in our church but it was no fortress, it was small, made of mud bricks and with a tin roof, and packed with frightened people. When the militia came, they had no respect for God. The altar became a place of execution. Everyone was murdered, including my husband. They locked the doors and burned down the building to make sure nobody survived. My three elder sons were killed as they hid in their classroom at school. One of their killers was their own teacher. Some were other children.’
Horrified silence from her listeners. Mutesi is barely aware of them now. The film is running, the dreaded film. She has no choice but to watch it.
The Secrets of Strangers Page 29
