Devices and Desires Page 40

  “Then who did? Pascoe? That’s almost as dangerous.”

  “How could he? He was on his way back from Norwich. We lied to Rickards about the time but he was back at the caravan by nine-fifteen, and we were there together all the evening with Timmy. And all that business about the Whistler cutting her forehead, the hair, we never knew any of that. I thought you killed her.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because she discovered Operation Birdcall. Isn’t that why you’re running, because you’ve got no option?”

  “You’re right that I’ve got no option. But it’s not because of Robarts. She didn’t find out. How could she? But someone did. It isn’t only the Hilary Robarts murder. They’ve started checking up on me, the security services. Somehow they’ve got a lead, probably from one of the German cells or from a mole in the IRA.”

  “How do you know? You could be running away for nothing.”

  “There are too many coincidences. That last postcard you hid in the abbey ruins. I told you it was put back the wrong way. Someone had read it.”

  “Anyone could have found it. And the message wouldn’t have meant anything. It never meant anything to me.”

  “Found it in late September, when the picnic season’s well over? Found it and carefully put it back? And that wasn’t all. They’ve checked on my mother’s flat. She has a housekeeper who used to be my nanny. She rang to let me know earlier today. I didn’t wait after that. I sent the signal to say I was getting out.”

  On their starboard side the occasional lights of the shore were blurred by the mist but still visible. And the throb of the engine sounded less intrusive now, almost a gentle, companionable hum. Or perhaps, thought Amy, she had got used to it. But it seemed extraordinary to be moving so quietly and steadily through the darkness, hearing Caroline’s voice saying unbelievable things, talking about terrorism and flight and betrayal as calmly as if she were discussing the details of a picnic. And Amy needed to hear, needed to know. She found herself saying: “Where did you meet them, these people you’re working for?”

  “In Germany when I was seventeen. My nanny was ill and I had to spend the summer holiday with my parents. My father was stationed there. He didn’t take much notice of me, but someone else did.”

  “But that was years ago.”

  “They know how to wait, and so do I.”

  “And this nanny housekeeper, is she a member of Birdcall too?”

  “She knows nothing, absolutely nothing. She’s the last person I’d choose. She’s a silly old fool who’s hardly worth her bed and board, but my mother finds a use for her, and so do I. She hates my mother, and I’ve told her that Mummy is checking on my life and to let me know at once if there are any telephone calls for me or any visitors. It helps make her life with Mummy tolerable. It makes her feel important, helps her to believe that I care about her, that I love her.”

  “Do you? Do you love her?”

  “I did once. A child has to love someone. I grew out of it and I grew out of her. Well, there was a call and there was a visitor. On Tuesday a Scot, or someone pretending to be a Scot, rang. And today a visitor came.”

  “What sort of visitor?”

  “A young man who said he’d met me in France. It was a lie. He was an imposter. He was from MI5. Who else could have sent him?”

  “But you can’t be sure. Not sure enough to send that signal, leave everything, put yourself at their mercy.”

  “I can. Look, who else could it have been? There were three separate incidents, the postcard, the telephone call, the visitor. What else should I wait for? The security services kicking down my door?”

  “What was he like, this man?”

  “Young. Nervous. Not very attractive. Not particularly convincing either. Even Nanny didn’t believe him.”

  “Funny kind of MI5 officer. Couldn’t they do better than that?”

  “He was supposed to be someone I’d met in France who fancied me and wanted to see me again and had steeled himself actually to call at the flat. Of course he appeared young and nervous. That’s the kind of man they’d send. They’d hardly choose a seasoned forty-year-old veteran from Curzon Street. They know how to select the right man for the job. That’s their business. He was the right man, all right. Perhaps he wasn’t even meant to be convincing. Perhaps they were trying to scare me, get me to react, flush me out.”

  “Well, you have reacted, haven’t you? But if you’re wrong, wrong about it all, what will they do, the people you work for? You’ve blown Operation Birdcall by running away.”

  “This operation has been aborted, but the future won’t be jeopardized. My instructions were to telephone if there was firm evidence that we’d been discovered. And there was. And that’s not all. My telephone is being bugged.”

  “You can’t possibly tell that.”

  “I can’t tell it for certain, but I know.”

  Suddenly Amy cried: “What did you do about Remus? Did you feed him, leave him water?”

  “Of course not. This has to look like an accident. They’ve got to believe that we’re lesbian lovers who went for an evening boat trip and were drowned. They’ve got to believe that we only intended to be away for a couple of hours. He gets fed at seven. They’ve got to find him hungry and thirsty.”

  “But they might not start looking for you until Monday! He’ll be frantic, barking and whining. There’s no one close to hear. You bloody bitch!”

  Suddenly she flew at Caroline, screaming obscenities, clawing at her face. But the girl was too strong for her. Hands gripped her wrists like steel bands, and she found herself hurled back against the boards. Through the tears of rage and self-pity she whispered: “But why? Why?”

  “For a cause worth dying for. There aren’t many of those.”

  “Nothing’s worth dying for, except maybe another person, someone you love. I’d die for Timmy.”

  “That’s not a cause, that’s sentimentality.”

  “And if I want to die for a cause I’ll bloody well choose it myself. And it won’t be for terrorism. It won’t be for bastards who put bombs in pubs and blow up my friends and don’t give a damn about ordinary people because we’re not important, are we?”

  Caroline said: “You must have suspected something. You’re not educated but you’re not stupid either. I wouldn’t have chosen you if I couldn’t be sure of that. You never questioned me and you wouldn’t have got an answer if you had, but you couldn’t have thought that we were going to all that trouble for frightened kittens or butchered seal pups.”

  Had she thought that? Amy wondered. Perhaps the truth was that she had believed in the intention but never that it would actually be carried out. She hadn’t doubted their will, only their ability. And in the meantime it had been fun to be part of the conspiracy. She had enjoyed the excitement, the knowledge that she had a secret from Neil, the half-simulated frisson of fear as she left the caravan after dark to plant the postcards in the ruins of the abbey. She had hidden behind a broken breakwater almost laughing aloud that night when she had nearly been caught by Mrs. Dennison and Mr. Dalgliesh. And the money had been useful, too—generous payment for so small a task. And there had been the dream, the picture of a flag whose design was as yet unknown, but which they would raise over the power station and which would command respect, obedience, instant response. They would be saying to the whole world, “Stop it. Stop it now.” They would be speaking for the captive zoo animals, the threatened whales, the polluted, sick seals, the tormented laboratory animals, the terrified beasts driven into the abattoirs to the smell of blood and their own death, the hens crowded together, unable even to peck, for the whole of the abused and exploited animal world. But it had been only a dream. This was reality: the unsubstantial boards under her feet, the dark, suffocating mist, the oily waves slapping against their frail craft. The reality was death; there was no other. Everything in her life, from the moment she had met Caroline in that Islington pub and they had walked back to the squat together,
had led to this moment of truth, this terror.

  She moaned: “I want Timmy. What about my baby? I want my baby.”

  “You won’t have to leave him, not permanently. They’ll find a way of reuniting you.”

  “Don’t be daft. What sort of life would he have with a terrorist gang? They’ll write him off like they write off everyone else.”

  Caroline said: “What about your parents? Won’t they take him? Can’t they look after him?”

  “Are you crazy? I ran away from home because my stepfather knocked Ma about. When he started on me I walked out. Do you think I’d let him have Timmy, him or her?”

  Her mother had seemed to like the violence, or at least had liked what came after it. Those two years before she ran away had taught Amy one lesson: have sex only with men who want you more than you want them.

  Caroline asked: “What about Pascoe? Are you sure he knows nothing?”

  “Of course he doesn’t. We weren’t even lovers. He didn’t want me and I didn’t want him.”

  But there was someone she had wanted, and she had a sudden vivid memory of lying with Alex in the dunes, the smell of sea and sand and sweat, his grave, ironic face. Well, she wasn’t going to tell Caroline about Alex. She had one secret of her own. She would keep it.

  She thought of the curious paths by which she had come to this moment in time, to this place. Perhaps if she drowned, her whole life would flash before her, as it was said to do, everything experienced, understood, made sense of in that final annihilating moment. But now she saw the past as a series of coloured slides, clicking in quick succession, an image briefly received, an emotion barely experienced before it disappeared. Suddenly she was shivering violently. She said: “I’m cold.”

  “I said to come with warm clothes and nothing else. That jumper isn’t enough.”

  “These are the only warm clothes I’ve got.”

  “On the headland? What do you wear in winter?”

  “Sometimes Neil lends me his greatcoat. We share. Whichever one of us goes out gets the coat. We were thinking we might get one for me from the Old Rectory jumble.”

  Caroline took off her jacket. She said: “Here, put this round you.”

  “No, that’s yours. I don’t want it.”

  “Put it on.”

  “I said I don’t want it.”

  But, like a child, she let Caroline push her arms into the sleeves, stood obediently while the jacket was fastened. Then she crouched down, almost wedging herself under the narrow seat which ran round the boat, shutting out the horror of those silently advancing waves. It seemed to Amy that she felt for the first time and with every nerve the inexorable power of the sea. She saw in imagination her pale and lifeless body plummeting through the miles of wet darkness to the seabed, to the skeletons of long-drowned sailors, where the uncaring creatures swam between the ribs of ancient ships. And the mist, less thick now but mysteriously more frightening, had become a living thing, gently swirling and soundlessly breathing, stealing her own breath, so that she found herself panting, insinuating its damp horror into every pore. It seemed impossible to believe that somewhere there was land, lighted windows behind the drawn curtains, light spilling from the doors of pubs, laughing voices, people sitting in warmth and safety. She saw the caravan as she had seen it so often, returning from Norwich after dark, a sturdy rectangle of wood which seemed rooted to the headland, defying the gales and the sea, the warm glow from its windows, the twist of smoke rising from the stack. She thought of Timmy and Neil. How long would Neil wait until he called the police? He wasn’t one to act in a hurry. After all, she wasn’t a child, she had a right to leave. He might do nothing until morning, and perhaps even then he would wait. But it wouldn’t matter. There was nothing the police could do. No one except that desolate figure on the quay knew where they were, and if he raised the alarm it would be too late. It was useless to believe even in the reality of the terrorists. They were marooned here in black dampness. They would circle and circle until the fuel ran out and then drift out to sea until a coaster ran them down.

  She no longer had any sense of passing time. The rhythmic throbbing of the engine had lulled her not into peace, but into a dulled acquiescence in which she was aware only of the wood hard against her back, of Caroline standing intent and motionless in the cockpit. And then the engine died.

  For a few seconds the silence was absolute. Then, as the boat gently lurched, Amy heard the creak of wood, the slap of water. She breathed a suffocating wetness, felt its cold seeping through the jacket, into her bones. It seemed impossible that anyone could find them in this bleak expanse of water and emptiness, and she had ceased to care whether they did.

  Caroline said: “This is the place. This is where they’re going to meet us. We’ll just have to wait here until they come.”

  Amy heard the engine again, but this time it was an almost imperceptible throb. And suddenly she knew. There was no conscious process of reasoning, only a blinding and terrifying certainty that burst upon her with the clarity of a vision. There was a second in which her heart froze, then leapt, and its strong drumming powered her body into life. She almost sprang to her feet. “They’re not going to put me ashore, are they? They’re going to kill me. You know it. You’ve known it all along. You’ve brought me here to be killed.”

  Caroline’s eyes were fixed on the two lights, the intermittent flash from the lighthouse, the glitter from the offshore structures. She said coldly: “Don’t be hysterical.”

  “They can’t risk letting me go, I know too much. And you said yourself that I wouldn’t be much use to them. Look, you’ve got to help me. Tell them how useful I was, make believe I’m worth keeping. If I can only get ashore, somehow I’ll make a break for it. But I have to have a chance. Caroline. You’ve got me into this. You must help me. I have to get ashore. Listen to me! Listen to me, Caroline! We’ve got to talk.”

  “You are talking. And what you’re saying is ludicrous.”

  “Is it? Is it, Caroline?”

  She knew now that she mustn’t plead. She wanted to throw herself at Caroline’s feet and scream: “Look at me. I’m human. I’m a woman. I want to live. My child needs me. I’m not much of a mother, but I’m the only one he has. Help me.” But she knew with an instinctive wisdom born of desperation that abject pleading, clutching hands, sobs, whining entreaties would only repel. She was speaking for her life. She had to stay calm, to rely on reason. She had somehow to find the right words. She said: “It isn’t only me, it’s you too. This could be a choice of life or death for both of us. They won’t want you either. You were only useful to them while you worked at Larksoken, while you could pass on to them details of how the place was run, who was on duty and when. Now you’re a liability, the same as me. There’s no difference. What kind of work can you do for them that will make it worthwhile supporting you, setting you up with a new identity? They can’t find you a job in another power station. And if MI5 are really on to you they’ll still be looking. They might not believe so easily in the accident, not if our bodies aren’t washed up. And our bodies won’t be washed up, will they? Not unless they kill us, and that’s what they’re planning to do. What are two more bodies to them? Why meet us here? Why so far? They could have picked us up much closer to land. They could have got us out by air if they’d really needed us. Caroline, go back. It isn’t too late. You could tell the people you work for that it wasn’t safe to come, the mist was too thick. They’ll find another way to get you out if you want to go. I won’t talk, I wouldn’t dare. I promise you with my life. We can go back now, and it will just have been two friends who took a boat trip and came back safely. It’s my life, Caroline, and it could be yours. You gave me your jacket. I’m asking for my life.”

  She didn’t touch Caroline. She knew that the wrong gesture, perhaps any gesture, could be fatal. But she knew, too, that the silent figure staring rigidly ahead was at the moment of decision. And, gazing at that carved intent face, Amy realized for the first
time in her life that she was utterly alone. Even her lovers, seen now as a passing procession of strained, beseeching faces and grasping, exploring hands, had been only casual strangers giving her the fleeting illusion that a life could be shared. And she had never known Caroline, could never know her, never begin to understand what in her past, perhaps in her childhood, had led to this dangerous conspiracy, this moment of decision. They were physically so close that each could hear, could almost smell, the other’s breath. But each was alone, as much alone as if this wide sea held no other craft, no other living soul. They might be fated to die together, but each could suffer only her own death, as each had lived only her own life. And there was nothing left to say. She had pleaded her cause and the words were all spent. Now she waited in the darkness and the silence to know whether she would live or die.

  It seemed to her that even time had stopped. Caroline put out her hand and switched off the engine. In the eerie silence Amy could hear, like a low insistent pounding, the beating of her heart. And then Caroline spoke. Her voice was calm, reflective, as if Amy had posed her a difficult problem which needed thought to solve.

  “We have to get away from the meeting place. We haven’t enough power to outrun them if they find us and give chase. Our hope is to put out all the lights, get away from this place and lie silent, hoping they won’t find us in the mist.”

  “Can’t we get back to the harbour?”

  “There isn’t time. It’s over ten miles, and they’ll have a powerful engine. If they find us they’ll be on to us in seconds. The mist is our only chance.”

  And then they heard, blunted by the fog but clearly, the sound of an approaching boat. Instinctively they moved closer together in the cockpit and waited, not daring even to whisper. Each knew that their only chance now lay in silence, the mist, the hope that their small craft would be undetected. But the engine noise increased and became a regular, directionless, vibrating throb. And then, when they had thought that the boat would loom out of the darkness and be on them, the noise grew no louder and Amy guessed that they were being slowly circled. Then suddenly she screamed. The searchlight cut through the mist and shone full on their faces. The light dazzled so that she could see nothing but its own giant cone, in which the particles of mist swam like motes of silver light. A rough foreign voice called: “Is that the Lark out of Wells Harbour?”