Peter Temple - In the Evil Day

‘Just point, darling,’ said the man. ‘I was reading maps when you were doing wee-wees and poo-poos.’

…WALES…

He was in the kitchen, filling the kettle. Jess came up behind him and ran a hand up the back of his head, from nape to crown. He shivered like a puppy.

‘I meant to say,’ she said, ‘before you grabbed me and did those awful things to me, Dai at the garage says he’ll ring if anyone asks the way here. I gave him my cellphone number.’

‘You know him?’

‘From the other times I’ve been here. Four slices be enough?’

He loved her lilting voice. He loved everything about her.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for her. He could not believe that she had happened to him. He knew about luck. He had survived things by luck and chance and fate, if there were such things, Greeks seemed to think so.

He turned and grabbed her by the hips and kissed her.

It went on for a time, it could go on forever. They parted and she drew the back of her right hand across her lips.

‘Good kisser. I’ve been meaning to ask, what does your name mean? Does it have a meaning?’

‘It means no one.’

‘No one?’

‘No one, nobody.’

She raised her right hand and drew her fingers across his mouth.

‘Good mouth,’ she said. ‘You have a very good mouth. Good for many things. You’ll never be no one to me. Well, never’s a long time. Let me work now. We have a long afternoon ahead. And then there’s the night.’

She went to the bench top beside the stove. She was spreading bread when she said: ‘Dai at the garage says the bank thinks my card’s been stolen.’

Niemand thought the room seemed dimmer, the light through the small windows seemed to have faded.

‘Why?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Why would the bank think that?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘When did you use it?’

‘When I filled up. Then I went to the shop and when I was coming out Dai came over and said the bank rang and asked if he knew the person, the cardholder. He said yes, so they said that was fine.’

Niemand went to her, stood behind her, put his hands on her shoulders.

He felt no alarm, no urgency, only a terrible certainty of what his stupidity had wrought and a terrible sadness.

‘Jess,’ he said, ‘you have to go now, soon. Get in the car and go.’

She turned, mouth open. ‘Why?’

‘They’ve found us. Your card. They’ll be on the way here now.’

She closed her eyes. ‘What about you?’

‘I’ll try to do a deal with them.’

‘Then I’ll stay.’

Niemand put fingers to her lips. ‘No. I can’t take that chance. I’ll tell you what to do and when it’s over, I’ll come to you.’

She put her right hand under his chin, pushed his head back.

‘I’m in love with you,’ she said. Her eyes were closed. ‘That’s pretty stupid, isn’t it?’

His chest was full, his throat was full. He found it hard to speak. He kissed her closed eyes, so soft, so silky, he could have died in the moment, been spared the rest.

‘We’ll go to Crete,’ he said. ‘You’ll like it.’

…WALES…

When the old Morris Countryman was out of sight, Niemand reversed the Audi out and parked it in plain sight. He had to assume that there was time, that they were not already there, watching the farmhouse, waiting for dark.

He went back into the barn and took a reel of nylon fishing line off its peg under the rods. He closed the barn doors and went inside the house, put on his own clothes. There was a dark-blue jersey in the dressing table drawer and he put that on. He went to the fireplace and reached in for soot, rubbed it on his face, his throat, his neck, his ears, on his eyelids, into his hair.

He left his hands clean. That would be the last thing.

The gun cupboard Jess had shown him was in the smallest bedroom. He unlocked it and took out the shotgun, a double-barrelled Brno, and the old.303, a Lee Enfield bolt-action with a ten-round magazine. It would have been better to have the machine-pistol he had taken from the man on the roof but Jess needed a weapon in case they were lying in wait along the narrow road. There was an unopened box of shotgun cartridges and five clips of.303 rounds. He filled the magazine, pressing in the cold brass-jacketed shells with a thumb. The other clips he put in his jacket pockets.

The sitting-room furniture had to be rearranged, curtains drawn.

After that, he rubbed soap on the barrel of the.303. He found the small sewing-machine screwdriver in the kitchen drawer. He sat at the kitchen table and worked on the shotgun, testing until both triggers were as he wanted them to be.

The light was going fast. He pumped a lamp and lit it, took it into the sitting room, tried several resting places for it until the shadows were right. Then he did the delicate work, not hurrying.

It was dark when he finished. He went to the bedroom and put on the bulletproof apron, adjusted it until it was comfortable. Second-last thing: pocket the packet of nuts and raisins Jess had bought.

Last thing: he went to the fireplace again and blackened his hands, blackened his wrists and forearms. He rubbed soot into the soap on the.303 barrel

Then he put on the black rolled-up balaclava, took the old.303 and went out the back door.

He went around the barn and up the cold slope into the dark, dark conifer wood. At the place he had chosen earlier, he sat, leant against the tree, listened to the sounds of the night.

It was a pity it had to end here, like this. But you couldn’t keep running away. He thought fleetingly about running away from the boys’ home to the railway yards, about the blood, dried black and crusted, that was still on his filthy legs and buttocks and back when the police took him home.

No more running. He had told Jess to wait until morning, then take the film and Shawn’s documents to a television station. He should have done that after he was shot.

No point in regret.

He tried not to think about Jess, not to think about anything but to go into the empty trance of waiting and listening.

…HAMBURG-ENGLAND…

The only passenger in an eight-seater jet, sitting in a leather chair in the hushed and hissing projectile.

The co-pilot came out, young, short dark hair, released the crackling, buzzing sounds of the cockpit.

‘Clear night,’ he said. ‘That’s Gronigen below us. We’ll be over the North Sea in a minute. Can I get you anything, sir?’

Anselm shook his head and the man went back.

Sliding on the night towards England. With luck, towards Constantine Niemand and his film. What did it show that made it so sought after? Was it the end of the long line that Caroline Wishart had drawn from Kaskis’ reference to a village in Angola?

Anselm closed his eyes. The only sound in the capsule was a gentle sibilance, a steady watery murmur. His mind drifted on the current.

Kill you here, kill your there. Not a fucking thing to lose.

The words of Baader. He was right. It was better to die trying to find out what these people had done than to die ignorant.

The firm’s layers of disguise penetrated, their mosaic of inquiries known to someone, laid out somewhere, piece by piece, until the picture appeared. What else had Baader said?

In the end, everything makes sense. You just need enough of it.

He fell asleep and then the co-pilot was saying, ‘Starting our descent, sir, would you mind fastening your belt?’

…WALES…

Niemand heard the sound.