Firewall (10 page)

There was something deeply scary about how still she was. The nurse wasn't moving much, either, but Kelly's was an unnatural kind of stillness. It was like looking at a frozen image, an oil painting of a young girl in an armchair, next to a film of a nurse who happened to be sitting still, but who would move again in a second or two.

I'd seen it before. It was four years ago, but it could have been four minutes.

I was on my hands and knees in her family's garage, talking gently as I moved boxes and squeezed through the gap, inching toward the back wall, trying to push the images of the carnage next door behind me.

Then there she was, facing me, eyes wide with terror, sitting curled up in a fetal position, rocking her body backward and forward, holding her hands over her ears.

"Hello, Kelly," I'd said very softly.

She must have recognized me-she'd known me for years-but she hadn't replied. She'd just carried on rocking, staring at me with wide, scared, dark eyes. I'd crawled right into the cave until I was curled up beside her. Her eyes were red and swollen. She'd been crying and strands of light brown hair were stuck to her face. I tried to move it away from her mouth.

I got hold of her rigid hand and guided her gently out into the garage.

Then I picked her up in my arms and held her tight as I carried her into the kitchen. She was trembling so much I couldn't tell if her head was nodding or shaking. A few minutes later, when we drove away from the house, she was almost rigid with shock. And that was it, that was the stillness I saw now.

The doctor's mouth came up close to my ear. "Kelly has been forced to learn early lessons about loss and death, Mr. Stone. How does a seven-year-old, as she was then, understand murder? A child who witnesses violence has been shown that the world is a dangerous and unpredictable place. She has told me that she doesn't think she'll ever feel safe outside again. It's nobody's fault, but her experience has made her think the adults in her life are unable to protect her.

She believes she must take on the responsibility herself-a prospect that causes her great anxiety."

I looked at the frozen girl once more. "Is there nothing I can do?"

The doctor nodded slowly as she replaced the curtain and turned to head back up the hallway. As we walked she said, "In time, we need to help her gently examine and review the traumatic events that happened to her, and learn to conquer her feelings of anxiety. Her treatment will eventually involve what are best described as "talking therapies," by herself or in groups, but she's not really ready for that yet. I will need to keep her on antidepressant medication and mild tranquilizers for a while yet, to help lessen some of the more painful symptoms.

"The aim eventually will be to help Kelly remember the traumatic events safely, and to address her family life, peer relationships, and school performance. Generally we need to help her deal with all the emotions she's having trouble making sense of at the moment: grief, guilt, anger, depression, anxiety. You notice, Mr. Stone, I'm saying 'we'."

We had reached her room and went back inside. I sat down again and she went to the other side of her desk.

"Parents are usually the most important emotional protectors for their children, Mr. Stone. They can do a much better job of psychologically reassuring their children than professionals can. They can help them talk about their fears, reassure them that Mummy and Daddy will do whatever is possible to protect them, and stay close. Sadly that's not a possibility for Kelly, of course, but she still needs a responsible adult whom she can depend upon."

I was beginning to understand. "Her grandmother, you mean?"

I could have sworn I saw her shudder.

"Not quite what I had in mind. You see, a major factor in any child's recovery from PTSD is that the prime caregiver must communicate a willingness to talk about the violence and be a nonjudgmental listener.

Children need to know that it's permissible to talk about violence.

Kelly needs permission, if you like, to talk about what happened to her. Sometimes caregivers may subtly discourage children from talking about violence in their lives for whatever reason, and this, I sense, is the case with Kelly's grandparents.

"I think her grandmother feels hurt and discouraged that Kelly has lost interest in family activities and is easily angered and so detached.

She finds it very upsetting to hear the details-maybe because she believes it will be less upsetting for Kelly if she doesn't talk about it. On the contrary, children often feel relieved and unburdened by sharing information with trusted adults. It also may be useful therapeutically for children to review events and air their fears by retelling the story. I don't mean that we should coerce Kelly into talking about what happened, but reassurance and validation once she has volunteered it will be immensely helpful to her recovery."

She was beginning to lose me in all her psychobabble. I couldn't see what I had to do with all this.

As if she'd read my mind, Dr. Hughes pursed her lips again and did her trick with the half-moon glasses. "What it all boils down to, Mr.

Stone, is that Kelly is going to need a trusted adult alongside her during the recovery process, and in my view the ideal person to do that is you."

She paused to let the implications of what she was saying sink in.

"You see, she trusts you; she speaks of you with the utmost affection, seeing you as the nearest thing she has now to a father. What she needs, far more than just the attention and therapy we professionals can provide, is your acceptance of, and commitment to, that fact." She added pointedly, "Would you have difficulties with that, Mr. Stone?"

"My employers might. I need "

She held up her hand. "You have seen the cocoon in which Kelly has placed herself. There is no formula that guarantees breaking through when someone is out of reach. But whatever the cause is, a form of loving has to be there in the solution. What Kelly needs is a prince on a white horse to come and free her from the dragon. It is my view that she's decided not to come out until you are an integral part of her life again. I'm sorry to burden you with this responsibility, Mr.

Stone, but Kelly is my patient, and it's her best interests that I must have at heart. For that reason, I didn't want her to see you today; I don't want her to build up hopes only to have them dashed. Please go away and think about it, but believe me, the sooner you are able to commit, the sooner Kelly's condition will start to improve. Until then, any sort of cure is on hold."

I reached into my backpack and pulled out the framed photographs. It was the only thing I could think of. "I brought these for her. They're pictures of her family. Maybe they'll be some help."

The doctor took them from me, still waiting for an answer. When she saw she wasn't going to get one not today, anyway she nodded quietly to herself and ushered me gently, but firmly, toward the door. "I'll be seeing her this afternoon. I'll telephone you later; I have the number. And now, I believe, you have an appointment with the people downstairs?"

10

I was feeling pretty depressed as I headed east along the northern side of the Thames, toward the city center. Not just for Kelly, but for me.

I forced myself to admit it: I hated the responsibility. And yet I had those promises to Kevin to live up to.

I had enough problems looking after myself, without doctors telling me what I should be doing for other people. Being in charge of others in the field was fine. Having a man down in a contact was straightforward compared to this. You just got in there, dragged him out of the shit and plugged up his holes. Sometimes he lived, sometimes not. It was something I didn't have to think about. The man down always knew that someone would be coming for him; it helped him stay alive. But this was different. Kelly was my man down, but it wasn't just a question of plugging up holes; she didn't know whether help was on the way or not.

Nor did I. I knew there was one thing I could do: make money to pay for her treatment. I'd be there for her, but later. Right now, I needed to keep busy and produce money. It had always been "later" for Kelly, whether it was a phone call or a birthday treat, but that was going to change. It had to.

Working my way through the traffic, I eventually got onto the approach road to Vauxhall Bridge. As I crossed to the southern side, I looked up at Vauxhall Cross, home of SIS. A beige-and-black pyramid with the top cut off, flanked by large towers on either side, it needed just a few swirls of neon to look totally at home in Las Vegas.

Directly opposite Vauxhall Cross, over the road and about one hundred yards away, was an elevated section of railway that led off to Waterloo Station. Most of the arches beneath had been converted into shops or warehouses. Passing the SIS building, I negotiated the five-way intersection and bumped the sidewalk, parking by two arches which had been knocked through to make a massive motorcycle shop-the one I'd bought my Ducati from. I wasn't going in today; it was just an easy place to park. Checking my saddle was secure so that no one could steal my Universal Self-Loading Pistol, I put my helmet in the backpack, crossed a couple of feeder roads and took the metal footbridge over the intersection, eventually entering the building via a single metal door that funneled me toward reception.

The interior of the Firm looked much the same as any hightech office block: clean, sleek, and with an efficient corporate feel about it, with people swiping their identity cards through electronic readers to get access. I headed for the main reception desk, where two women sat behind thick bulletproof glass.

"I'm here to see Mr. Lynn."

"Can you fill this in please?" The older one passed a ledger through a slot under the glass.

As I signed my name in two boxes she picked up a telephone. "Who shall I say is here?"

"My name is Nick." I hadn't even had any cover documentation from them since my fuckup in Washington, just my own cover which I hoped they'd never know about. I'd organized it in case it was time to disappear, a feeling I had at least once a month.

The ledger held tear-off labels. One half was torn away and put in a plastic sleeve, which I would have to pin on. Mine was blue and said, "Escorted Everywhere."

The woman got off the phone and pointed to a row of soft chairs.

"Someone will be with you soon."

I sat and waited with my nice new badge on, watching suited men and women come and go. Dress-down Friday hadn't reached this far upriver yet. It wasn't often that people like me got to come here; my last visit had been in '97. I'd hated it that time, too. They managed to make you feel that, as a K, you weren't very welcome, turning up and spoiling the smart corporate image of the place.

After about ten minutes of feeling as if I was waiting outside the headmaster's study, an old Asian guy in a natty blue pinstripe suit pushed his way through the barrier.

"Nick?"

I nodded and got to my feet.

He half-smiled. "If you'd like to follow me." A swipe of the card that hung round his neck got him back through the barrier; I had to pass the metal detector before we met on the other side and walked to the elevators.

"We're going to the fifth floor."

I nodded and let the silence hang as we rode the elevator, not wanting to let him know that I knew. It saved on small talk.

Once on the fifth I followed him. There was little noise coming from any of the offices along the hallway, just the hum of air conditioning and the creak of my feathers.

At the far end we turned left, passing Lynn's old office. Someone called Turnbull had it now. Two doors down I saw Lynn's name on the door plate. My escort knocked and was met by the characteristically crisp and immediate call of "Come!" He ushered me past and I heard the door close gently behind me. Lynn's bald crown faced me as he wrote at his desk.

He might have a new office, but it was quite clear he was a creature of habit. The interior was exactly the same as his last; exactly the same furniture and plain, functional, impersonal ambience. The only thing that showed he wasn't a mannequin planted here for decoration was the framed photograph of a group, which I presumed were his much younger wife and two children, sitting on a stretch of grass with the family Labrador. Two rolls of Christmas wrapping paper leaning against the wall behind him showed that he did have a life.

Mounted on a wall bracket above me to the right was a TV, the screen showing CNN world news headlines. The only thing I couldn't see was the obligatory officer's squash racket and winter coat on a stand. They were probably behind me.

I stood and waited for him to finish. Normally I would just have sat down and made myself at home, but today was different. There was what people like him tend to call an atmosphere, and I didn't want to annoy him any more than I needed to. We'd parted on less than good terms the last time we'd met.

His fountain pen sounded unnaturally loud on the paper. My eyes moved to the window behind him, and I gazed over the Thames at the new apartment building being finished off on the north side of the bridge.

"Take a seat. I'll be with you very soon."

I did, on the same wooden chair I'd sat on three years ago, my leathers drowning the scratch of his writing as I bent down and placed my backpack on the floor. It was becoming increasingly obvious that this was going to be a short meeting, an interview without coffee, otherwise the Asian guy would have asked me if I took milk or cream before I'd gone in.

I hadn't seen Lynn since the debrief after Washington in '98. Like his furniture, he hadn't changed. Nor had his clothes: the same mustard-colored corduroy trousers, sports jacket with well worn leather elbows, and flannel shirt. With his shiny dome still facing me, I could see that he hadn't lost any more hair, which I was sure Mrs. Lynn was very happy about. He really didn't have the ears to be a complete baldilocks.

He finished writing and put aside what I could now see was a typed page of legal paper that looked as if a teacher had marked it. Looking up with a half-amused smile at my outfit, he brought his hands together, thumbs touching as he rested them on top of the desk. Since Washington, he'd treated me as if he was a bank manager and I was asking for a bigger overdraft, trying hard to be nice, but at the same time looking down on me with disdain. That, I didn't mind, as long as he didn't expect me to look up to him with reverence.