William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

The problem was The Dog. Basset hounds, that was the problem — he couldn’t go ten paces without some kiddie stopping to pet The Dog; some mother saying, aw, what a lovely doggie; some bloke wanting to pontificate about breeds and breeding. He thought he might as well be carrying a placard: ‘WANTED MAN ON THE RUN WITH INTERESTING LOVEABLE DOG’. The Dog was exactly what you didn’t need when the fucking police were searching the country for you. He swore at himself for his sentiment: he should have left The Dog with Candy. Popped a note through the door asking her to look after him, saying he ‘had to go abroad’ or something for a few months. Candy would have been thrilled — it would have been so easy.

He and The Dog left the campsite, with no encounters, and headed east, walking through the town towards Smallgains Creek, where the marina and the yacht club were to be found. He walked up and over the sea wall, past the yacht club building and behind the boat yard, looking for the path that led through the tidal salt marsh — the saltings, as they were called — to Canvey Point, the flat easternmost promontory of the island.

Thinking back, he understood now what the plan would have been. They would have come for him, as Darren had warned. Having removed his weaponry earlier, they would have simply taken him away and quietly slotted him, then hidden his body, never to be found or seen again — end of problem, Plan A. However, because he wasn’t there when they came, because he’d done a runner (thanks, Darren) they had resorted to Plan B. The newspaper article had told him everything: in his house, when the police searched it, acting on an ‘anonymous tip-off, they had found a photograph of Dr Philip Wang and blueprints of Anne Boleyn House, Chelsea. A gold watch that had belonged to Dr Wang had also been retrieved. DNA samples in the house had been matched with fibres found in Dr Wang’s flat.

You’re not stupid, Jonjo had told himself as he plodded along the path away from the boat yard, and that was why he knew he was well and truly reamed, royally shafted. Even if, supposing he was caught and arrested, he told them the truth, everything he knew, he would still take the murder rap. There was no connection that could be made between his freelance jobs and the Risk Averse Group — and whoever it was who had employed Risk Averse to employ him. Everything he said would be interpreted as wild, desperate accusations. Perhaps there might be a bit of embarrassment for Risk Averse (he could see Major Tim making a rueful face, expressing his total shock and surprise) but a disgraced ex-soldier, recently dismissed — who could say what paranoia might build? What fantastical plots might form in a traumatised brain?

No — there was nothing for it, he had to run and hide, that was all. Like Kindred — Jonjo acknowledged the irony again but did not savour it. Luckily he had been well trained; luckily he had concocted plans for unforeseen eventualities and worst-case scenarios. He had made one telephone call on his unused mobile phone to his friend Giel Hoekstra, who lived near Rotterdam. He and Giel had met during the Bosnian tour, found themselves in a few scrapes together, rubbed along and, in the way you do, in the way all the special forces guys did, fully recognising the risky and dangerous nature of the post-army lives they would be living, they had made plans for mutual help and emergency aid should it be required: parachutes provided, potential exit doors left ajar, safe houses identified, friendly ports available in stormy seas. He could have telephoned Norton in St Paul, Minnesota, Aled in Aberystwyth, Wales, Campbell in Glasgow, Scotland, or Jean-Claude in Nantes, France or half a dozen others — but he had decided Giel was the handiest man of the moment and had called that marker in.

All he had said to Giel was that he had to leave England, now, immediately, clandestinely. By boat. Giel had decided what to do after a moment’s reflection: find a small provincial seaside town with a functioning harbour. Canvey Island, Jonjo had said instantly, recalling his childhood holidays — that’s where you’ll find me: Canvey Island, the Thames estuary, Essex. They had chosen a date and time and Giel had outlined a notional plan. From Canvey Island to another small seaside town with a harbour and a busy marina, boats coming and going all the time — Havenhoofd, it was called, near Rotterdam. Then from Rotterdam to Amsterdam to a flat Giel’s sister owned. “Be a tourist for a few weeks,” Giel said. “I have many friends. There’s a lot of work for someone like you, Jonjo. You can be as busy as you want, we get you new passport, become a Dutchman.” Thank god he kept the stash of money aside, Jonjo thought. He had dumped the taxi and had bought a fourth-hand camper-van for £2,000 cash and had driven out of London heading east through Essex for the coast and freedom.

He had parked up in Canvey and waited for his appointed rendezvous with Giel Hoekstra. He felt both pleased at his resourcefulness and mounting anger that he had been obliged to rely on it. What was going to happen to his house, his stuff? Don’t even think about it, he told himself, you’re free, the rest is history and junk. Major Tim Delaporte, move to the top of the shit-list. No, not quite the top — the number one spot was permanently reserved for Adam Kindred.

Jonjo stopped: he had come a few hundred yards from the yacht club and the boatyard, now, it seemed quiet enough. He led The Dog off the coastal path, let him off the lead, and picked his way through the coarse brown grass of the saltings and stepped down on to a small beach. He turned through 360 degrees and saw no one. The Dog was bounding about on the sand, sniffing at sea-wrack and chasing sand crabs, his tail a blur of excitement. Jonjo looked across the river estuary and saw the tall chimney of the Grain power station on the Hoo Peninsula opposite. That was Kent over there, he thought idly, a mile or so away. He walked back to the grassy humps at the edge of the beach and, with his spade edge, measured a rectangle in the thin, shell-choked shingle and began to dig down quickly and easily into the moist, sandy loam beneath, excavating a neat dog-sized hole, two feet deep, with an inch of water in the bottom. He whistled for The Dog and soon heard him panting up from the beach.

“Go on,”Jonjo said, “get in.”

The Dog sniffed around the edge of the hole, clearly not sure about this game. Jonjo put his boot on his rump and pushed. The Dog plumped down.

“Sit,”Jonjo said. “Sit, boy.”

He sat, obediently.

Jonjo took out his Clock. He held it close to his leg and checked the area again, in case any ramblers were heading for the point across the flat, dark brown humps of the saltings before the tide rose, but there was no one. Opposite, on the far side of the mouth of Benfleet Creek, were Southend’s crowded streets and the long arm of its pier. He felt oddly alone, a man and his dog on the extreme, bleak, salty tip of a small island in the Thames estuary and, simultaneously, oppressively suburban — all Essex was out there, just across the water, half a mile away.

He looked down at The Dog and began to experience very odd sensations, all of a sudden, as if his head were fizzing. He pointed the gun at The Dog.

“Sorry, mate,” he said. “I love you, you know that.”

His voice had gone weird and croaky and Jonjo realised he was crying. Fuck! He was falling apart — he hadn’t cried since he was twelve years old. He was past it, well and truly washed up, over the hill, pathetic, disgusting. No wonder Risk Averse had kicked him out. He swore at himself — get a grip, you pathetic girl , call yourself a soldier, some kind of fucking warrior, you are. He levelled the Clock at The Dog’s head. The Dog looked up at him, still panting slightly from his exertions, blinking, unperturbed. Squeeze the trigger. Slowly.