Dead in the Water (14 page)

The news moves on and Mark switches off.

He tries Rachel. Her phone’s either switched off or not working. He could do with talking to Rachel.

Then he rings home again. Joanna answers. She sounds pleased to hear from him.

“
I’m sorry. I should have rung you back. I’ve only just picked up your message. I was in the garden when you rang.”

“
How’s Stephen?”

“
He’s gone to stay the night with his friend, Ian.”

“
Who’s Ian?”

“
Oh Mark, for goodness sake. Don’t be so touchy. He lives on a narrowboat.”

“
And are you OK about that?”

“
He’s a very nice young man. He’s scruffy, but you like scruffy. You told me this morning.” He likes her teasing him, but it’s so unexpected he can’t respond in kind.

“
He should be revising.”

“
He’s going to spend all tomorrow revising.”

“
That’s what he told me. But if he’s gone to a party on a bloody narrowboat ––”

“
He didn’t say anything about a party. He said they were going to play some music and watch a couple of DVDs.”

“
And get rat arsed and stoned out of their heads.”

“
What do you want me to do about it? Go down to the boat and tell him to come home and get on with his work. He’s twenty, Mark. It’s a Saturday night ––”

“
And his exams start in just over a week.”

“
I’m the bad mother, am I? Is that it?”

“
I’m sorry.” She was pleased to hear from him; and now they’re arguing again. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just worried about him screwing up on his degree.”

“
I can’t lock him in the house, Mark. I’ve met Ian. He has integrity.”

“
OK. I’m just … concerned. OK?”

There’s a momentary silence before Joanna says, “Yes. I understand.”

“
Shall I come down tomorrow. I could get an early train. Be with you for a late breakfast. How does that sound?”

“
Sounds nice, Mark. But I’m going to take Stephen over to Jenny’s in Abingdon and then I’m going to be out for the rest of the day.”

Resisting the temptation to ask where she’s going, he says, “We need time to talk.”

“
I know. But now’s not a good time for either of us. When your Summit meeting’s over, and Stephen’s finished his exams, perhaps we can plan a proper weekend.”

When he rings off, he’s trembling; frustrated, angry and confused. Whatever he may feel about Joanna, it’s not indifference.

About half a minute later the phone warbles once then stops, as if someone’s realised they’ve dialled the wrong number just as it was starting to ring. He picks up to try ring-back; but the phone’s dead. There’s no dialling tone – as if it’s been disconnected. He switches off; then on again. Still no sound. Then a couple of clicks. Then another click and this time the dialling tone. He rings his own mobile number from the landline, and then the landline from the mobile, to make sure it’s working properly again.

And then it dawns that his phone’s being tapped. Who the fuck authorised that?

2
2
Paddington Green

Allan Hunter is woken by keys jangling and knocking against a metal door. He still hasn’t been allowed to ring Suzie or contact a solicitor. A uniformed officer leads him to a room for another bout of questioning, sits him at a table, tells someone at the other end of an intercom that the prisoner is ready; then stands on guard at the door. He’s a large man. He looks tired and resentful. He’s coming to the end of his shift.

Allan looks at his watch. Or rather, he looks at his wrist. His watch has been removed. He looks around the room for a clock. There is no clock.

“
Excuse me. Can you tell me what the time is?”

Nothing.

“
Is communication with the prisoner forbidden?” Evidently. Allan gets to his feet and goes over to the policeman and tries to look at his watch. At which point he grabs Allan, jerks his arm behind his back, forces him back to the chair and handcuffs him to a table leg.

“
All I did was ask you what the bloody time is."

No response. A long wait. Then two plain clothes men come into the room. They tell the burly fellow to remove the handcuffs and stand outside.

“
Good morning Mr Hunter.”

“
Good morning.”

“
Why are you so keen to know the time, Mr Hunter?”

“
Isn’t that what most people want to know?”

“
You seem more interested than most.”

“
Because I haven’t a clue what’s going on here. I don’t even know if it’s daylight.”

“
Is something going to happen at a specified time?”

“
I want to talk to a solicitor. Right. I want to ring a solicitor. I want to know if it’s daylight. Right. That’s all.”

“
When you get charged, then you can see a solicitor. But as you haven’t been charged yet…. No go.”

“
Then charge me, for fuck’s sake.” Silence. “You don’t seriously think I’m a terrorist do you?”

“
Somebody does.”

“
OK. I’ll make it easy for you. I’m not. Now can I go?”

One of the men smiles, the other looks irritated. Smiler then says: "There are several differences between us and you, Mr Hunter. Difference number one: we get paid for doing this. Difference number two: when we get to the end of a shift we go home to a nice house, nice family, nice meal. You go back to that cell… Or maybe you don’t, maybe you go somewhere else, somewhere not so cosy. So if you want to crack jokes… whatever. Your choice.”

“
When do I get charged?”

The man who has not yet spoken leans forward, and says quietly, “The thing is – we want to get things sorted. And I’m sure you do too.”

“
If I could help you I would.” They sit silent again. “My van was stolen and I didn’t report it to the police straight away. I didn’t know that was an offence. And I resigned from the Green Party because I thought they’d sold out.”

“
We have your computer, Allan. It’s been examined.”

“
I haven’t got anything to hide.”

“
You were one of the organisers of the Campaign to Reduce Emissions of CO
²
.” He says it with a sneer.

“
CARECO. Yes.”

“
You were arrested.”

“
Which none of the Countryside Alliance ever were.” No response. “Yes, I was arrested. And yes, I helped organise it. And yes, and if you look on my computer you’ll probably find the addresses of some of the people involved.” No confirmation or denial. “It never came to court. The case was dropped.”

“
Greenpeace
got involved didn’t they. And, according to our records, some government adviser offered legal advice.”

“
Look, I got involved in some direct action – which got about five miles down the M4 before it was stopped. That doesn’t make me a terrorist.”

“
OK, let’s assume that you want to co-operate. Tell us about some of the other people involved. Whose idea was it? Who was enthusiastic? Who got angry when the protest collapsed?”

Could someone he knew actually have something to do with the bombings? They’d have all his contacts anyway. So he talks about how CARECO began in a pub, how it built momentum, the word of mouth, the internet campaign, the futile efforts to get the Green Party to back them, and the growing conviction that they had hundreds of people, if not thousands, willing to take part. And then the disaster of the day of protest, when almost everybody chickened out and, instead of a nationwide protest, with every major motorway affected and the motorway slip roads to Heathrow, Gatwick and Stansted all closed, there had been traffic jams on the M3 and the M40. At least the M4 protest had been broken up by police, where the others had all been bullied out of the way by aggressive drivers behind them. The disruption to traffic lasted a couple of hours; but the protest and the protesters had been reviled and ridiculed. Who had been angry? Allan had been.

He isn’t telling them anything they don’t already know. They change the subject.

“
Tell us about the kind of work you do now.”

“
I’m a plumber. I specialise in solar heating systems.”

“
You get a lot of work, do you?”

“
It’s picking up?”

“
You didn’t answer the question.”

“
It’s taken off in the past couple of months.”

“
Do you recognise this, Mr Hunter?” The man who started the questioning produces a set of documents and lays them out on the table. Allan looks at them carefully and recognises his own installation plans for a solar-panel system for a house in Stoke Newington.

“
We’re going do that house in a couple of weeks.”

“
There’s a lot of detail here.”

“
Modern solar systems are high tech and complicated. And maybe I do a better job than most people.”

“
You know whose house this is, do you?”

“
It says on the estimate. Look.”

“
You know who he is do you?”

“
I know what his name is. I didn’t meet him. His missus dealt with everything.”

“
Mr Linden is Foreign Secretary. There are people would give a lot of money for a copy of these plans. Don’t you think?”

Sunday

23
West London

Just before nine in the morning, Mark, who has been up for a couple of hours, leaves the desk in his bedroom and goes to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and switch the radio on – just in time for the Radio Four news. The police have made a number of significant arrests in connection with the bombings. One man has been picked up on Sunday afternoon in the Willesden area; and in a series of night raids across the country eighteen others have now been taken in for questioning. He’s enough of a realist to know that doesn’t necessarily mean a breakthrough; but he is nevertheless relieved. It won’t be long before they do at least know what they’re dealing with.

He makes himself some toast and wonders what Joanna’s doing. He remembers with great affection the long and leisurely Sunday morning breakfasts they used to have in Clifton Hamden. One of their more civilised habits. He’s lived in this flat on and off for more than four years, but this morning he feels like a squatter; a transitory man living a provisional life.

The kitchen has become shabby – not decorated since he moved in. He could be a student, drifting in a messy indeterminate world, prey to the unpredictability of his own anxieties. On a Sunday he usually skims through several newspapers, to get a flavour of the different shades of opinion. But this morning, when he took his early morning run, the papers hadn’t yet been delivered to the local newsagent. He could get it all from the Internet, but he’s sick of the computer screen.

The phone rings. He switches the radio off, but by the time he’s picked up, it’s dead. It’s too early to ring Jeremy Peters to find out if he has heard from Rachel – he’ll only get an earful if he rings at this time of the morning. Stretching ahead of him is something he has not known in years: an empty day.

2
4
Amazonas

Rachel is struggling between waking and sleeping, occasionally lifting her head, then dropping back into the comfort of sleep. She should be frightened. She should wake herself properly. But sleep is so much easier. At university she read accounts of Westerners who lived with Yanomami – José himself spent three weeks with them – but those people were all men. She has never heard of a western woman accepted into Yanomami society.

She opens her eyes. One of the shamans who healed José, is sitting asleep on the ground beside his hammock, legs folded under him, his spirit watching over the stranger, while his naked body rests from the exertions of purging demons. Nearby, the older woman who soothed her is also cross-legged and asleep. Siesta time.

Her clothes are in the centre of the clearing. All Rachel’s wearing is a piece of hide tied loosely around her waist. A strange dialogue forms in her head between reason and feeling; strange because it’s the rational voice that’s telling her she may have been sexually assaulted, that she should be terrified. Emotionally, however, she is calm, certain they have cared for her. Surely, she should feel something other than curiosity about her own condition and mild concern for José, who is still unconscious.

It comes clear: she will walk to the centre of the clearing, lay claim to her clothes and perhaps offer some of her things as gifts. Then she will wake José. She’s about to get out of the hammock, when she hears a voice. ‘Other white people have been here before you.’ The old woman and the shaman are sleeping. No-one else is near. ‘They bring death with them.’ She does not recognise the voice. In a dream that she cannot remember with any clarity, she has been talking with this man. Maybe this is what she hears, the voice remembered from the dream.

An unusually healthy looking dog forages amongst the huts and around the fires; two old men are sitting by a dying fire some fifteen metres away; on the other side of the clearing, five children are playing near a hut. Apart from the sleeping shaman and the old woman, they are the nearest people to her. It must be her own guilt, she is talking to herself, but, nevertheless, she answers, ‘Those people came from the sky. They have brought death to my village too.’