Dead in the Water (36 page)

Waiting for boarding, time goes slowly. Rachel has bought herself a paperback and would rather read than chat, so Jeremy decides to catch up with news from home. The front page of every English paper is given over to the devastating effects of the London flooding.
The Mirror
runs with
SLOANE LAKE,
The Express
with
THE DAY IT RAINED FOREVER
. There are no copies of
The Independent
, which is what he would normally choose to read, so he buys a
Mirror
and a
Times
. The latter has an aerial photograph, accompanied by the headline
LONDON – AN OPEN SEWER?
This is the first he has heard about the catastrophic rains and storm surges.

With Rachel still immersed in her book, he wanders over to an electrical goods retailer with its window of intelligent phones, pack-away multi-purpose touch screens and cameras. It’s a good opportunity to buy a new fully charged battery for the video camera. He’d like to see what Rachel has recorded. Up to now he’d been quite pleased with his Portuguese, but here the shop assistant doesn’t understand him and has to go off to find someone to help. Jeremy opens his bag to get the camera out.

A tall, self-regarding young woman with dyed blond hair appears on the other side of the counter. “Yes,” she says, an accusation, as if he, a mere customer, has no right to disturb her, the manager.

“
I wanted a battery,” he says without looking up. But the camera is not there. In its place there is a small cardboard box.

“
What battery?”

He opens the cardboard box. A stone. The weight of the box and its contents almost exactly that of the camera. Over the Tannoy an airport voice announces, first in Brazilian Portuguese and then in English, that passengers on the British Airways flight bound for London Heathrow should proceed immediately to Gate 17.

“
Something that can get pictures out of this,” he says, putting the stone on the counter before turning and leaving the shop.

He and Rachel have only a few minutes together as they queue for boarding. Not wanting to panic her, he mentions nothing of the camera theft. When did the bloody thing go missing? They haven’t left secure areas since they entered the Departures Lounge at Brasilia. He must have been targeted. The backpackers? Someone in the transit hall? He doesn’t remember being jostled. Where then? Were they both asleep at the same time and not aware of it? Thank goodness they had the foresight to keep the digi-card separately. The images stored on the camera’s hard disc may be lost, but they still have the card.

As Rachel takes her seat at the front of the Economy Class area, he kisses her on the forehead.

“
See you later,” she says, squeezing his hand and winking at him.

He makes his way slowly towards the back of the plane, patiently waiting for people to settle. When he gets to his own seat, he shoves his bag into the overhead locker, turns round to take off his jacket and sees to his amazement that seated in the row behind him are the backpackers, the couple who sat next to them at the departure gate at Brasilia. The Latino woman recognises him, gives him a friendly wave, and whispers something in the ear of her boyfriend, who looks up. “Hi,” says the American, grinning. “How are you, my friend? Hey, what a coincidence.”

62
London

There’s no response to his knocking on Mrs Williams’ door. It’s not too late to see how she is after her ordeal with the police. He tries again. Nothing. But she is rather deaf, and has always said to let himself in if she doesn’t answer the door. She gave him a key to feed Flanders the cat when she was in hospital for a hip replacement a couple of years ago. He opens the door gently.

“
Hello…. Anyone at home? Hello.”

Drawers from a sideboard have been removed, their contents strewn over the floor; cupboard doors open; the television moved and where it stood the carpet pulled up. His immediate impulse is to call the police. And say what? Ask them to send someone round to tidy up? What could they possibly have been expecting to find here? They surely don’t think of her as colluding with terrorists?

After some hasty tidying, he remembers Flanders. Poor bloody animal. He goes through to the kitchen. There’s cat food in the fridge, empty dishes on the floor in the corner. He bangs on the dish as he spoons food into it. No sign of the cat. He checks that it hasn’t been locked out. The cat-flap in the door onto the fire-escape swings freely. Could it be shut in the bedroom? Mrs Williams’ bed is unmade – as it must have been when she came to open the door for the bastards first thing this morning. Expecting what? The postman with a package too big to put through the letter box? A neighbour with news about one of the other elderly residents? And what does she get? State sponsored robbery.

On her desk in the bedroom sits an old fashioned manual typewriter, and beside it a fountain pen and a pot of ink; but all her papers, the pile of cuttings, her notebooks, they’re all gone.

Laughing mischievously at Mark’s embarrassment, insisting that he should welcome an invitation into an older woman’s bedroom, that it might further his education, she once asked him to come in here to read through a letter she was writing to Tony Blair about his draconian anti-terror legislation. What irony. Without the benefit of racial types to catalogue suspects, the net now falls on anyone who might at some time have reproached the government; a government; any government.

The wardrobe doors and drawers are open, an old woman’s clothes dumped on the floor. The room smells of stale urine, but the stench here is of violation and abuse. He looks in the open wardrobe; he looks under the bed, making half-hearted attempts to sound cheerful as he calls the cat. But Flanders has fled.

The news channels are full of stuff about breakthroughs in the search to find the bombers. Bollocks. ‘Act normal’. What the hell is normal when your elderly neighbour is in police custody? Make vociferous complaints? Resign from the government and publicly denounce its complicity in the brutal demonisation of anyone who dares to express opinions which it once affected to champion?

‘
Act normal’. OK. The spook reckoned the car was bugged. Probably by them. OK. The least he can do is check out the garage. He Googles the address and drives out to Chiswick. It’s exactly as he’d expected: a big dealership, glass fronted showrooms, a token wind generator on the roof and pennants on flagpoles proudly claiming that all
James Harvey Group garages
are carbon neutral – whatever that is supposed to mean.

So the terrorists are supposed to be bugging his car are they? Right now there seems very little difference between
Angels
and spooks.
If I’m the best lead you have, look where I’ve brought you. Maybe you don’t have
Yellow Pages
or the internet in Spook House
.
So glad to be of assistance.

Who was it who once told him you can’t hold more than one feeling at a time? How about angry, guilty, anxious, isolated, frustrated?

He goes for a run to clear his head. Down to the Bayswater Road and into the Park. Across to the Albert Memorial and back. The air is mercifully a little cooler and, when he gets back, the blast of water from the shower is invigorating. His head is far from clear. At least some things are getting sorted: there’s an e-mail from Andrew Linden. He has pulled a few strings, or set off some fireworks, whatever it is Ministers do when they want a favour. Rachel’s temporary passport is ready and the Embassy has made repatriation finance available for her to get a flight home. She should be home within a couple of days..

63 Flight BA 0246

After barely three hours sleep in the past thirty six, Jeremy is pleased to find himself in a window seat, where nobody is going to have to stumble past or climb over him. The seat next to him is empty, the middle aged, heavy set man in the aisle seat says ‘Hello’ in an Irish accent as he settles, but seems as keen to sleep as Jeremy is.

For the first hour or so of the flight, he drifts in and out of a half-waking place, almost oblivious of his surroundings, tormented by invasive images from Rachel’s stories: the destruction of the village, Dias’ disappearance and the downing of the firebird.

His eyes are barely open when a member of the cabin crew leans over and asks if he’d like a drink.

“
I’ll have something with the meal. I’ll have half a bottle of wine with that.”

“
Why not have a whiskey with me now?” asks his neighbour, the middle aged Irishman.

“
I’m OK thank you,” though a whisky sounds very appealing.

“
I’m Redmond. Hi. How are you doing?”

“
Fine thank you,” says Jeremy, with a polite twitch of a smile.

“
Dozing, I see. Best way to travel. Next best is with a few of these. Can I twist your arm?”

Redmond has subjected his body to more than average wear and tear. Jeremy would like to claim that he’s not feeling well, turn away and hope the man will just shut up; but, as Terry told him on several occasions, he’s just too polite for his own good, and he agrees to have a whisky – which, to Redmond is a green light.

The combination of garrulousness and halitosis would be bad enough at a dinner party, but here, when all he wants to do is sleep, it’s a prison sentence. Redmond has been in Sao Paulo on a mixture of business and pleasure. He doesn’t say what kind of business, but his fervid descriptions of Brazilian women are rather too detailed for Jeremy’s taste. He’s planning to spend a couple of days in London, where he has tickets for Saturday of the Lord’s Test Match due to start tomorrow, before flying back to Dublin on Sunday. Thankfully, Redmond asks nothing of Jeremy; nothing, that is, except whether he likes cricket. If this redeems him a little in Jeremy’s eyes, it’s not enough to keep him awake for more than ten minutes after the meal.

When he wakes it’s dark. The window blind has been pulled down. He turns to Redmond to apologise for having drifted off. But Redmond is not there. The American backpacker has taken his place.

“
Hi,” he says. “Hi. I’m Brad. Remember me? The airport at Brasilia. Yeah? Hey. Sorry. I didn’t know you were asleep. Your friend must have gone to the bathroom. Thought I’d just say hi. Need to get some exercise on these long hauls. You know they have a gym in the upper deck?”

“
I think I’d heard about it. Isn’t that just for First Class.”

“
But isn’t that just something, a gym on a plane. Isn’t that something else, eh!” Where is Redmond? Maybe he’s found a bar. The Airbus 380 is a truly giant plane. How long has he been asleep? He glances at his watch. 11.30 p.m. Brazil time. 3.30 a.m. London time. Just under four hours to Heathrow.

Brad is affable enough, enthusing about the joys of travelling. His unguarded boyish enthusiasm for Brazil and the Amazon would be delightful in other circumstances. But Jeremy is wary and, after Brad has returned to his seat, he checks his bag is still in the overhead locker. Yes, it’s there – and the documents.

Try as he might to convince himself that he should just relax and doze for the rest of the journey, to wake up on the ground at Heathrow, sleep remains elusive. The seats next to him are still empty. He gets up to go and talk to Rachel – she’s in an aisle seat. Like everybody else it seems, she’s asleep.

Redmond has indeed found his way to the bar – supposed to be for Business and First Class only, but at this time of night, nobody’s bothered. He’s seated alone at a small round table, head nodding over a tatty copy of yesterday’s
Jornal do Brasil
. Jeremy asks him what he’s drinking and he quickly revives. Notwithstanding Redmond’s bog breath, they enjoy a good natured argument about the merits of Scotch and Irish whiskies; and then move on to talk cricket. After half an hour or so discussing England’s prospects in the Lord’s Test, they are interrupted by the Captain announcing that turbulence is expected as they approach the Bay of Biscay, and everyone is asked to return to their seats.

No sooner are they strapped in than Redmond is off on another of his stories, which suits Jeremy well enough: he’d rather be half-listening to Redmond than attending to his own inner demons. Then the talk meanders back to cricket, and Redmond asks if he’d like to accompany him to the Test Match on Saturday.

Why not? After all this, what better way to relax? By then they should surely have got the video evidence to people who can use it.

“
I’d love to. That would be great.”

“
Give us your mobile then.”

“
I don’t have one at the moment.”

“
Well, let me give you mine. Call me. We’ll have ourselves a grand day.”

When they hit the threatened turbulence, Redmond’s face visibly whitens as his stomach becomes a cocktail shaker. But the Irishman and his belly are evidently seasoned travellers, the hastily grabbed brown paper bag remains unused and, in spite of the turbulence, they land at Heathrow twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

Thursday