Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

“The rich usually do, Nick.” He paused. “And between you and me, and no one else, Mr Kassouli wanted you arrested. He wanted the bloody book thrown at you. But we’ve persuaded him that we can look after our own. That’s what I’m doing now, Nick. Looking after you.”

“This comes from the bloody Government, doesn’t it?” He heard my anger. “Now, Nick!”

“Jesus wept!” I drank some beer. “Suppose Bannister’s innocent?” Abbott shook his head. “Why confuse the issue?” He laughed at me. “Bloody hell, Nick, since when were you the white knight?” I said nothing, and he sighed. “You’re a bloody fool, Nick. Why did you go to the press?”

“I wanted out.”

“You should have talked to me.” Abbott looked at me in silence for a few seconds, then shook his head sadly. “Nick, it comes from the top, and you’re powerless to do anything. So forget it.” I made a non-committal noise.

Abbott drank beer. “I saw your dad last week.”

“How was he?”

“He misses you. When are you going to see him?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“I think you should, Nick. In fact I think I’ll make that another condition of not arresting you.”

“I thought you said there was no warrant for me any more?” Abbott hefted the gun. “Three years?”

“How did you find it?”

He smiled. “Did George tell you I threatened to use a metal detector?”

I smiled back, remembering the charade. “Yes.”

“Which meant that you’d hide the gun near a piece of metal, so as to confuse your Uncle Harry. So I just had a look at your engine, and hey presto.”

“It’s a souvenir, Harry.”

He looked at the barrel. “ Ejercito Argentina . Didn’t do the silly buggers a lot of good, did it? So, are you going to try and warn Mr Bannister?” I hesitated. Abbott shook his head at my foolishness.

“It won’t do you any good, Nick. Do you think he’ll listen to you?”

“No.”

“So I’ll take it you won’t try, which answer will please the Chief Clown. Are you going to stay away from Bannister’s house, his television studio, his mistress’s house, and everybody else’s bloody house?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to see your father?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll take that as yes.” He fished in his jacket pocket and brought out two Monte Cristo cigars in their tin cases. “Give him these from me, Nick.”

“I will.”

“And, having seen him, are you then going to bugger off in this floating junkyard?”

“Yes.”

“Welcome back to the human race, Nick Sandman.” He dangled the gun by its trigger guard. “I assume this is an arcane piece of yacht safety equipment?”

I smiled. “Yes, Harry, it is.”

“Then bleeding well hide it where a middle-aged copper doesn’t trip over it.” He tossed it into my lap. “How much did George offer you for it?”

“He didn’t name a price.”

Abbott laughed, then stood and stretched his long arms. “That’s it then, job done. I did try to warn you in the spring.”

“What was the job, Harry?”

He ignored that question. “I’ve brought you some sandwiches and I’ll leave you the newspapers. They’re full of lies, but you might enjoy the comic strips.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

He climbed to the quayside. “You’re an awkward bugger, Nick, and you’re probably a lazy sod who should get a proper job, but I don’t dislike you. And I do like your old man. Tell him I sent my regards.”

“I will.”

“ Bon voyage , Nick.”

I fitted the stove after Harry had gone. I gimballed it, connected it up to a gas cylinder, then celebrated the achievement by making myself a cup of tea. The dock stank in the heat. I sat on Sycorax ’s stern, drank the tea, and read the papers.

In Northern Ireland a man’s kneecaps had been shot away. Iraq and Iran were slagging each other in the desert. The Russians were slagging the peasants in Afghanistan. The miners were slagging everyone. A disease called Aids was threatening to achieve what a millennia of Puritans had failed to do. Unemployment was still rising. England was still being hammered at cricket. Angela’s photograph stared at me from an outside page devoted to gossip.

I stared back at the photograph. For a second I didn’t believe it was Angela, but it was. Bannister sat beside her in the picture. There was a story alongside the photograph. ‘Almost a year since the tragic death of his first wife, the American heiress Nadeznha Kassouli, Mr Tony Bannister, 46, has announced his engagement to Miss Angela Westmacott. Miss Westmacott, who has never been married before, is a producer on Mr Bannister’s programme.’ There was more. The wedding would take place very soon, most likely in Paris, and certainly before Bannister set off on his St Pierre attempt. The bride was giving up her job in television, but would probably work for Bannister’s production company which made rock videos and advertisements.

She looked so very beautiful in the photograph. She sat on a sofa in Bannister’s Richmond house. In the foreground was a brand new glass-topped table which must have replaced the one I’d broken.

Bannister sat beside her with a smile like the cat that had got the cream. Angela’s long slim legs were crossed. She wore a hesitant smile that I’d come to know so well, though her eyes were cool. She was in a light dress that hinted at her body’s supple elegance. Her right hand rested lightly on Bannister’s shoulder, while her left, hanging over the sofa’s arm, bore a big shining diamond. She looked like a thoroughbred; leggy and beautiful, a girl fit for a handsome celebrity. A girl it was ludicrous for a broken sailor in a broken boat in a stinking dock to want. But the photograph told me that I did still want her, and I suddenly felt forlorn and bereft and miserable.

God damn her, but she had surrendered to safety, and I was alone.

The county’s police force were playing the inmates of the open prison. The police had been bowled out for 134, while the prisoners’ team had so far scored 42 for the loss of just one wicket. I was in the Midlands and my father, because I had at last come to visit, seemed to be in a private heaven. I’d seen his garden, the workshop where he made ship models, his room, and now he walked round the cricket field with me. It was like a boarding school, only the pupils were middle-aged men rather than boys. It was quite unlike my idea of a prison, but only the trusted felons were sent there; those who were not violent and who would not try to escape. The warders called my father ‘Mr Sandman’, and he had clearly charmed them all. He asked after their wives, sympathized over their children’s exam results, and promised them herbs from his garden. “They’re good fellows,” he said happily.

He looked so damned well. He’d lost weight, which suited his six-foot four-inch frame. His black hair was touched with grey at his temples, he was suntanned, and he was fit. “The gardening helps, of course. I play a bit of tennis, quite a lot of badminton. I swim a fair bit, but they keep the pool damned chilly. I get a bit of the other, too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Father. You’re in prison.”

“An open prison, my dear Nick. I do recommend one if you’re ever in need of a rest. Admittedly the admission procedure is tiresome, but after that it’s a very decent life. We do work on the local farms, you see, and the girls know where to find us. They’re mostly professionals, of course, but a chap has to stay in practice. Are you in practice?”

“Not really.”

He laughed. “I thought you were looking decidedly doggish.

Won’t Melissa lay it out for you?”

“I’ve never asked.”