The Ultimate Truth (20 page)

I leaned my bike against the fence, squeezed through a gap in the buckled wire-mesh, and headed towards the workshop buildings. The sun was burning bright in the sky, and the hot air was thick
with the smell of petrol and oil. As I approached the alleyway, other smells began drifting in the heat – the stink of old rubbish, rotten food – and I could hear the sound of flies
buzzing around an overflowing wheelie bin.

I carried on down to the wooden fence at the end of the alley. It was an old fence, cracked and faded, and some of the boards were loose. It was about the same height as me, so I didn’t
have to stoop down to keep out of sight. But I guessed Dad must have had to. I could see him quite clearly in my mind . . . stooped over, keeping his head down as he approached the fence, his
camera in his hands. I was
with
him now. I was right where he’d been. I was taking hold of the same loose board he’d taken hold of . . . we were it pulling it back together,
jamming it to one side, looking through the gap, seeing the warehouse across the street . . .

It was exactly the same as it looked in the photograph. The grey brick walls, the blinds in the windows, the solid-looking doors, the small car park surrounded by a tall wire-mesh fence, the BMW
and the Mercedes van parked in front of the warehouse. The only things missing were the three Omega men and the time and date printed in the bottom right-hand corner.

Eight minutes past four, 15 July.

The day before Mum and Dad died.

I looked at my watch. It was six minutes past nine.

3 August.

Today. Right now.

The day before the last day.

I sat down on the ground, facing the gap in the fence. I adjusted my position until I was satisfied I had the best possible view of the warehouse. Then I just watched and waited.

An hour and a half later, at just gone 10.40, I stretched the stiffness from my neck, got to my feet, and dusted myself down. I hadn’t seen everything I’d wanted to
see, but I could have sat there all day and still not seen everything.

And I didn’t have all day.

I took a final quick look through the gap in the fence, then I turned round and headed back to the footpath.

I’d taken a few pictures of the warehouse on my mobile, but the camera on my phone isn’t that great, and although the straightforward shots I’d taken
weren’t too bad, the ones I’d taken with the zoom were too blurry to show the details of what I’d actually seen. So as I rode back to Nan and Grandad’s on my bike, I kept
going over everything in my head, picturing time and time again what I’d seen, making sure that every little detail was safely lodged in my memory.

To make it easier to remember, I split the information into separate categories, and mentally numbered each different category.

1) The warehouse: it was a single-storey building, with a flat roof, a door at the front, and another at the back. I hadn’t actually seen the door at the back, but I’d seen the man
with the goatee beard patrolling the yard at the rear of the warehouse, and he definitely hadn’t come out of the front door. There were blinds in all the windows, and all the blinds were kept
closed.

2) The surroundings: there were patches of wasteground on either side of the warehouse, and the yard at the rear backed onto scrubby fields that stretched out into the distance. The fields were
surrounded by hedges. The car park at the front of the building and the yard at the back were enclosed behind wire-mesh fencing that was approximately three metres high. The locked double gates
that led into the car park were also about three metres high.

3) Sowton Lane: the street itself was barely used. In all the time I was there, I saw no more than a dozen passing vehicles, and no pedestrians at all.

4) The occupants: there were at least seven men in the warehouse. Winston (Grey Eyes), Shaved Head (the one who called himself Owen Smith), Goatee, the gunman (the one who’d shot out the
tyres on the CIA cars), the gaunt-faced man, and two men I’d never seen before: a pale-skinned man with reddish hair, and a big muscle-bound guy with nasty-looking eyes. Three of them had
come out of the warehouse while I was there. Goatee had spent five minutes patrolling the back yard; the big guy had come out and fetched something from the back of the van; and on two occasions
Gaunt Face had wandered out and strolled round the car park smoking a cigarette. The other four had stayed inside, but they’d all shown their faces at a window at least once, either peeking
out from between the blinds or pulling the blind halfway up for a more thorough look around.

5) Conclusion: there was no real evidence that Bashir was in the warehouse. I hadn’t seen him. I hadn’t seen anything that actually proved he was in there. But I was 99 per cent sure
that he was. Everything pointed to it. Dad’s surveillance photograph, Omega’s interest in Bashir, the behaviour of the seven men in the warehouse – patrolling the building,
constantly on the lookout, keeping the blinds closed all the time. It all made sense if Bashir
was
in the warehouse.

There was still a lot that didn’t make sense though. What was he doing there? Why did Omega have him? Were they protecting him? Or was he their prisoner? How long had he been at the
warehouse? Had he been there when Dad had taken the photograph? And, if he had, why was he still there now? Why had he been there for almost three weeks, maybe even longer?

I didn’t have any answers.

But it wasn’t important now.

All I cared about now, as I carried on cycling back to Nan and Grandad’s, was making sure I memorised everything. I could think about what it all meant later. The facts were all that
mattered right now.

The facts.

The details.

I hit the rewind button in my head and started going over everything again. 1) The warehouse: single-storey building, flat roof, door at the front, another at the back . . .

I realise now that part of the reason I was so intent on memorising everything I’d seen at the warehouse was that it helped take my mind off what was going to happen when
I got back to Nan and Grandad’s. I really didn’t want to think about that. It was bad enough knowing that they were going to be upset with me. What was worse was that I didn’t
know what that would mean. It would have been different if I’d been going home to Mum and Dad, knowing that
they
were going to be upset with me. I still would have felt anxious and
worried, of course, but at least I would have known what to expect. The hurt in Mum’s eyes, the quiet firmness of Dad’s voice, their obvious disappointment in me . . . I would have
known
that. I would have known how bad I was going to feel.

But I wasn’t going home to an upset Mum and Dad. I was going home to an upset Nan and Grandad, and I really didn’t know what that was going to be like. Which, to be honest, was kind
of scary. So rather than actually thinking about it, I suppose I just blocked it all out and concentrated on memorising things about the warehouse instead.

I don’t think I was aware of what I was doing.

In fact, I
know
I wasn’t.

Because I don’t really remember riding back from the warehouse at all. It was almost as if I was in a trance. I vaguely recall arriving back at Nan and Grandad’s house . . . getting
off my bike . . . putting it away in the shed . . . but I can’t even remember if I came in the front way or through the back gate. I was so fixated on what I’d seen at the warehouse
that I was still mumbling away to myself about it as I made my way from the shed to the back door –
How many men did you see? Seven. Who were they? Shaved Head, Winston, Goatee, Gunman,
Gaunt Face
. . .

Then the back door opened, and I looked up and saw Nan standing there, her eyes brimming with tears. And suddenly everything became real again.

‘Oh, Travis!’ she cried, throwing her arms round me. ‘Thank
God
you’re back. We’ve been
so
worried. Where have you
been
?’

She was squeezing me so hard that I could hardly breathe, let alone say anything.

‘It’s all right,’ she said tearfully, still hugging the life out of me. ‘Everything’s all right . . . you’re OK now . . .’ She suddenly let go of me,
put her hands on my shoulders, and held me at arm’s length. ‘You
are
all right, aren’t you, Travis?’ she asked, staring intensely into my eyes. ‘Please tell me
you’re all right . . . that’s all I need to know—’

‘I’m fine, Nan,’ I told her. ‘Honestly, I’m OK.’ I wiped a tear from my eye. ‘I’m
really
sorry, Nan. I shouldn’t
have—’

She grabbed hold of me again, pulling my head to her shoulder and holding me so tightly that this time I really couldn’t breathe. But I didn’t mind. With my face pressed up against
her tear-stained skin, and her strong hand gripping the back of my head, I somehow felt like myself again – my
real
self – and just for a moment I didn’t have to think
about anything or try to understand anything. I didn’t even have to know what I was feeling. All I had to do was feel it.

Whatever it was.

I couldn’t hold my breath for ever though, and eventually I had to lift my head from Nan’s shoulder and gulp down some air. That’s when I saw Grandad. He was standing in the
kitchen doorway behind Nan, staring quietly into my eyes. He looked tired, his face lined with worry and stress. But what struck me the most was the way he was looking at me. I knew that look.
I’d seen it in Dad’s eyes when he’d been upset with me. That strange mixture of disappointment and relief, pain and concern, despair and understanding . . .

I
knew
it.

And although that didn’t make things any easier, it somehow felt OK.

‘I’m sorry, Grandad,’ I said, gently stepping out of Nan’s embrace.

He nodded. ‘I’m sorry too.’

‘I don’t know what I was thinking,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Well, I
do
. . . but I just . . . I don’t know . . . it was just . . .’ I let out a sigh,
not really knowing what I was trying to say.

‘Are you hungry?’ Grandad said.

I looked at him, slightly surprised by the question. ‘Well, yeah,’ I said hesitantly, ‘but I really need to talk to you about—’

‘Oh, we’re going to talk about things,’ he said ominously. ‘Don’t you worry about that. We’ve got a
lot
of talking to do. But before we start, you need
to get some food inside you.’

I wanted to tell him that there wasn’t time for food, that I had to talk to him right now, before it was too late. But even as I opened my mouth to speak, and he angled his head and gave
me a don’t-you-
dare
-say-anything look, I knew it wasn’t a good idea to start arguing with him now.

Besides, I
was
pretty hungry.

In fact, I was starving.

After Nan had made me some bacon and eggs and a big plate of toast, and I’d scoffed it all down as quickly as I could, I went into the sitting room and found Grandad
waiting for me in his armchair. He gestured for me take a seat, and I sat down on the settee. I’d kind of imagined that he’d want to talk to me on my own, so I was a bit surprised when
Nan came in and sat down next to me, but I was really glad that she did.

I looked at her.

She half smiled at me, then turned to Grandad.

‘Nan knows what’s going on,’ he told me. ‘I explained everything to her this morning.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘So from now on,’ he continued, ‘we’re all in this together, OK?’

I nodded.

He glanced at Nan, then looked back at me. ‘Listen, Travis . . . about what I said on the phone—’

‘It doesn’t matter—’

‘Yes, it does. It was an inexcusable thing to say. Utterly selfish and thoughtless. I’m truly sorry for hurting you.’

‘I deserved it,’ I said. ‘I
did
put you through hell again. If anyone was selfish and thoughtless, it was me.’ I looked from Grandad to Nan, then back to Grandad
again. ‘I know I shouldn’t have sneaked out without saying anything. I mean, I
know
it was wrong. I know it was really stupid—’

‘You can say that again,’ Grandad muttered.

‘All right,’ Nan said quietly, shooting a quick look at Grandad. ‘Let’s leave the recriminations for now, shall we?’ She looked at me. ‘You need to tell us
where you went, Trav, OK? Forget about all the rights and wrongs, just tell us where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing.’

It was a lot to tell, but by the time I’d finished I was pretty sure I’d told them everything. The only thing I didn’t mention was my suspicion about the
yellow paint on the Mercedes van. And I only kept that to myself because it
was
just a suspicion, and a pretty vague one at that, and I knew what Grandad would say about it anyway.
I’ve seen the official police report
, I remembered him telling me.
I’ve spoken to the accident investigators. There’s absolutely no evidence to suggest that anyone else
was involved in the crash.

As I began reeling off all the details I’d memorised about the warehouse, I couldn’t help feeling kind of pleased with myself. I’d done a pretty good job, I thought. I’d
been thorough, determined, patient. I’d behaved like a professional private investigator. Mum and Dad would have been proud of me.

But the comfort that gave me didn’t last very long.

I’d only just begun talking about the occupants of the warehouse when Grandad brought me back to earth with a cold hard thump.

‘I definitely saw seven of them in there,’ I was saying, ‘but there might be more. The seven I saw were . . .’ I started counting them off on my fingers. ‘The one
who calls himself Winston, the one with the goatee beard, the one with the shaved head—’

‘All right, Travis,’ Grandad said. ‘That’s enough.’

‘I haven’t finished yet,’ I said, carrying on. ‘The man with the gun was there, the one who shot out the tyres, and the gaunt-faced man from the van—’

‘Look at me, Travis,’ Grandad said firmly.