Edge (4 page)

    He felt vomit rise up inside as the screen blurred along with the entire room, and he rubbed his face as he turned away. Mal James might have said something, but Richard was already at the door, and then he was through, heading down the corridor to the toilets, where he could find a cubicle to hide inside, or at least a sink to swill cold water on his face. But there were teachers approaching, and he was on his own without a boarder to vouch for him, so he turned left instead, and went out into the quadrangle, where a mild spring rain had begun to fall, forming threads of white and silver in the sunlight.

    Zajac stood in one corner, arms folded, like a statue in the rain. He looked at Richard but made no move. Perhaps it was going to be OK.

    He went inside, and survived through the next lesson – History – telling himself that Zajac had abandoned his resentment. It had to be true, so Richard acted as if it were, until it was lunchtime and he was walking to the school restaurant, remembering something Mr Keele said earlier:
"People don't like hold
ing contradictory views – it's called cognitive dissonance, see
chapter 24 in Gross – and they'll do anything to blind them
selves to the inner conflict."

    Richard was fooling himself. If Zajac was acting unaggressive, that didn't mean he'd stopped planning violence. This was awful. While not eating his lunch, Richard looked around for Zajac, and saw him sitting at a table by himself, with some glass object by his plate. Maybe it was a paperweight. Father had some at home, and was old-fashioned enough to browse hardcopy at his study desk, but Richard had never seen the ornaments used to hold down pages.

    Zajac turned, and Richard dropped his attention to the food on his plate.

    Nothing happened until the end of lunch break, when everyone was milling out the doors, heading back via the rear courtyard. Richard was swept along as always. Suddenly a hard thump took him in the back of the shoulder and glass smashed at his foot, spraying outward from the impact.

    "Broomhall, look what you've fucking done."

    Other boys drew back, but Zajac had a grip on Richard's skin, through his sleeve.

    "You'll accept the challenge" – his voice was low – "or I'll just shank you on the street. Big time."

    "N-no."

    No one had heard Zajac's threat, but everyone heard now as he stepped back saying: "That was Waterford crystal, and I'm issuing challenge. Now."

    Several older boys pushed their way forward, Mal James among them.

    "What the hell are you playing at, Zajac?"

    "I'm arranging to meet little Broomhall in the gym. And I did it all formal. Right, Broomhall?"

    Richard was about to throw up.

    "R-right."

    "No," said James. "You're not going to do it."

    But Zajac just smiled, and Richard knew he meant it: either fight in the gym half-armoured, or feel a blade slide into his guts out on the street. Sooner or later they'd meet where there were no witnesses or cameras, and it would happen.

    "I accept."

    The words just came, materialising in his vocal cords as if transmitted from some distant continent.

    "No." James closed his eyes, and shook his head. "You idiot, Broomhall."

    "He's done it now." Zajac was grinning.

    "And when it's done–" began James.

    "You don't want to challenge me. But you're worried about your soft bum-boy, I'll give him eight weeks."

    James looked disgusted.

    "Night of the final," continued Zajac. "I'll give you till then."

    "Final?" said Richard.

    "
Knife Edge
." James looked at his friends. "On the twentieth, right?"

    "Yeah."

    "It'll be final, all right," said Zajac.

    Then he pushed his way through the stationary crowd of boys, ignoring the smashed detritus of his excuse for the challenge, and the reactions of those who'd witnessed it.

    Or Richard's vomiting on the ground: hot, spattering, and full of stink.

 

Pre-dawn was an avocado glimmer in the east. Josh scrunched up his face, shivering as he came awake in the car, the reclined driver's seat his bed. He liked this, experiencing conditions most people never knew; and he had slept in worse places, far removed from the soft, over-regulated conditions of ordinary lives, lacking danger. And keeping their marriages intact.

    
Sophie.

    By reflex he scanned the world outside, the darkness-within-darkness of sloping field and surrounding trees. He was parked on a muddy track that meandered off the road. Flicking off the interior light – old habit – he cracked open the door and rolled out, coming down into mud in a deep crouch. All his attention went outward, for this was the Zen of survival, allowing the animal brain to sniff the environment, listen for danger. Nothing, so it was safe to pee – execute a slash-ex, they said in the Regiment – and he crossed to the trees. Afterwards, he pulled out a carryall from the back of the car, extracted a bottle of cold water – only the concentration on physical details, the chill feel of the plastic, the sloshing of liquid inside, the faint smell of woodiness and grass, kept the rage trapped inside him, coiling round like a snake in a vortex – then he stripped down, pulled on tracksuit and Nikes, and got to work.

    Deep breathing and abdominal contractions took the place of sit-ups, then he ran up and down the sloping field, easy at first, then sprinting uphill at fast intervals, sucking in dawn air. Breathless, he returned to the car and took out a black kettlebell, like a cannonball with handle attached, ripped the weight skyward and performed swings and snatches and presses, feeling every sinew, because you have to push the fitness all the way or the fuckers will get you, for somewhere an enemy lies in wait, while the sounds he heard were not the waking birds but the crash of frag grenades, the screams of limbless men.

    "What's that?" Maria had asked, the first time she saw one of his kettlebells.

    "Oh, I call it Maria," he'd said. "Because it's gorgeous and I can't keep my hands off it."

    "Uh-huh."

    "Or because it's dangerous as fuck, and flies off the handle if you don't watch out."

    They had laughed, both of them, so long ago.

    
Sophie.

    The susurrating machines that did the breathing for her, the shining green tubes festooning her pale body, the beep of monitors which–

    "Oy, you!"

    Anger in the voice. Josh hunched over, slumping as if afraid, knowing he should not play these games. The approaching man was a licensed farmer, no doubt, for he carried a long taser rifle, while at his side a lean black-and-white collie bared teeth. Blood rush washed in Josh's ears, obscuring the unfriendly words. Then he straightened up, kettlebell in hand – quite a weapon – and the farmer stopped dead, confusion sizzling in his eyes, voice croaking to stillness, and in that moment he might have died, if Josh had wanted it.

    Man and dog stayed back, swallowing, as Josh heaved his things into the car, got in and started the engine. He bumped his way in reverse along the track, swung a reverse-one-eighty manoeuvre, and accelerated onto the road.

    Behind him, the farmer had not moved.

From outside the café was blue and white, the Zak's Kaff sign bright yellow, like every other ZK in the country. Each parking space had sockets to plug into, the recharge "free", meaning it was factored into the cost of food. Three other cars were parked. Josh pulled in, hooked up the cable, and lugged his carryall inside.

    "Table for one, dear?" The waitress didn't glance at his sodden tracksuit. "Where would you like to sit? There's always plenty of room at this hour, specially Saturdays."

    "I'll pop to the loo first. Can I sit there, against the wall? And I'll have a large cappuccino."

    "All right. It'll be a few–"

    He went through to the disabled toilet, because there was plenty of room and no one who might need to use it. He took out his washbag, everything neatly in place – a symptom of military OCD, Maria called his neatness, not knowing how seconds late for a rendezvous could spell death, how equipment organised and to hand made all the difference, and if that was obsessive-compulsive then he could live with it. Sponging himself in front of the sink, he remembered how quickly he had learned these habits, for every soldier – not just special forces – can wash and dress in eight minutes flat.

    Refreshed, enjoying the clean clothes against his skin, he sat down at the table and sipped from the waiting cappuccino. Scalding, even though it had been sitting there.

    "You ready to order food, love?"

    "Large OJ, beans on toast, another large cappuccino."

    "Blimey, you'll have the wind behind you."

    Josh looked up at her and she stepped back, raising her touchpad like a shield.
Shit
. What was wrong with him?

    "Sorry. Bit of a family situation, and I'm in a mood, you know?"

    "Oh." A near-laugh. "I know how that goes."

    "And I feel better already, with the coffee. Thanks."

    She smiled, meaning it now, and went back behind the counter.

    Lofty Young used to advise against life-changing decisions made on an empty stomach, saying:
"Low blood
sugar equals suspect thinking."
Good advice, hard to follow given the missions Ghost Force often faced, yet based on sound understanding. Last night seemed to signal a sundering from Maria, a severing with no going back, and he pulled out his phone but did not call her, for Lofty was always right. As he waited, he watched the waitress bring food to another table, a family of three looking up startled when she put the first plate down, because they had not seen or heard her coming. How could people be so unaware and yet survive?

    Perhaps because others fought their wars for them, keeping the place safe and peaceful and far too soft, but that was an old thought and far too simplistic, and wasn't it time he put it out of his head? Encircling his neck with a narrow cord – a throat mic for subvocal speech – he plugged it into his phone, thumbed through his contacts and chose Tony Gore. He pushed a bead into his ear as Tony's face came to life.

    "Hey, Josh. It's a bit early to call. You all right, mate?"

    "Flying green, and I knew you'd be awake. Everything still on for next week?"

    "Uh-huh. Hang on." The phone showed Tony turning away. "Hey, Am? You hear the kids screaming?" A distant answer sounded, then he turned face-on again. "Sorry, yeah, the course is on plan. You sure you're OK to teach?"

    "Definitely. So is the basha free tonight, by any chance?"

    "I didn't expect anyone before tomorrow, but yeah, it's booked since the beginning of the month, because of the programme."

    It was an eight-week training programme for Quantal Bank, and Tony had booked a Docklands apartment, cheaper and more homely than a hotel. Most of the trainers called it a basha, because Tony hired only exmilitary.

    "Thought I'd settle in, get my bearings. Same entrance code?"

    "Sure. You're OK with the mentoring aspect? You're not primary teach until week three. Next week, the big thing will be getting them fired up for the old board breaking."

    Bankers wanting SpecOps mystique to give them confidence, deal with the deadly stress of meetings, bureaucracy, and back-stabbing. It was the security-and-crypto modules for the IT guys that Josh was looking forward to.

    "No change with Sophie?" added Tony.

    "No miracles, no."

    Giggles sounded in the background.

    "Listen, Am could look after the kids, and I'll meet you in the basha tonight."

    "No, enjoy your weekend," – he looked up as the waitress appeared, beans on toast in hand – "and give Amber my love. Hi to the kids. Cheers."

    "Cheers, mate. Take it easy."

    He flicked the phone to GPS, ready to slot into the car's dash, and placed it face up on the table as the waitress put down his food.

    "Enjoy, love."

    "I will, thanks."

    The map displayed his long and lat, his position a glowing yellow dot, while in subterranean data centres beneath the Cotswolds, massively parallel networked clusters tracked the movements of every phone and car in Britain, DNA-tagged and ID-registered, everyone known to the system, even as the most important parts of their lives, the millions of thoughts and feelings, everyday and profound, remained unknowable, untrackable, beyond governance.

    Josh could drop off the grid if he had to. If only he could pull his daughter into health and freedom with the same kind of ease.

    He stared at his food, feeling dreadful.

 

Nine minutes before the Broomhall boy's appointment, Suzanne's phone beeped. She turned her chair away from the window, and picked the phone up from her desktop, checking the caller's picture. It was a client, Rosa, so she pressed the Accept symbol, pointing the phone at the wallscreen, transferring the image.

    Rosa's face sharpened, larger than life-sized.

    "Hey. Just wanted to call and say thank you."

    "Rosa, does that mean you've good news?"

    "The hospital confirms what you thought. The consultant's nice."

    "And there's a treatment?"

    "Uh-huh. They can't believe I'm breathing so easily, what with the micro-scarring they found. Both lungs. I told them you work miracles."

    "A very scientific kind of miracle, and I'm glad you're so much better."