Twenty Twelve Page 23

Ronnie and I haven’t said a word to one another for hours. At first we lay in our respective bunks, tossing and turning, until Ronnie jumped off hers and stormed out of the cabin. No doubt she’s gone for another think.

  Not that there’s much to think about. Hawk is going to kill us both. Or maybe just me. Either way, Ronnie’s not going to do anything to stop him. I’m on my own.

  When she returns, she’s carrying a candle. I’d barely registered that the sun had set.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she says.

  For a second my heart leaps as it grabs at the possibility that she’s changed her mind and we’re getting out of here. Then I see her face in the candlelight, the lines between her nose and mouth.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  ‘To get some food.’

  Once again we troop over the hill to the next valley. The Serbs are already at the campfire, talking to Tiny. Soon, everyone arrives except Hawk.

  The man with the goatee hands me a beer. I nod my thanks and press the cold glass neck to my lips, but I can’t drink. My throat is too tight.

  ‘I’ll be going down to England in the next day or so,’ he says. ‘Anyone you can put me in touch with?’

  I gulp. He clearly has no idea who I am. I look around the group and it dawns on me that none of them know. They think I’m one of them and Hawk hasn’t told them any different. What would happen if he did? I catch sight of the guns everyone carries so casually, the knives attached to their belts, and I picture the hand grenade I discovered in one of the cottages.

  There’s a rumble at my side and I realise that the guy with the goatee is still speaking.

  ‘Of course it would have to be good people,’ he says. ‘People like us.’

  He’s asking me if I can give him the names of any friendly terrorists. ‘Let me have a think,’ I say.

  ‘Doesn’t pay to be hasty.’ He nods. ‘Gotta be the right folk. Can’t trust someone just because they talk the talk.’

  Our conversation is interrupted by the door of Hawk’s cottage flying open with such force it splinters against the wall behind. Everyone looks up as Hawk appears in the doorway, bare-chested, a fresh cut across his chest dripping blood. He moves from foot to foot, his shoulders twitching. Hero runs to greet him, but Hawk pushes him away with his foot.

  The firewood crackles and smoke rises up into the starry sky, but tonight there’s no magic, only tension. Beside me Ronnie exhales loudly enough for me to hear. I push the stew around my plate.

  ‘Something wrong with our good island food?’ Hawk walks towards me. ‘Not to your fancy London tastes?’

  ‘Not hungry,’ I say.

  ‘Right, right.’ He’s still padding from foot to foot, his head moving from side to side. The blood from his cut is now mingled with the tattoos on his stomach, blurring their edges.

  Without warning he bats the plate out of my hands, sending it flying into the fire.

  ‘If you don’t fucking want it, don’t fucking eat it,’ he shouts.

  ‘Hey Hawk, man, calm down,’ says the guy with the goatee.

  ‘What did you say?’ Hawk gets right into the other man’s face.

  ‘I can see you’re a little wired tonight is all.’

  Hawk throws back his head and for a second I think he’s going to head-butt the other guy, but instead he laughs and everyone joins in. Only Ronnie and I keep straight-faced.

  ‘Don’t worry about Hawk.’ The man with the goatee puts a hand on my arm. ‘He’s one crazy bastard, but he’s good people, you know?’

  When the food’s finished Tiny takes out his harmonica, but after the first melancholy note, Hawk tells him to put it away.

  ‘Too fucking miserable, man, all that shit about the past.’ He stumbles back into his cottage and returns with a ghetto blaster. ‘Time to look to the future.’ He presses a button and the clearing shakes to the sound of an electric guitar getting faster and faster. He turns up the volume as a voice begins to scream along, the sound reverberating around the hills.

  Hawk nods violently to the music, oblivious to the fact that one by one the others are leaving. Only Ronnie and I remain as she watches him across the fire, his skin glowing orange.

  ‘Fuckers!’ he shouts into the air.

  ‘Come on.’ I pull Ronnie’s arm but she resists. ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ I tell her.

  She stares at her brother for another minute or two, watching him convulse, until I grab her wrist tightly and drag her to her feet.

  ‘Come on,’ I repeat and lead her away.

  As we trudge back to the cabin, I know that come what may, I am leaving this place tonight.

  The talking’s all done and Isaac is just waiting for the jury to return their verdict.

  ‘I think it went well,’ Bert keeps saying over and over as he paces up and down my cell.

  ‘What’s happening with my daddy?’ Isaac asks.

  Bert stops in his tracks and looks at Isaac.

  ‘You been telling me not to worry about him, but I want to know.’

  Bert nods and sits on the bunk next to him. ‘I wanted you to focus on the trial, Isaac,’ he says.

  ‘Trial’s over now, sir.’

  Bert takes a deep breath. ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’m just going to come right out and say it. Your daddy’s dead.’

  Isaac can’t believe it. He was sure Daddy hadn’t been shot. He remembers Rebecca falling. And Noah. Then a bullet passed through Veronica-Mae into Isaac, but Daddy was alive. ‘That’s not right,’ he says. ‘The police took him away.’

  Bert puts his hand over Isaac’s. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then how can he be dead?’

  Bert shakes his head real slow. ‘He killed himself, son.’

  Isaac snatches his hand away and jumps to his feet. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is, Isaac. They found him hanged in his cell.’

  ‘Daddy would never do that!’ Isaac screams.

  ‘Maybe he just couldn’t face another day, son.’

  Daddy couldn’t face another day? Daddy? What about Isaac? Every moment a living hell, locked up with no air or sky. Every night waiting for them to come to his cell.

  ‘He wouldn’t leave me all alone!’ he screams. Tears pour down his face. He hasn’t cried once since that day. Not about Mama, or his brother or his sister. Not even when the prison officers commit their sins on him. Now he can’t stop.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Isaac,’ says Bert.

  Then Isaac launches himself against the wall and beats it with his fists and his head until blood runs down the bricks. It takes three guards to pull him away and get the handcuffs on.

  When the jury are ready to give their decision, Isaac has to go back into court with a bandage around his forehead.

  ‘Stand up, please, Isaac,’ the judge tells him.

  He feels sick and dizzy now and has to lean his hands on the railing to hold himself up. A woman in the front row of the jury gives him a look full of pity.

  ‘Has the jury reached a verdict?’ asks the judge.

  The woman stands up. ‘We have, Your Honour.’

  ‘And on the count of murder, how do you find the defendant, Isaac Pearson? Guilty or not guilty?’

  She glances at Isaac, then turns away. ‘Guilty,’ she says.

  Bert puts his head on his desk but Isaac doesn’t care. He can’t feel anything at all.

  Chapter Twenty

  I wait until I’m sure Ronnie is asleep. When her breathing is rhythmic, I steal out of my bunk and creep through the cabin, cringing at each creak and groan of the wooden floor.

  I open the door as slowly as I can and step out into the night.

  When we came back from supper, I took one of the Serb’s torches and hid it under the chair, next to my trainers. In the blackness, I feel with my hand and smile when I find them unmoved. Silently, I put them on and sneak out.

  My plan is simply to find my way back to the beach and the plane. I might not
be able to fly the damn thing but it must have a radio. I don’t know anything about signals or frequencies but I’ll just keep trying until I manage to contact someone. Anyone.

  Actually, finding the beach will be the hardest part. It’s pitch black, the moon at its lowest wane and picking my way will be a challenge. Not impossible, though. The truck must have left tracks that I can follow. And there was a stream as a landmark. I just need to head up, over and then down. And repeat. At some point I must reach the beach.

  The neighbouring clearing is silent, the embers of the fire glowing and I skirt as far from the cottages as I can, hoping everyone is fast asleep. I’m almost at the other side when the door to Hawk’s cottage opens and I freeze.

  I can only just make out his outline in the light given off by what’s left of the fire. I hold my breath and tense every muscle, blood beating in my temples. If he spots me, I’ll run. I’m fast enough to lose him. But what about Hero? I’m not convinced I can outrun a German Shepherd.

  At last, the door creaks shut and I exhale. Nothing and no one are going to stop me now and I hurry up the steep incline, grateful to be swallowed into its darkness. When I’m a hundred feet or so safely on the other side, I turn on the torch and shine it at the ground. It’s tough to see where tyres might have made a track with only one beam of light and I tap with my trainers too, hoping to feel a ridge. Eventually, I find a flattened clump of gorse, the stalks ground into the dirt. This must be it.

  I shine the torch ahead and there is a definite impression through the grass and moss, veering off to the right. I punch the air in triumph and follow its intricate pattern.

  In the cool night air, I increase my pace, breathing deeply through my nose. I’m filled with a sense of hope that keeps my limbs loose, allowing me to move freely.

  I hardly dare believe it when the ground evens. Yet my thighs tell me it’s true. I must be on the stretch of land that runs the length of the island, separating the inland hills and valleys from the shore. Something crashes into my subconscious and I pause to concentrate. Then I smile. It’s the ocean. I can hear the endless roar of the waves calling to me.

  Buoyed by the sound, I sprint until something shrieks up ahead, making me jump. When it comes again, I realise it’s only an owl. He screeches at me again as if my very presence is heretical. ‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘I’m out of here.’

  I run for another five minutes then stop. My body could go on for miles but I need to make sure I’m following the tyre tracks. If I take the wrong route down, I might miss the place I need to be and find myself on the wrong beach or at the top of a cliff I can’t descend.

  A crushed clump of grass tells me I’m where I need to be, but I bend and feel with my fingers, assuring myself that I can feel the imprints of the tread. Satisfied, I set off again.

  My mouth is parched and I wish I’d had enough foresight to take a bottle of water from the fridge. Never mind. I won’t let thirst slow me down. I can drink gallons of the stuff when I’m home. I smile at the thought of my flat, with its bare cupboards and un-ironed sheets. First thing I’m going to do is buy a new duvet, one of those filled with real feathers. Imagine how soft it will be. Then I’m going to fill all the shelves and the fridge with delicious food. I might even learn to cook.

  I’m still smiling when I hear something behind me. A sigh. I stop and listen. Another sigh, then another, then another. The sound of someone panting. I tell myself it could be an animal, but what animal makes a sound like that? More panting. Louder this time. Whoever it is, they’re getting closer.

  Could Hawk have seen me in the clearing? Has he been following me all this time? I think of him earlier, manic with drugs and paranoia, his body rippling with pent-up violence. And I run.

  Regardless of the tyre tracks, I just head forward, tripping over rocks, almost losing my footing. I won’t let him catch me. No way. I dig deep and increase my speed, ricocheting and stumbling. I channel every part of me into escaping.

  The beam of my torch catches something looming up ahead. It’s large and square: the crofter’s cottage where Tiny stopped. I charge towards it. If I can get inside, maybe I’ll find a telephone or a radio. It’s not likely given the collapsed roof, but if all else fails at least I can barricade myself inside and hide.

  I’m only a couple of metres from shelter when my feet become trapped under what feels like a concrete ledge and I’m thrown forward, smashing my head against another hard object. As I tumble to the ground, my left thigh crashes against a third immovable obstacle. There’s a crack and I yelp in excruciating pain. I try to flip onto my back, but my feet are still caught.

  I scrabble for the torch and shed some light on my problem. All around me are dark slabs covered in moss, scattered like an outsized pack of cards. Closer inspection reveals faint script etched into the rock. Gravestones. I’ve stumbled into the tiny graveyard that flanks the crofter’s cottage.

  As I arc the beam of light I find the culprit on which I banged my head. It’s the upright Celtic cross, rune-like markings chasing one another around the upper circle. Instinctively I reach over to trace the unfathomable patterns, but even that small movement sends a bolt of pain through my thigh. I feel as if I’ve been stabbed. I touch the spot where it hurts the most and my fingers come away wet. In the torchlight I can see the rip in my tracksuit trousers and the red stain spreading across the fabric. Shit.

  As if things couldn’t get any worse, the panting noise is getting closer. I grasp the Celtic cross and pull myself to my feet, blood pouring down to my knee, and limp towards the cottage. Each step is like a hot poker jabbing me, but I have to keep on going.

  The footsteps behind me get faster and I try to run. When I reach the door, I don’t stop, but career into it with a thud.

  I can hear breathing now. Hawk is right behind me. I let out a shout of anger and fear.

  My hand scrabbles for the doorknob. I can do this. I can.

  The metal of the handle is rusty and won’t turn so I step back to force it with my shoulder. Too late I remember the wound in my leg and it gives way beneath me. I throw my arms out as I lose my footing and the torch flies out of my hand, crashing behind me and beating me to the ground. As I follow it, my head meets solid rock again.

  When I open my eyes, there’s only a blur and a sick feeling in my gut. Someone above me is speaking, but I can’t catch the words. As the world slowly comes back into focus I see who has been chasing me.

  It’s Ronnie.

  Sebastian rapped his cheek with a ruler to keep himself awake. The techies had worked all night and found more postings on Platformnow. It seemed that Petal a.k.a. Paul Ronald a.k.a TheTimeForTalkIsOver kept in regular contact with another poster called Hawk.

  Though the language was guarded, it was fairly clear that they were discussing Tommy. In a sick twist of the knife, they’d been in contact in the hours before the handover at Stratford underground.

  TheTimeForTalkIsOver At 3:41

  I’m on my way.

  Hawk At 3:42

  Good luck, soldier, and may God go with you.

  ‘You can go home now,’ Clem told Sebastian. The others had already left.

  ‘I just want to check what this guy’s up to now,’ he said.

  Clem understood. He couldn’t take his eyes off the site either. If Hawk had been involved in the attack at the Opening Ceremony, what was to say he wasn’t planning something similar right now.

  ‘Do you think Hawk knows his friend is dead?’ asked Sebastian.

  ‘He must know we intercepted the bomb,’ said Clem.

  ‘And he must know Tommy was killed,’ said Sebastian. ‘It’s all over the net, especially Platformnow. He’s even been on a thread about it, muttering on about Waco.’

  Clem thumbed through his notes. Quite a number of Hawk’s posts mentioned Waco. ‘Does he mention Frasier or anyone else?’

  Sebastian shook his head. ‘He was around for half an hour or so yesterday, chatting with someone called R1234
.’

  ‘Imaginative,’ said Clem. ‘What did they talk about?’

  Sebastian smiled and yawned at the same time. ‘Not a lot. R1234 says his nose is still hurting and Hawk commiserates. They’ve had pretty much the same conversation for the last few days.’

  Clem frowned. Hawk didn’t strike him as a compassionate kind of guy. His posts simmered with hatred, not the grandstanding of some members, which made them all the more frightening.

  Carole-Ann breezed in, all fresh lipgloss and white teeth. ‘Tell me you two haven’t been here all night.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Clem. ‘We haven’t been here all night.’

  She put her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. The remnants of yesterday’s kebab and chips were everywhere. ‘It smells like a kennel in here.’ She turned to Clem and Sebastian. ‘And you two look like dogs. Go home and try to get some rest.’

  ‘We need to keep a track on this one.’ Clem flicked Hawk’s name on the screen. ‘He’s definitely still active.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ she said. ‘Now go and at least take a shower.’

  Ronnie shines the torch in my face. ‘What on earth are you doing out here, Jo?’

  I try to get up but my head is spinning.

  ‘Crashing through these hills at night,’ she says. ‘Have you got a death wish?’

  My stomach lurches and I lean to one side and vomit. ‘I had to get away.’ I wipe my chin with the back of my hand. ‘Otherwise Hawk would have killed me.’

  ‘I know,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were right,’ she answers simply.

  I struggle to a sitting position, taking the weight on my hand. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get out of here before he notices we’ve gone.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Jo.’

  ‘It won’t take us long to get down to the beach,’ I say.

  She puts a hand on each of my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes. ‘You won’t make it, Jo.’

  ‘I will.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You’re losing too much blood.’ She points the torch at my leg to show me the blood pumping out. I stem the flow with my hand, but it pours through my fingers. ‘Let’s tie something around it,’ I say, my vision swimming.