Twenty Twelve Read online

  ‘Why not leave it to your little friends in MI5?’ she asks.

  I think about Clem, solid and serious. Why didn’t I just leave all this to him? Then I picture him with Benning and the PM, and recall all the double dealings, the unanswered questions.

  ‘They told me Shining Light was responsible for the bomb attack and that you were in charge,’ I say. ‘I wanted to be sure you weren’t a scapegoat.’

  She leans towards me, her eyes empty, her skin so white she could be one of those left for dead in the stadium. ‘A scapegoat,’ she repeats.

  Then she shrugs. In that shrug I can see she doesn’t care. The mangled bodies of children being stretchered away mean nothing. I could kick myself, and the old man for good measure, for all the doubts and soul searching.

  ‘And now you’ve found me,’ she says, ‘what do you think?’

  ‘I think I’ve been wasting my time.’

  Clem stepped away from Iona’s desk, pulled out his mobile and punched in the number for Glasgow Social Services.

  ‘Debbie McAndrews.’ She sounded tired.

  ‘Christian Clement.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mrs McAndrews had obviously hoped never to hear from him again. He often had that effect upon people.

  ‘Did any girls stay at The Orchard?’

  ‘For the most part, residential units were single sex,’ she said. ‘We found there were fewer problems that way.’

  Clem could well imagine that a house full of uncontrollable teens with their hormones popping would be a force to be reckoned with.

  ‘There was, however, a short period when government policy overrode good sense,’ she continued.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘2003.’

  That would have coincided with Miggs’s placement. ‘Could you send me the names of every girl that stayed there, and their file?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine.’

  Seconds later he was scrolling through a short list of names.

  Fiona Anderson

  Bonnie Fairfax

  Ann-Marie Ireland

  Catriona Keith

  Margaret Lawrence

  Lara MacDonald

  Veronica Pearson

  Lindsay Rae

  Chloe Wilson

  Nine girls. All troubled, unwanted and damaged. One grew up to become a terrorist.

  Where are you?

  He read the list again and smiled. Veronica Pearson.

  ‘Hello, Ronnie.’

  Ronnie straightens abruptly and stalks back to the bedroom door, which she taps gently.

  ‘I’m going to come in,’ she calls.

  She opens the door and I catch a glimpse of Rory curled in the foetal position on the bed, his hands covering his face.

  ‘We’re going to leave now,’ Ronnie tells him.

  Rory doesn’t move.

  ‘Don’t answer your phone or open the door to anyone but me,’ she says. ‘I’ll be back when I’ve figured this out. Okay?’

  ‘She hit me.’ Rory’s voice is muffled.

  ‘I know,’ she replies and casts me another look of contempt.

  ‘You owe him,’ she tells me.

  As quietly as possible, she closes the door, then springs towards me. Her movements are more animal than human,

  ‘Come on.’ She drags me to my feet and pushes me down the hallway, pieces of glass falling onto my face from my scalp. I blink to protect my eyes.

  ‘Are you going to do as I say, or do I need this?’ She extracts a syringe from her pocket.

  If I’m going to find a way out of this I must avoid being drugged again. ‘I’ll do as you say.’

  ‘Good.’ She opens the door and leads me outside, her hand keeping pressure on the rope around my wrists. I glance at the deserted street, calculating how long it would take me to run to the crossroads.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she says and I feel the cold metal of her gun in the small of my back.

  There’s a car on the street outside and my stomach lurches at the thought of getting in the boot again. ‘Please let me sit in the back,’ I beg. Panic is starting to rise in my throat.

  Ronnie doesn’t answer, but checks up and down the street, assuring herself that there is no one around.

  ‘I won’t speak,’ I say. ‘I won’t even move.’

  She pauses as if she’s thinking this through, then moves to the back and opens the boot. She presses a piece of tape across my mouth. ‘Forget it.’

  The plane was ready for takeoff, engines roaring, when Clem boarded. The other passengers threw him annoyed looks and checked their watches.

  His phone rang as he was shown to his seat.

  ‘No mobile phones, sir,’ the stewardess told him.

  ‘Safe network,’ he informed her and answered the call.

  ‘Hey, Clem.’ It was Carole-Ann. ‘How’s the friendly north?’

  Clem looked up at the stewardess, who was scowling at him.

  ‘Cold,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re hauling your ass back here,’ she said. ‘You’re due to see the PM in an hour.’

  ‘Tell him I’m going to be late.’

  ‘Your funeral,’ she said.

  ‘Trust me, a funeral would be light relief from the sort of day I’m having.’

  ‘Did you need anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘Information on Veronica Pearson, date of birth 6 April 1989.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘Anything and everything.’

  He hung up and waited. Hopefully, Carole-Ann would have something for him soon. In the meantime, he tried to make sense of last night’s events. Why had Ronnie risked coming out into the open? Connolly had tried to dig around but had met with a dead end. Perhaps Ronnie was worried that with her connection to The Orchard, it was only a matter of time until Connolly worked it out. Perhaps she needed to know how close Jo had got.

  Or perhaps it was too good an opportunity to miss. A kidnapping on this scale would be a coup for small fry like Shining Light.

  Another darker thought snaked in. Perhaps Ronnie had just taken Connolly somewhere and killed her, and a bleary-eyed postman would spot her leg poking out of a green wheelie bin this morning.

  His thoughts were interrupted by an email from HQ.

  To: Christian Clement

  From: Carole-Ann Bowers

  Re: Little Miss Nobody

  No known address, no marriage or death certificate. No tax paid ever. No benefits claimed. No credit cards, no medical records. Not even a poxy driving licence.

  It’s as if after leaving The Orchard, your girl fell off the face of the earth.

  Clem exhaled. This wasn’t good at all.

  His mood was grey as he got off the plane and made his way over to his car. Then he growled when he spotted the dent he’d made in the bumper. It looked worse in daylight.

  When he arrived at Downing Street, the grey clouds turned to black.

  ‘You’re late,’ Benning, the attack dog, barked.

  ‘I told you I was going to Glasgow.’

  Benning waved him away.

  ‘Have you seen the papers?’ asked the PM.

  Clem clocked the array set out on his desk. Everything from the Morning Star to the Telegraph was headlining the shooting of Miggs. ‘It was bound to be the main story,’ he shrugged.

  Benning shook his head. ‘Unless you’ve missed it, the Opening Ceremony starts later today. That should have been the main story.’

  ‘I guess the editors thought this was a bigger deal,’ said Clem.

  ‘We have to minimise this,’ Benning insisted.

  ‘I don’t really see how we can.’

  Benning rolled his eyes. ‘For a start we need you here, Clem. We’re telling everyone we’ve dealt with this. That security is under control. Yet our man in charge of security is away on a jolly.’

  Clem breathed out hard. ‘Security is the reason I was in Glasgow.’

  ‘You need to be visible,’ said Benning.
r />   ‘I think first and foremost you need me to catch the outstanding terrorist,’ said Clem. They might be telling everyone that things were tickety-boo, but that wasn’t the full story, was it?

  The PM leaned forward. ‘How did you get on? Is the outstanding terrorist in custody?’

  ‘And where the hell is Connolly?’ Benning groaned. ‘She hasn’t been seen since yesterday morning and she’s not answering her phone. She should be here pressing palms and giving interviews.’

  Clem pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news on both counts.’

  Once again, I can’t say how long I’ve been in the claustrophobic prison of the boot. Even without the mind-bending effect of the drugs, it’s impossible to know how time is stretching. Instead, I concentrate on my breathing and assuaging my panic. The engine roars and I feel every bump in the road as my head lifts and crashes back against thinly covered metal.

  At last, a different sound punctuates the rush of tyres and my heart swells. A siren. As the car slows and the blare of the siren nears, I almost whoop with joy. It’s the police. They’ve found me.

  The car pulls to a stop and I listen intently.

  ‘Can I help you, officer?’ Ronnie’s voice is syrup.

  ‘Your left brake light isn’t working,’ says a man.

  ‘Oh dear.’ She’s a study in concern. ‘Is that very dangerous?’

  I hear footsteps around the car and imagine her peering intently at the offending light.

  ‘It’s not ideal,’ the man replies. ‘Do you have far to go?’

  ‘Only a few miles,’ says Ronnie.

  The policeman doesn’t know I’m in here and if I don’t let him know soon, Ronnie will sweet talk him into buggering off.

  ‘I’d get along home if I were you,’ he says. ‘But you must get it checked out immediately.’

  ‘I will.’

  It’s now or never. I can’t shout out with the tape, nor can I hit the roof of the boot with my hands tied. Even my legs are bent in an impossible position so I can’t lift them and kick out. The only part of me I have any control over is my head. I lift it up as far as I can and whack it against the floor of the boot. The pain and noise ring through my skull but I lift my neck and try again. My ear feels as though it has been hit by a hammer.

  ‘What was that?’ asks the policeman.

  ‘What was what?’ Ronnie asks in return.

  ‘I thought I heard a banging.’

  Ronnie laughs and whacks the boot repeatedly. ‘This old girl makes a lot of strange noises. Bit knackered, but well loved.’

  I lift my head up and crash it against the metal for the third time. I know I won’t be able to do it again and hope the policeman has heard me.

  In answer, Ronnie thumps the boot lid again. ‘Better be off,’ she says. ‘The sooner I get her seen by a mechanic the better.’

  As the engine starts up and we drive away, I know I have made a huge mistake. My chest constricts with fear and I can’t force any air into my lungs.

  When the car pulls over and the boot lid is thrown open I am gasping for air.

  Ronnie hovers over me, her face contorted by anger. ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’

  I’m writhing around like an injured snake. She leans over and rips off the tape. I barely notice the sting as it takes the top layer of skin on my lips with it.

  She reaches in and lifts my head until my breathing calms. ‘You were banging,’ she says. ‘I told you what would happen if you messed me around.’

  ‘Couldn’t breathe,’ I whisper. ‘Panicked.’

  She stares at me, her face inches from mine, then she lets go of my head, letting it thump back down. ‘You’d better pray I drive quickly,’ she says and pushes the tape back over my mouth.

  When the boot lid crashes shut once again, I know I came very close indeed to pushing Ronnie too far.

  I’ve sunk into a state of semi-consciousness when the car turns sharply to the right. The road disappears beneath me, replaced by ruts and bumps which throw me around like a fairground ride.

  Fear bubbles under my skin. Is Ronnie taking me somewhere inaccessible to dispose of me? From what I’ve seen, she’s perfectly capable of forcing me to dig my own grave and tossing me in. The car stops and I steel myself.

  As soon as the boot opens it hits me. A shock of cold wind, like the inside of a fridge, carrying with it the tang of salt. Above, seagulls circle, their call a melancholy welcome.

  Ronnie pulls me out onto my cramped legs. My knees crack and my feet sink into a patch of grass barely covering the sand beneath. When she pushes me forward, I catch my breath. We are at the very edge of a cliff. Before us, only sky and miles of grey ocean. Waves crash against rocks hundreds of feet below, creating an angry stew of foam that rises and falls, reaching up to us but being dragged down before it can swallow us whole.

  Dizzy, I step back, the wind slicing my cheeks.

  Ronnie puts the now familiar pressure of her gun on my spine and leads me along the cliff top to a place where the land falls away. We descend into a small valley, battered and flattened by the storms, home to three derelict caravans, their smashed windows boarded up with the sides of packing boxes and black bin liners, secured with tape but billowing in the wind like sails.

  Ronnie shoves me towards the one perched on the edge, its paint pitted with rust, metal panels shaking, wheels replaced by piles of bricks. She pulls out a key, opens the door and pushes me inside. The metal steps clang under me and I enter the darkness.

  Out of the direct assault of the elements, it feels warmer, though the walls still shudder with each violent gust of wind.

  I recall an ex-boyfriend who lived almost on top of West Hampstead train station. During rush hour the flat rattled with a seismic force that threatened to roll us out of bed. He was cute, as I remember, and funny. Heavily into indie music, cooking and me. I’m not sure now why I left him. Something to do with a weekend away in Devon with his friends and my usual inability to commit. I hope he’s found someone who appreciates him.

  There’s a small pop and a gas lamp bathes the caravan in a weak, jaundiced glow.

  I gulp as I take in the ripped upholstery and the mould on the rug. Ronnie has her back to me as she locks the door, revealing the gun sticking out of her waistband.

  This place is so deserted no one will ever find me. But what am I doing here? What does Ronnie want? And staring at the gun, I wonder why I’m still alive. At last she turns, the sickly light making her skin yellow. She bares her teeth at me and I shiver.

  ‘You’re probably wondering why you’re still alive,’ she says.

  Isaac keeps guard at the shutters. Outside the forces of evil have gathered. At the edges of the yard and in the undergrowth beyond, policemen are crouched, rifles trained on the farmhouse.

  ‘How many?’ Mama’s voice is real weak.

  Isaac counts. One, two, three, four . . . like the grains of sand on a beach.

  ‘Fifteen,’ he says. ‘Maybe more.’

  Mama slumps forward in her pool of blood. So much blood. Even Rebecca has stopped her crying, horrified by the amount of it.

  ‘You okay, Mama?’ Veronica-Mae asks.

  Mama tries to lift her head, but doesn’t have it left in her. ‘Though I walk through the dark valley of death,’ her voice is fading, ‘I will not be afraid . . .’

  ‘Mama?’ Veronica-Mae shakes her.

  She falls to the side, her eyes rolled back in her head. All three children hold their breath until the silence is broken by someone calling to them through one of those bullhorns.

  ‘Lay down your weapons and come out now.’

  The fat one is long gone, replaced by someone who ain’t even from these parts. He’s been hollering at them for over an hour. Mama said she weren’t likely to take orders from a damn Yankee.

  Isaac glances over at her lifeless body. She ain’t got nothing to say no more.

  ‘What do you think, Isaac?’ Veronic
a-Mae looks at him with those wide eyes of hers.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did we oughta do what he says?’

  Mama would say no to that. But Mama can’t help now. Isaac has to make the decision.

  ‘If we don’t, Mama’s gonna bleed out and die,’ says Veronica-Mae.

  It’s true. If she ain’t past saving already.

  ‘And then they’re gonna come in and shoot us all,’ Veronica-Mae says.

  Rebecca starts blubbing again. ‘Let’s do it, Isaac. Please. I don’t wanna get shot.’

  Nor does he. He nods and presses his mouth to the shutter. ‘All right then, we’re coming out.’

  There’s a commotion outside. A buzz of talk and movement.

  ‘Is that you, Isaac?’ the policeman asks.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Can I speak to your mama?’

  ‘She’s out cold, sir,’ he calls back. ‘She needs a doc real bad.’

  There’s a pause filled with more muttering. ‘The paramedics are already here, son,’ he says.

  Isaac doesn’t know what a paramedic is, but he wants this to be over with as soon as possible so he ain’t going to argue. ‘All right then, we’re going to come on out now.’

  ‘Hold on, hold on.’ The policeman sounds panicky. ‘We need to explain how this is going to happen.’

  Isaac and his sisters look at one another and shrug. Surely they’re just going to open the door and step out into the yard?

  ‘I need you to follow my instructions carefully,’ the policeman says.

  ‘All right,’ replies Isaac.

  ‘First, I want you to come out slowly, one by one. Slowly. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And I need you to be unarmed with your hands on your heads.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘If the officers see your hands move they will open fire, do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right then, let’s do this.’

  With that, Isaac leads his sisters to the door. He opens it and blinks into the dusk. The air outside is cooler and smells of purple Heal-All. Fireflies dart past. He puts his hands on his head, mindful of the patches of sweat under his arms. Then he gestures to his sisters to copy him.

  Soon, they are standing in the yard in a row, elbows out wide. Three policemen in special uniforms, not the regular kind, walk towards them, shotguns pointing right at their heads. Rebecca sobs. Veronica-Mae purses her lips, trying not to let the tears come. Isaac does the same.