Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

She was gone. Not a backward glance, not a wave.

He called after her, ‘You’re looking great, Zed, fantastic.’

She would have heard him but didn’t stop, did not turn, went beyond a pool of light, and he lost her. Andy sat on the bench, let the rain patter on him. He needed time to consider and absorb, reflect. He had seen the flash of anger when he had – mildly – challenged her and he remembered when she had had the chance to lash out at the guy on the pavement, unable to defend himself. Vicious… how it would be if she learned the truth of an Undercover squirming inside her life… .

He had no more business in the city; and the pace had quickened, and the stakes had risen.

Out of the suburbs and on to the motorway, Andy Knight drove south.

Not how it was supposed to be. Zed should have been beside him. The radio on quietly, and her dozing and him driving with speed and care, and maybe her head drifting on to his shoulder. As a Level One he was not used to delegating the decision making; circumstances rarely permitted it. There had been control officers when he was down in the west country on the animal business who he had liked and thought conscientious, less so those handling him during the Swindon time, with the druggies, but could not be accused of shirking responsibility. Not then, not now, no one to toss the problem at.

He was separated from her. Object of the exercise was to keep close and keep her sweet, and listen and be trusted – look stupid, absorb. She had broken clear of him. He had needed to decide, straight up, how to respond. No opportunity to talk it over, get a second opinion from the old guy, Gough, and the younger woman, Pegs. Shared decision taking didn’t go with the job. She was apart from him, and he had not thought it possible to lambast her for messing with him. He’d tell them all in good time, in London, what had gone wrong with the mission, codename Rag and Bone. But expect no help. He drove, alone, and his morale sagged, and he was supposed to be able to kick ‘doubt’ out of his path, but she was not with him, which represented failure.

Alongside failure, in his opinion, went error and close behind error was the one that mattered; mistake. Errors could usually be sorted, not so with mistakes which carried a higher level of hazard, usually – in his trade – lethal.

The difficulty with a mistake, which was what they went over again and again to the point of making him want to scream, was the instructors’ insistence that most times the Undercover did not recognise it. A slip of the tongue, a confusion over the detail of the legend, something dropped that might refer to a parent, an experience in prison or in school, or where a family holiday had been, or seeing a guy last year – ‘good guy, good old boy’ – except that he had coughed it two years back, and not realising and no one reacting. Always, the Undercover was the intruder in the group, the last one to join and having to run fast with enthusiasm to catch up, be accepted, and being too helpful and too eager, and nothing too much trouble: they were, of course, the animal people or the druggies or the jihadis , dosed to the eyebrows with stories of infiltration. Hard if the mistake was not known, and the Undercover would try to be getting on with life while unaware that the rug could be ripped from under him, any damn moment, that he was watched and listened to, that the way in which he was cut out of sensitive talk was done with skill. If he did not know then there would be no trip to a car park or a motorway hotel or any of the rendezvous points where he could meet his command, the control, and demand out. How would it be… They’d ask . . . Was he sure? Certain? Could it not be put off, quitting, for a few more days? So near to pulling off the big haul, such a shame to abort now, don’t you think? Big strain, could be wrong in the assessment? They’d say ‘Have another drink, Andy – Have a refill there, Norm – Can we top that up, Phil – Wouldn’t it be best to sleep on it, not do anything precipitous?’ They did not let them walk away without a fight, might even get round to suggesting the Undercover ponder on the resources that had been swallowed by Rag and Bone, and might play the big card about lives on the line, people walking the streets, the great law-abiding unwashed going about their business and deserving, expecting, protection. But there was always a mistake… He realised that he had started to meander, had twice changed lanes, twice failed to use the indicator, and there were blue lights behind him. He was in the central lane, and they were coming fast track. That would be the fuck-up, then foul-up, pulled over and a boot-faced policewoman, one of the hard brigade and no ID card to conveniently pull out and wave so that he was sent on his way, was sir , a hero from the front line of some bloody war. The car came at speed, and the noise of the siren filled the VW Polo, it would get in front and then do the indicator bit and push him to the slow lane, then to the hard shoulder, and all so bloody inconvenient… The mistake he had made was to think vulnerability and so be careless on the road and lane hopping, and concentration down and a civic-minded driver would have been on his mobile and reporting him, and… the police, keeping up the pace went past him. He saw the flash of the indicators and ahead was a new Jaguar. It could have been that the cop car with the feldwebel in it had a bad thing with Jaguars… End of panic, but all about a mistake and what came from a mistake.

He used his mobile, called her. Heard it ring out, needed to speak. Her answer, sharp, querying what he wanted. He did the play-acting, the deception.

‘Just wanted to talk.’

‘We did, didn’t we, a bit ago? We talked.’

‘Needed to hear you.’

‘What are you saying, Andy?’

‘Wanted to hear your voice, just that.’

‘Hear my voice, and what should it be saying?’

‘Something about our holiday… would be good.’

‘Telling it to you, Andy, our holiday – together – will be fantastic. I hand in my essay, and we’re clear. Our holiday, and it’ll be brilliant, and…’

‘Just good to hear you, where are you?’

‘Just coming out of the library.’

‘You finished it?’

‘You know what they say, Andy – well, perhaps, you don’t – they say that an essay is never finished, only abandoned. It’s what the tutors say. Not finished, but nearly.’

‘It’s going to be good when we’re there, really good.’

‘Course it is, Andy.’

‘I’m halfway down.’

‘Sorry, what do you mean?’

‘I am halfway down the M6, the motorway, the car’s going great… Zed, you know what, know how it is?’

‘What should I know?’

‘I am missing you, Zed. Missing you big time.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Missing you and the feel of you, and hearing you, and us together, and I am on this goddamn motorway, and going away from you. Zed, missing you bad.’

A small voice, and he had to strain to hear it. ‘And missing you, Andy, promise.’

‘Where are you? Going to have something to eat?’

Zed said, ‘Just out of the library. Might grab something at the Kentucky.’

She lied easily. The library at the university was on the other side of the Pennine moorlands. She was in Savile Town, across the Calder river from the main part of Dewsbury. It had been a visit home, and she wore the clothing that her parents imagined she wore each day, every day at Manchester Metropolitan.

A facile question. ‘Are you going to stop, have something?’

‘Might do, might not.’

‘I miss you, Andy.’

And heard his laugh, tinny on the phone speaker. ‘God, didn’t know if you were going to get round to saying it, Zed.’