Dead in the Water (12 page)

“
I’ll pay the mooring fee,” says Mark. “And a pint of milk and a
Guardian
please.”

Raggedy Man is irritated. “You don’t get it man, do you. It’s not that I can’t pay it. It’s nobody should pay it. You can’t own the water, man. It’s rain water running down to the sea. You can’t own that.”

“
Look, if it helps. I’m not paying it. I’m making a donation to the Primary School PTA.” But Raggedy Man is not going to let go. Mark smiles at the woman behind the counter, who is used to such altercations. He gives her a fiver and asks her to put the change in the charity box.

As he leaves the shop, boat man comes to the door and calls after him “Fucking patronising twat.” Walking home, he glances at the front page of
The Guardian
. There are three photographs of traffic jams, a headline about road chaos; and a short piece at the bottom of the page about a hoax in Leeds which resulted in the City centre being evacuated on Friday night. But no more bombs.

When he gets back, Stephen is sitting at the kitchen table in T shirt and shorts.

“
You’re up early,” says Mark.

“
Things change.”

“
They do indeed.”

“
Where’s Mum?”

“
Taking Charlie for his morning walk.”

“
Any orange juice, Dad?”

“
I don’t know, Steve. I didn’t get home until about half ten last night.” His attempt to sound casual isn’t fooling either of them.

“
Have you and Mum been arguing?”

“
A minor disagreement.”

Stephen looks sceptical. “You want a coffee, Dad?”

“
Thanks.”

Stephen brings over the cafetière. “What about?”

Mark shakes his head. “I don’t really know…. Stuff.”

“
You mean stuff I shouldn’t know about?”

“
Not really. She’s pissed off with me because I have to go back to London for a meeting; and …” He hesitates, stumbling as much for the feelings as for the words. “There are things Mum and I were planning to talk about this weekend.”

“
Right,” says Stephen.

Mark smiles and gives the merest hint of shrug.

Stephen asks if he’d like some breakfast.

“
I’ll just have a piece of toast, thanks. I said I’d help you with exam revision this weekend. I’d like to do that. Some this morning and some tomorrow?”

“
Thanks Dad, but I’m OK.”

“
Steve, it’s important.”

“
I know, I know.”

“
I can’t be here next weekend. So if there are things I can help with ––”

“
Dad, I’m going over to Jenny’s tomorrow. She’s doing the same course as me. We’re going to spend the day talking through ideas. You always said that was the best way of revising.”

“
And are you OK about that?”

“
What?”

“
Spending the day with Jenny.”

“
That was two years ago, Dad. She’s a good friend now.”

Mark holds back from making a comment. Stephen’s old enough to look after himself emotionally; and it’s not Mark’s place to remind him of his long winter of grief when Jenny broke up with him six weeks after he started university. But that, no doubt, is why Stephen changes the subject: “Dad, why have you changed your mind about direct action?”

“
We were talking about your exams, Steve.”

“
Dad, I’m doing alright. I’m doing revision. It’s planned out. I’m pacing myself. I’ve got good marks in coursework. I’m asking you a question. I’m not a kid. Just tell me.”

“
It alienates people, Steve.”

“
You didn’t used to think that.”

“
You can work from within or you can batter at the doors.”

“
Yeah, yeah, yeah.” If talking about exams is taboo for Stephen, a discussion of naïve radicalism is the last thing that Mark wants. Stephen is an unwitting mirror, reflecting back so much of himself at that age: his persistence, his idealism, his earnestness – and the way he bumbled through his own first degree.

“
Dad?” says Stephen, his back turned, as he slots bread into the toaster. It’s the kind of tone he uses when he’s about to ask a favour, to borrow money, to cadge a lift. Mark responds in kind with a ‘what now?’ grunt.

“
When we’ve had breakfast can I ask you something?”

“
Of course.”

At that moment there’s a sudden bang as the back door flies open and crashes against the sink. Charlie races into the room and jumps up onto Stephen. His paws are filthy – as now are Stephen’s shorts.

“
Charlie,” says Mark, sternly.

“
Where have you been?” Stephen asks, as Joanna shuts the door behind her.

“
Taking Charlie for a walk. Don’t you think you should be getting dressed.”

“
Mum,” he says, scolding and leaves to take a shower.

“
Long walk,” says Mark.

“
I called in next door. Albert is going to have to arrange for Margaret to go into a nursing home.”

“
How is he?”

“
Trying to be brave.”

Mark is fond of their neighbours and full of admiration for the old man’s devotion to his wife, but he’s unsure how to read Joanna. Is the chat about village life an olive branch? She pours herself a coffee, and looks down at the cup, taking an age to stir in the lump of brown sugar.

The atmosphere in the house is tense all morning. But she still takes him to the station in Oxford, although they don’t talk much in the car.

“
I’ll ring you after the meeting, shall I?” says Mark.

“
If you like.”

“
Will you be at home?”

“
Probably.”

To his surprise, when they get to the station Joanna leaves the car in a short-stay parking bay and accompanies him to the platform. For the first time since they agreed to separate, she kisses him goodbye, kisses him on the lips, before pulling back and saying, “Goodbye.”

He finds a seat, looks out of the window, hoping to wave to her. But she’s gone.

19
Caracas

The trouble with going for a drink in a downtown bar with a guy who’s feeling guilty is that he buys too many rounds. That’s hardly a problem in itself – except that getting drunk and staying out way past midnight means you’ve got to use initiative to beat the curfew. But initiative and booze don’t go too well together. So Jeremy ends up sleeping on Salvador’s sofa and walking home at six thirty in the morning, when the curfew is lifted for the day. Needing to crash for an hour or so, he sets the alarm on his phone when he notices a text message alert:

J and R, ‘José and Rachel. There’s no way of telling when the text was sent, but his own mobile has only just picked it up. ‘Village attacked’: what the hell does that mean? He tries calling both of them, but their phones are off. If they’re heading for Esmerelda they must have an inflatable. But, try as he might to convince himself that if Rachel could send a text they must be safe, he cannot calm the churning fear in his stomach. By nature, Jeremy is never flustered, rarely stressed; calm and rational to the point that it irritates his colleagues. But the street killings have fired the engines of his darkest imagination.

As he’s making himself some strong coffee, a crazy idea comes into his head. If he could get to Esmerelda himself… Then what? It’s absurd, of course it’s absurd. And he won’t do it. Even if he could get down to Esmerelda, what then? Have a nice celebratory dinner?

20 London

Allan Hunter had hoped to be home by midday, but it’s getting on for two thirty before he’s done, and he’s not going to get back until much before three. Suzie’s going to be very pissed off: not only has he got her car, but he’d promised to go over with her and see her sister and the kids for the afternoon. He’s finished clearing up and is getting his tools together in the hallway when there’s a loud bang, the front door’s swinging loose and then a shout:

“
Don’t move. Lie on the floor. Hands above your head. Now.”

Two police officers, both with sub-machine guns are standing in the empty doorway. He’s down on the floor. No messing. One of them frisks him. As the guy’s removing his mobile phone, a second bang as the back door is smashed down, and a team of armed police rush in and disperse through the house. A forensic team in protective white coats file quickly through the front, stepping around his prone body.

“
On your feet. Hands above your head. Against the wall. Now.” He does as he’s told. Says nothing. “Allan Hunter, we are arresting you under the 2001 Anti-terrorism, Crime and Security Act.” In the chaos and swirl of adrenaline he has no idea who’s shouting at him.

“
What the fuck is going on?” he asks, bewildered, shocked, angry, scared. No reply. He’s led out of the house towards an unmarked police car. On the other side of the road armed police have taken cover behind a white van . Fifty metres or so further up there’s a Black Maria and a Bomb Disposal unit.

Stay calm. Stay calm.

Sandwiched in the back of the unmarked car between two uniformed plods, he asks if he can call Suzie. “She’s expecting me home.” No reply.

After the initial shock he’s beginning to find the situation absurd. “Helluva lot of manpower to catch a dodgy plumber,” he ventures. No acknowledgement that he’s spoken. He tries to talk to them on the way to the police station; but they ignore him, and say nothing to each other. This wasn’t the way they played it when he had his bit part in
The Bill
.

Once in the police station at Paddington Green, his belongings are recorded; and he’s taken into an interrogation room. Allan has been in odd spots of bother from time to time; as a teenager he got himself into some quite nasty fights; he’s seen the inside of police cells on more than a couple of occasions – both in his own life and in the two episodes where he played a small time crook. He knows all about adrenaline buzz; but he has never before been seriously frightened.

“
I want to see a solicitor. I’m allowed to see a solicitor, aren’t I?”

“
Timing Mr Hunter. Timing.”

“
What’s that supposed to mean?” He wants to scream, to curse them; but he keeps himself in check.

“
Where do you think your van is right now?”

“
I don’t bloody know. How am I supposed to know? Do you think I bloody nicked it myself?”

“
Two officers spent the best part of an hour talking to you this morning Mr Hunter.”

“
I know.”

“
What time do you think your van was stolen, Mr Hunter?”

“
I want to see a solicitor.”

“
You can see a solicitor when you’ve been charged.”

“
Well bloody well charge me with something then.”

“
Your van was stolen at approximately 3.05 a.m. You received a phone call from a Mr. Miller at 5.27 a.m. At 5.45 a.m. you left the house in your girlfriend’s car. You returned home at approximately 7.05. You reported the van stolen at 7.17. That’s over four hours between the van being stolen and you informing the police.”

“
Fucking hell, that’s hardly a major crime is it. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t swear. I’m sorry.” Like they’ve never heard anyone swearing before…. “I should have rung soon as I realised. OK. I’m sorry. It’s bloody stupid of me, right. But I am the victim here, you know.” He explains about the Emergency Call out, about his deliberate delay in calling the police.

“
Why didn’t you tell us that this morning, Mr Hunter?”

“
Because I was stupid. Right.”

“
Thing is, we don’t think you are stupid, Mr Hunter. Four hours is a long time. As you very well know. A lot can happen in four hours. And we have searched very hard for your van. Tried all the usual suspects. And it strikes us that somebody wanted
your
van. Not
A
van, Mr Hunter. Your van. Why do you think that would be?”

“
It’s a brand new. I don’t know. People want VW vans. You’re the people who’re supposed to knows those things. Look, guys, I want to see a solicitor.”

“
Let me put it to you, Mr Hunter, that you owed someone a favour, that you agreed not to notice your van was missing until an agreed time.”

On each of the two previous occasions that he’s been inside, he was released without charge the following morning. The police had seemed to find it all quite amusing. He’d made them laugh; they’d arrested him because they had to. That’s what they do. This is different. “Can I see a solicitor.” Ignored. “Please.”

“
Is somebody putting pressure on you not to tell anybody about the van? Is somebody threatening you Mr Hunter?”

It’s you who’s fucking threatening me, you fucking dog brain. But he checks himself: “I’m not answering any more questions until I see a solicitor.”

“
That could be a long time…. We don’t have to charge you, Mr Hunter. You were brought in under the 2001 Anti-terrorism, Crime and Security Act. We don’t need to charge you. Not if we have reason to believe that you are connected with a group that is planning an act of terrorism.”