Déjà Vu: A Technothriller (18 page)

“Listen, Brandt,” Garrel said. His face was close to hers. “I need this hole capped, soiled and turfed by six p.m. That gives me,” and Saskia noted he did not check his watch, because that would have involved looking away, “just over an hour.”

“Then we should proceed immediately.”

Garrel held her stare for while and then threw up his arms in resignation. “Splendid. Why not? We’ll call it ‘The Magical Mystery Tour’ and charge at the gate.” He looked at Hannah in exasperation, but the DI ignored him. “We’ll need some equipment.” He found an open crate and began to dig inside.

Saskia gave Hannah her suit jacket. He draped it across one arm, solemnly as a butler, but as she reached to remove her pancake holster, his hand clamped hers. She read his eyes and nodded. The gun stayed.

“Take this,” Garrel said. He passed her a harness and a climbing helmet, complete with lamp. She fed her legs through the seat and locked the pelvis connection. She watched her hands as they manipulated the ropes and double-sprocket mechanism with considerable expertise. Lucky. These motor actions – abseiling, weapon handling, shorthand – were probably implanted skills.

“What are you waiting for, Brandt?” Garrel stepped over the yellow cordon and attached his harness to one of the ropes. Each rope was a different colour. “Twenty metres. I’m on the blue rope.” He tapped his helmet and the lamp shone. Then he jumped into the blackness and fell like a dead weight. The rope whistled through his decelerator.

Saskia wandered over to the hole. Her palms were slick with sweat. “You want to come down too, Scottie?”

Hannah smiled. “No thanks. A friend of mine was paralysed using one of those decelerators. Anyway,” he said, hefting her coat and jacket, “I’m being useful.”

“Right.” Saskia clipped her harness to the rope. She chose the red one. She unhinged the decelerator and fitted the rope around the two sprockets. She closed it firmly and checked, with a tug, that the rope was gripped tight. There was a disc attached to a sprocket axle. She pulled it out and turned the dial to twenty metres. Then she snapped it back, checked it was locked, and jumped.

David pulled into a narrow alleyway. The engine faltered and stopped. He dug for the kick-stand and eased it to a stable tilt. He slid off. He removed the key and the dull glow of the windscreen’s display faded to nothing. The suspension sank and the windscreen slipped into the steering column.

He stepped back and flexed his arms. His wrists cracked arthritically. His vertebra settled.

“Oi, sunshine,” said a voice.

David looked up. An old woman was leaning into the alley from her window, her ample bosom resting on her white folded arms. He could hear a TV babbling behind her. Her hair was in curlers. A cigarette wagged in the corner of her mouth when she spoke: “You. That. You can’t stop here.”

He flipped open the visor on his helmet. “Firstly, I am not your sunshine. Secondly, this bike will stay here, undisturbed by you, for the entire night. And if I find so much as a scratch in the morning, we can talk about it down the station.”

The old woman was a dark silhouette. There was a pause of several seconds. “My Barry would sort yous out.”

David gave her a tired, tired look.

She snorted and wriggled back inside. The single-glazed window slammed down. David sagged against the wall and tried to ignore the drumming in his ears.

It was nearly 6 p.m. He had been on the road since eight. A total of nine hours with an hour for lunch in little town called Cramlington. Behind the counter in the chip shop there had been a picture of him. A very old picture, thankfully, with more, darker hair and a smiling face. He had frozen, mid-chew, but the owner had not given him a second look. David left immediately. He could not mimic accents, but he could produce the Scottish “Aye,” “No,” and “Is it not?” well enough. He had not disguised his voice for the old bag at the window and if she didn’t buy his story then, well, perhaps her Barry would soon sort him out and so bloody what. He was tired.

On the road he had watched the sun climb, ridden through rain, seen a rainbow, swerved around road kill. His body was near exhaustion. His shoulders and neck hurt from the constant hunch. His kidneys felt bruised from the vibration. Same story with the wrists.

Now he was finished for the day. He had washed up in Northallerton. A few miles to the north was Middlesborough. A few more to south was Leeds. He was still hours from his England.

He emerged from the alley. It was dusk. Parked cars lined each side. Across the way was a pub called The Horse ’n Groom. Multicoloured lights flashed from its windows. Music played so loudly that it transformed from sound to dull touch.

He walked a little further down the road. He still wore the bike helmet but he didn’t want to remove it until it was necessary. A few metres on was the Mulberry Guesthouse. It was a converted semi. Not a palace. Perfect. Next to the door was a box with a plastic front. Inside, a visible bulb illuminated a piece of paper with the words, ‘We have Vaccancies’.

David slid his helmet upwards. His ears had somehow grown into it. He breathed a huge gulp of cold air and ruffled the cowlick that used to be his hair. His neck had lost some movement. He restrained his urge to twist his head and loosen the cartilage with a crack.

The helmet was surprisingly heavy. He reached to press the doorbell when a voice said: “Yen’t a coppeh, man.”

There was somebody there. He looked hard. A boy stood in the shadows, hands in pockets. He stepped into the light. David could tell immediately that he was homeless. He wore a woollen cap, an eskimo-style jacket with the hood down, jeans, and bright white trainers. They were scuffed to hell. He was skinny and birdlike in his movements. His eyes were red-ringed.

“What?” David had barely understood his words. He had no grip on the Northallerton accent. It sounded Geordie, but no doubt the boy would be offended by the comparison.

“I said, you aren’t a copper. On holiday?”

David shrugged as the words came into focus. His finger still hovered over the doorbell. “Business. Yourself?” He wanted to wrap up the conversation quickly, get inside, have a bath.

“Touting for business.”

Something in his voice spoke directly to David’s stomach. He felt nauseous. Saliva squirted into his mouth. “Sorry, what?”

“Wannafuck?” asked the little boy. He was relaxed, but prepared to run. David realised that he had asked that question a thousand times and, with repetition, the meaning had melted away. It was now just a matter of mouth shapes and air.

David’s hand finally fell from the doorbell. He crouched down. His eyes were wide. He reached over to the boy and, with a gloved finger, turned his face. “You’re not a boy at all,” David said softly. “You’re just a little girl.”

Suddenly he wanted Jennifer.

“Alright, you’ve touched the merchandise. Cash or plastic?”

Her eyes were bright. Her cheeks were sunken. She had a large cold sore on her bottom lip.

“Can you come back?” he asked. “Twenty minutes? We can go somewhere.”

Twenty minutes later, David was sitting on the edge of his bed. He hadn’t removed his coat or his gloves. He had checked in, handed over his new, fake credit card, signed with his old, unreadable signature and found his room on the first floor. He had thrown his rucksack on the bed. Earlier, it had revealed a passport, driver’s licence, credit card, and a small brown envelope. He knew that he should open the envelope, discover its secret, but he did not.

He thought about the girl.

There was a knock at the door.

“Mr Harrison?”

Unforgivable, he thought numbly. Unforgettable. How could he have been so stupid? It was not a moment’s lapse. It had lasted years.

“Yeah,” he cakked.

The landlord opened the door a crack. He was a fat, nervous Welshman with a bushy beard. “Someone to see you downstairs.”

David kept his back to the door and dabbed at his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried.

No, not true. Bruce’s funeral. Unforgettable.

“Thank you.”

The door closed.

David patted his pockets. He would need money.

Outside, he did not have to look far. She was waiting in the shadows. It was dark now. He glanced around. They were alone. She emerged and read his mind.

“They know where I am,” she said. “My friends.” Her breath made little white clouds.

“I’m hungry. Want to get some fish and chips?”

She frowned. “You want to eat.”

“Yeah. Come on. Name a place?”

“McCabe’s. It’s over there.” She indicated the direction with a shoulder. Her hands stayed in her pockets and David wondered what weapons she held. She did not let her eyes leave his until he walked past her. She fell in step. Her head reached his elbow. Her strides were fast and his were slow.

“What are your prices like, then?” he asked. The nausea swirled in his stomach again. That old feeling. It spread to his fingertips and they seemed to sparkle. He took deep breaths and concentrated on the horizon though, in the blackness, there was none.

She sniffed. “This your first time?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, playing for time he would never need. His mind was almost paralysed by the proximity of this child and what she was prepared to do. In his coat pocket he felt the reassuring weight of his stun gun. There was an alley coming up. It would do.

“The first time you want a bit of underage?”

He tried to sound relaxed. “No. Not the first time.”

“Oh.” She sounded uninterested.

They walked past the mouth of the alley. David seized her by the hood and hauled her in. He could lift her with one arm. Nobody saw. He crouched. Their eyes were level.

“Have me, don’t kill me,” she said quickly.

“You’re not taking me to a chippy, are you?” His voice was controlled. His policeman’s voice. Everybody trusts a policeman.

She shook her head. He saw the fear in her eyes and saw it was controlled too. She was calculating, weighing options. “What’s in your pockets?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Let me see.”

A car drove past. The light did not reach them but some reflections caught her eyes as a glint moving from right to left. Slowly, she produced her hands. In each one was a fair-sized rock.

Clever girl, he thought. “Drop them.”

He saw her calculating again: crash the rocks into his head like cymbals.

She dropped them.

“You’re taking me a to a get-together, aren’t you? You got some friends and told them you had a sure thing. They were going to knock me about, nick my cards. Anything else?”

Now her eyes fell. Their light faded. “You are a copper.”

“We’re going to walk out of here. We’re going to have some fish and chips and a chat. And if you still want me to meet your friends, there’ll be fucking aggro.” He brandished the stun gun.

“You going to kill me?”

“No, I am not.”

“You going to rape me?”

“No.”

“Then what? Then what?” She looked at the stun gun. He put it away. Her brow knitted. “Oh, I get it.” Her voice rose. “You’re a hero. You’ll go home to your little family in fucking Chelsea and brag about how you played Dr Bernardo up north. I don’t want your money and I don’t want to eat your food. You think fish and chips and ten minutes of good society are going to make me grow up and want to be like you. You sorry bastard.”

David stood up. He did so casually, but the girl flinched. He took out his credit card. “Hold your fire. I’ll pay for your time. We’ll have a chat. I want half an hour.”

Her eyes settled on the card. They stuck. “Why didn’t you say that before? I thought you were going to kill me.”

David snorted. “You did not.”

“I don’t know what I thought,” she said, looking at her shoes.

“Would you have believed me? That I wanted a talk?”

“No. They all say that. But who says I’ll believe you now?”

David looked at her. She was so adult. “Nobody. You say. You choose. I’m going to have some chips. Maybe a coke. Lashings of salt and vinegar. You?”

“You’re weird.”

She followed him when he left, with fast, long strides to match his.

They sat in McCabe’s under off-white light. McCabe, who was Turkish, whistled behind a large counter, battering sausages, fish and burgers and frying chips. The air was heavy with grease, the floor slippery with it. The place was empty. They had taken a table for two in the far corner. David let the girl sit so she could look out of the window. So she would feel safer. She had no reason to trust him. Between them were two unfurled portions of fish and chips. David busied himself with vinegar while the girl stared at her food.

“Eat it before it gets cold,” he said.

She bristled. “I’ll eat it when I fucking want.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Your name.”

“My name is Janine.” She took a chip reluctantly. “What’s your name?”

“My name’s David. You have a surname?”

“Yes.” She ate a few more chips. At the counter, McCabe smiled at the father and daughter sharing a meal in his little chip shop. Janine lifted the fish and tore a great bite from the end. David watched her. She chewed once, twice and swallowed. “You have a daughter don’t you?”

“Sort of. I sent her away.”

She took another bite. With her mouth full, she waved him on. “Out with it, then. You’re paying me to listen – and paying well, by the way – so get your money’s worth.”

“My daughter is called Jennifer.”

“Me and her would get on like a house on fire, right?”

“Actually I’m not sure if she’s your type.” David glanced at her guiltily and Janine, seeing his expression, laughed. Particles of fish hit his fingers. “What I mean is,” he continued, “she’s quite old now. She’s twenty.”

Janine nodded. That was obvious. “Why did you send her away?”

“I could give you facts: she was a genius, a real genius. The schools in this country couldn’t do anything for her. I decided, on a friend’s advice, to send her to a school in New York for gifted children. Sent her aged twelve. That was eight years ago. I think she works for the American government now.”