Knife Edge (2004) (21 page)

He continued in the same unhurried tone as before. “I expect you know, her husband was killed in an air crash. Bloody fine photographer, too. Did a lot of work for me. It happened during the Palestine trouble. He was in a helicopter. Might have been an accident, but I think it was deliberate. The chopper was burned out, and the authorities, as they say, didn’t want to know.” He held up his binoculars. “They’d only been married a week when it
happened. I blame myself sometimes. He wanted the job, and I wanted him. End of story. Or is it?”

“Ready, Clive!” The other man was holding a mirror. “Looks good!”

Tobin frowned.

“Not too sweaty, am I?”

“You’ll look great.”

Corporal Harwood muttered, “This lot aren’t supposed to be here!”

It was another car, with military insignia on either door.

A sergeant leaned out of a window, and called, “Keep your party up here, will you, sir? Spot of bother just reported.”

The car was already moving again. Ross asked, “Where is it?”

“Miles from here, sir. You’ll be O.K. if you stay put.” Calm, matter-of-fact, just obeying orders. He added, almost as an afterthought, “At the old market, Mahons Place.” The car accelerated.

Ross turned, as the cameraman said, “What’s up, Clive?”

Tobin was stooping to pick up the mirror from the road.

He said, “The market he mentioned,” and for the first time he seemed unable to control his voice. “It’s where she was going, I forget why. I didn’t think . . .”

Ross seized Harwood’s arm.

“Do you know it?” and almost pushed him against the car. “Then
move it!
Fast as you can!”

The car was lurching over scattered bricks before he could think.
Your duty is to keep with Clive Tobin.

He felt the door jar against his elbow as Harwood swerved around a corner. A few terraced houses, an old man with a broom calling something and pointing as the car shot past.

He heard Harwood swear. Then, “Christ, I thought I’d missed the bloody street!” Another bend, and two policemen dropping a metal barricade and jumping clear. A blurred notice with an arrow. Mahons Place.

For a second he thought Harwood had driven into something solid, although they were still moving. But one of the windscreen wipers was missing and there was dust everywhere, like smoke. An explosion.

Harwood slammed on the brakes, hands pressed against the wheel, taking the strain as a whole length of timber flew across the bonnet as if it were paper blowing in the wind.

Ross was out of the car, fingers dragging at his pistol holster, eyes stinging with dust.

Harwood was coughing, but managed to call, “With you, Major!”

They were both running, the sound of their feet unusually loud and echoing. As if they were the only two people alive. He felt the gun in his hand, but did not recall drawing it; only his mind seemed to be reaching out ahead, preparing him.

An overturned vegetable barrow, its contents strewn across the road, some still rolling. Two figures, men or women he did not know, crouched in a doorway, perhaps at the back of a building in the adjoining street. The dust was clearing now, leaving the taste of charred wood on his lips.

A market. There was no sign of any activity. It was still early, but the church bells had been ringing. Nothing made sense any more.

Harwood’s arm swung against him. “
There
, sir!” A low-roofed building with one wide entrance, like a garage or warehouse. The smoke was drifting from it. He thought he heard voices. Something came alive, moving beside an upended heap of empty milk crates, and croaked with fear as the pistol steadied a foot away from his face.

“Don’t shoot! For God’s sake!”

Harwood called, “Easy, matey! Stand very still, right?” The gun in his hands was steady, unwavering.

Ross wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Harwood was not even slightly out of breath.
Neither am I.

“What happened?”

The man was still crouching. “Down there, in the fish market. A bomb – some one havin’ a go at the offices.”

He was making no sense. Harwood said, “Sunday. Good time to blow a safe.” He was nodding, excited. Sharing it.

Ross said, “We’re going in.” Harwood would follow. He did not have to be told.

A robbery. Not the IRA or any other faction. The army would be here at any second. Some one else . . . He could smell fish. Then he was running again.

The so-called fish market was suddenly ablaze with lights. Perhaps the explosion had blown the others, but it only made the scene more unreal: trolleys of fish waiting to be unloaded for display, scattered pieces of ice like broken glass in the hard glare, and in the far corner about a dozen people, mostly women, three with children. Some one was sobbing, close to hysteria.

All Ross saw was the man with the gun: he had two companions as far as he could see through the trapped smoke, one clinging to the other, his face bleeding, and obviously in great pain. A foul-up with the explosives. The ‘bomb’. His mind snapped into place like a safety catch. Not professionals, then. These were the most dangerous kind.

He said,
“Drop the gun! Do it now!”

“Says who!” The gun moved jerkily. “I’ll take a couple with me, you bastard!”

A child began to scream. The gun wavered; his nerve was cracking. Somewhere, in another world, a whistle was blowing, car doors slamming.

Like sights hardening into focus. The gun moving toward the terrified child, but another figure was also there. That same two-piece suit, the honey-coloured hair, silver in the glaring lights, her arms around the child, hugging, soothing.

Ross walked toward them. Unhurriedly, or so it felt. Even his heart seemed to have stopped.

He said, “It’s over! Drop it!”

The man swung toward him, the flash of the gun lighting his face, the shock as it fell from his hands.

Harwood strode past, the semi-automatic rifle barely smoking.

“Still!”
But the other two were staring at him, already unable to move. The one with the bloodied face was looking at the figure sprawled across the melting ice. Even the children were quiet.

Ross walked toward her, thankful, ashamed, empty. It was beyond words or description.

The child was being prised away, he assumed by her mother, but she was staring back at Sharon, smiling and sobbing at the same time.

He said, “I’m sorry, Sharon. For this to happen . . . If only I’d known.”

She had her arms around his waist. Not hugging, not moving. Taking deep breaths.

She said, “Ross. You could have been killed. Don’t you know that?” She raised her head, and her face was only inches from his. “He’d already shot a security man.” Her head jerked. “Out at the back.” And her arms clasped him again, as if she could not release him.

The place was filling with uniforms, army, R.U.C., and figures in white coats, complaining harshly about “the damage done to our fish!” It was madness, and he wanted to laugh aloud. He saw Harwood on his knees beside the
body of the man he had shot. There was an officer, too. He also wore a green beret.

He felt her hand covering his, and the pistol still gripped at his waist.

He said quietly, “I would have killed him,” and tried to smile. “Does that tell you something?”

A policeman paused to touch his arm, and said, “Well done, sir. Some robbery – they fucked that one up, an’ no mistake! Bloody safe was empty anyway, even I knew that!” He strode away, grinning.

She had not let go of his hand.

“How did you know, Ross?”

But the other green beret was here now. It was Major Fisher.

“You took a chance, Ross. I’d have had a ton of reports to write if anything had happened to
you
. That’d be all I’d need.” There were flashes, brighter even than the overhead glare. “The goddamned press is here now, would you believe. I’ll soon put a stop to that!”

Ross reached down to take her arm, but she shook her head.

“No. Hold me. I nearly died just now. I thought you’d be killed.”

He could feel her shaking.

“That would make a perfect shot! But some people might not understand!”

It was Clive Tobin, laughing at them, hands on hips as if he were directing a film. Relaxed, not a hair out of place.

An hour; was that all? And he had seemed to be almost in a state of shock.

Fisher said, “You are not supposed to be here, Mr. Tobin.”

“Oh, call me Clive, for God’s sake, Major!” He pointed
to Ross. “Neither is
he
, remember? Just as well he was, in my book!”

Some of the others laughed.

Ross saw a stretcher going past. The security guard. His face was covered.

Harwood was passing and gave him a quick thumbs-up. The gunman was still alive, anyway.

Ross touched her hair very gently, surprised that his hand was so steady. He sensed Tobin turning to watch, and said over his shoulder, “I thought you said you were always neutral, Clive?”

Tobin shrugged. “Some days, more neutral than others.”

Men and women were emerging now, venturing into the street, some pausing to stare at the cars and the uniforms or the debris left by the blast. Curiosity, rather than any show of emotion. They had gone beyond that.

Tobin looked at the sky. “Now, where were we? Back to the old crossroads, I think. So let’s be moving, people, shall we?”

The professional had come to the rescue.

Harwood was reversing the car; a Range Rover was picking up some of Major Fisher’s marines. A solitary R.U.C. officer held a telephone to his ear. Business as usual.

She walked with him into the pale sunlight, his hand on her arm, her eyes straight ahead.

She saw the car, Harwood’s eyes in the driving mirror moving quickly away; she must have heard Tobin’s voice calling to some one in the market.

Ross pressed her arm, waiting for her to pull away.

He said, “I want to see you again. Soon. It’s the way I feel.”

There were shouts and even some laughter as a flight of pigeons fluttered noisily over the newly erected stalls. One
woman was pointing at them, pulling her daughter by the hand, trying to take her attention. But the child was gazing at Sharon, the tear stains still clear on her cheeks.

Sharon looked across at her and smiled. The child returned it.

She said simply, “I’d like that. We’ll find time.” She turned her face and looked at him. “We’ll
make
time.”

He got into the car, and saw the space left by the missing wiper. Had it been that close?

The car began to move, and he said, “Thanks, Dick. You did well. Bloody well.”

Harwood settled back in his seat, letting the strain peel away.

“That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it, sir?”

Ross could almost feel Harwood’s relief.
It’s what we do.

He saw the minibus turning on to the main road, the blink of a flash bulb somewhere.

We’ll make time.
It was enough.

Ross Blackwood glanced around the room before sitting down by a table and placing his glass within easy reach. This part of the company H.Q. had been a school in more peaceful times, and still looked like it. When he had been invited to the junior N.C.O.s’ mess for a drink, he had seen a blackboard on one of the walls. It was not difficult to see it as it had been.

He took out the letter and unfolded it. Just reading it brought it all back, except that it was still impossible to suppress the image of the old house, and accept that it had gone. Maybe on the next visit . . . He picked up the glass but it was almost empty; even the ice was melting. It was early evening, but the sun was still high outside, what he could see of it.

He began again. He could almost hear Joanna’s voice. Her laugh.

As I told you, John has been such a great help around the stables, I could not have managed without him. Nothing ever seems to get him down.
He remembered their meeting, the firm handshake, and his sister’s comment. Getting his feet under the table . . . And why not? Joanna was strong, but she was human. And alone.

He twisted round in the chair. There was only one other occupant in the room, face covered by a newspaper, snoring gently. Beyond the door he could hear voices, music, the television. Perhaps a game of liar dice to pass away the time.

He looked at the clock above the sealed fireplace. It had been a short day for him; he had been with Tobin for less than two hours, watching his camera crew film a street scene from the top floor of the post office. Sharon had not been with them. Tobin had passed it off with his usual comment about being a slave driver.
She’s typing up the final worksheet. Why she can never grow long fingernails!

He thought about the shooting, Harwood bringing down the armed robber as if it were all part of some drill. The sobbing child. Sharon holding him, coming out of it. The moment of stress was past. Maybe the rest was a delusion.

And the ‘rest’ was not over. Major Fisher had tried to make light of it, but the hard fact remained. Ross had left his place of duty to dash off elsewhere. The army’s job, or the R.U.C.’s; anybody’s but his. Brigade would be informed, and a full report was no doubt already on Colonel Souter’s desk.

What now? A reprimand or a change of posting? Another cheerless camp with young marines learning how to become commandos? And for what? To act as the world’s policemen, until local need gave way to local hate?

He picked up the glass again and shook the chips of ice.
What’s getting into me?
Even Nick Fisher was avoiding him. He would be off to England very soon, to see his wife in hospital, to build another diplomatic bridge.

A shadow moved across the table and Ross said, “All right, I
will
have another drink. To hell with it!”

The steward remained by the table.

“In the meantime, sir, there’s a call for you. I can be getting you the same again while you’re on the phone.”

“Any idea who . . .”

He picked up the glass. “A lady, sir.”

Calm, even formal. “I’m glad I caught you. I expect you were getting ready to go out and enjoy yourself.”