T
he child was still shivering. Good. The Gardener liked that.
No he didn’t. He loved that.
Made him even more excited. Made the anticipation all the sweeter.
The child gripped the bars of the cage. Pulling on them, rattling them, trying to escape. No good. Too well made.
He laughed at the boy. It ended up as a cough.
Deep, racking, bent double while the painful, angry barks came from his body, gasping for breath as his lungs, his chest burned.
Eventually the coughing fit subsided. He had something in his mouth. Lifting the hood up, he spat on the ground. Looked at it. Black-dark and glistening.
Blood.
The cough had weakened him. It was getting worse. Taking more out of him. Putting his body through more pain. Each spasm taking longer to recover from.
He pulled the hood back in place, looked down at the altar. His tools were laid out in their usual precise manner. Candles lit now on either side. He drew strength just from seeing them. Stood up straight. Looked at the boy.
Smiled. No laughing this time.
‘Soon … soon … ’ He picked up the sharpened trowel. Played the candlelight off its gleaming blade. Sent mirror flashes of light on to the boy, who flinched each time the light caught him. That gave him an idea.
The Gardener smiled again. This was a good game. He angled the blade, caught the light, flashed it at the boy, who recoiled every time, moved away to a different spot in the cage. The Gardener giggled, changed the position of the blade, tried to catch the boy again. The boy whimpered, moved once more.
The Gardener loved this, could have played it for hours.
But he didn’t have hours. He looked at the chart. It had to be done soon. It had to be done now.
He advanced on the cage.
Ready for the boy now.
Ready for the sacrifice.
So the Garden could live again.
‘W
ait for my signal. Have you got that? No one does anything until they get my signal. Understood?’
It was understood.
Glass had never felt so alive. He had forgotten just how good it felt to take down a villain. To feel the adrenalin and testosterone surge through his system, build up inside him like it was living lightning, ready to pulse from his fingertips, take out anyone who tried to stop him.
It wasn’t living lightning. But the semi-automatic in his hands was the next best thing.
The firearms unit was in front of him. They were standing in the overgrown back yard of the farmhouse. The night was sin-black, hiding them from any eyes that might be watching. The farmhouse was boarded up. No lights showing. It seemed uninhabited. But it wasn’t empty. Glass knew that. For a fact.
‘Right,’ he said to the unit. ‘The target is in that building. My information tells me he’ll be in the cellar. What plans we have indicate that that’s in the front of the house, with a door going down to it from the kitchen, which is in the middle. That’s where we’re headed.’
He turned to the firearms unit’s senior officer, Joe Wade. ‘Now, Sergeant Wade has briefed you all. You know where you’ve got to be. I’ll be going in through the front here with the A Team. Remember. This man is highly dangerous. Shoot to kill. And get that boy out alive.’ One more look at the men. They stood there, all in body armour, guns held before them, looking like shock troops sent from the future. Glass’s adrenalin and testosterone surged even more.
One more look at Sergeant Wade.
‘On your signal, Sergeant.’
Wade gave the order. The unit moved in, surrounded the farmhouse.
On Wade’s signal, the front and back doors were simultaneously battered down, the officers streaming in towards the middle of the house.
The only illumination inside came from the lights of the officers. Checking every corner of every room, securing each one before moving through the old house. It smelled of damp, abandon. The air stale, old. Dust rose as the officers tramped through.
Glass was loving it. What he was born for. A leader of men, gun in hand, ready for a righteous kill. As soon as he had picked up the gun, he had felt his finger begin to twitch. He had thought that itchy trigger fingers were an old cliché, but to his surprise he had found it to be actually true. And now, running through the farmhouse with the rest of the men, he wondered just how easy it would be to accidentally squeeze that trigger, take out one of the CO19 boys just for the hell of it.
He mentally slapped himself out of it. These were his own people. He had a job to do.
They reached the cellar door. Sergeant Wade looked to Glass, waiting for him to give the nod. Glass took a deep breath. Another. Nodded.
The door was battered to splinters. The unit rushed down the cellar steps. Glass followed. Finger wrapped round the trigger guard, hand ready to take off the safety, let it go.
But he didn’t.
He stopped, stood still. They all did.
The cellar was empty.
Glass shone his torch round. Nothing. Clean.
He walked over to one corner, scrutinised it with his torch. A small pile of bones was stacked neatly against the bricks. He examined the wall. There had been a cage here. He knew that, had seen it himself. A smaller one than East Hill, an abandoned one, kept in reserve. It had been removed.
His head moved frantically from side to side. He swung the torch wildly, checking if he was hiding somewhere, ready to spring out at them. Nothing.
Glass sighed. Looked at Wade. The unit were pumped up, minds engaged for action. They looked disappointed, angry. Like volcanoes denied the chance to erupt. Violent lovers spurned a climax.
Glass rubbed his face with the back of his hand. Felt anger well up inside him. He wanted to strike out, hit something. Or someone.
‘He’s not here … not here … ’
Wade looked around, checking for himself. He looked at Glass.
‘He’s not here, Sergeant … ’
‘I can see that, sir.’ Wade crossed to Glass. ‘I think you’d better have a word with your informant, sir,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Glass. ‘I’d better.’
‘Come on then, let’s go,’ said Wade.
The unit went back up the stairs, not wanting to believe they’d been denied action, swinging their guns around, checking just in case the target was waiting elsewhere in the house to surprise them.
They regrouped outside. Wade looked towards Glass.
‘What do we do now, sir?’
Glass thought. There had to be somewhere else, had to be … Think …
‘I … I don’t know, Sergeant … ’
Think … He had dismantled the cage … he would have put it somewhere else … Think …
Yes. He had it. He knew where it would be.
He turned to Wade. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. You can stand your men down now. Thank you.’
Glass turned, began to walk away.
‘Where are you going?’ Wade called after him.
‘To talk to my informant,’ said Glass, without turning round. ‘See what he’s got to say for himself.’
He could still do it. Still make the kill, find the child.
Salvage something.
There was still time.
Glass hurried to his car, drove away as fast as he could.
‘T
hey’ve loaded up.’ Fennell, his finger pressed to his earpiece, turned to the rest of the group. ‘The trucks have just left the port. They’ll be on their way past here soon.’
The convoy had split up, and they were now parked in a superstore car park on the outskirts of Harwich. The store was closed, the car park – and the roads around it – deserted. Rain was still falling, the lights in the car park throwing out sporadic pools, no match for it and the darkness. The van was in the shadows of the main building. They couldn’t be seen from the main road, but they had a clear view of the road coming up from the port.
Another van in the convoy had driven to the entrance of the import-export lock-up and was in place, waiting. Their target was a set of warehouses off a gated trading estate down past the oil refinery. They didn’t want to move too quickly, give themselves away.
The third van was in place outside the port itself. Sitting next to the high metal railings with a clear view across the half-empty truck park to the offloading ramps. It was one of them who had called.
As soon as Fennell spoke, the mood in the van changed. There had been forced humour, tension building inane, unfunny things to hilarious levels, making the most unamusing utterances amusing. But his words changed all that. Now they were focused, ready. No more laughing. No more speaking. A team with a job to do.
Mickey looked across at Clemens. At first glance he seemed as concentrated as the rest of them. Eyes – and mind – narrowed down to the task before them. But Mickey studied him further. He was lost somewhere, out on his own. Lips curled, a slight smile of anticipation on them.
Mickey looked at Fennell. The other man was talking into his mic once more. Mickey felt he should have a quiet word, warn him that perhaps Clemens’ head wasn’t in the right place for this. That he could become a liability. But there was no way he would get a chance now. He just hoped someone else would pick him up on it.
And in the meantime, he would just have to watch him.
Fennell turned to them all once more. ‘Any questions?’
‘Yeah,’ said Mickey. ‘Do we know who’s there? Balchunas? Anyone else?’
‘We don’t,’ said Fennell. ‘But we can expect him. And maybe Fenton, I don’t know. Anything else?’
Mickey again. ‘What the trucks are actually going to do once they’re inside the gates, do we know that?’
Clemens turned to him. Sneered.
Mickey ignored him.
‘Good question,’ said Fennell. ‘No, we don’t. If things go according to plan, we step in, catch them in the act. Simple.’
‘And if they don’t?’ someone else said.
‘We improvise,’ said Clemens. ‘We do whatever we have to do to get them.’
‘Right,’ said Mickey.
Fennell turned back, in conversation once more. Mickey looked at Clemens again. His finger was never far from his trigger.
Fennell closed off his earpiece, turned to the rest of them. ‘The trucks will be passing us at any moment.’
They watched. Several seconds later – although it felt like minutes – two trucks carrying metal containers passed them.
‘There we go,’ said Fennell.
They let a certain amount of counted time pass, then followed at a distance.
D
onna walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, looked into the street. Satisfied there was no one watching her or the house, she let the curtain drop, returned to her seat.
‘It’s all right,’ said Don, ‘you’re safe here.’
She nodded. Wanting to believe him. Knowing it was going to take more than words to make her feel that. Especially after what she had been through these past few days.
They had eaten, Eileen making a huge bowl of pasta carbonara. Both Donna and Ben had had thirds. She thought Ben would have just kept going if it hadn’t run out. And it was good, too. Proper food, she thought. The kind she only ever saw on TV, or other people eating in a restaurant.
And wine with it. Not the cheap stuff from Ranjit’s on the corner that she glugged by the bottleful and that left her burning inside for days afterwards, but proper stuff. Good stuff.
She had wanted to drink all of that, too. But had stopped herself. Made do with just one and a half glasses. Didn’t want her hosts staring at her.
Don’s wife had been very kind to her. She didn’t seem to mind the fact that Don had invited her and Ben along both for dinner and to sleep the night.
‘It’s no trouble,’ she had said. ‘We’re always looking after Phil’s daughter. And we used to do this a lot. Take in children, especially. When we were fostering.’
Donna had nodded. ‘Right.’
She could remember what foster homes were like. Or the ones she had been in when her mother couldn’t cope. Nothing like this one.
She had given a small smile. ‘Don and Donna,’ she’d said. ‘I could be your daughter.’ Her voice had trailed away.
Eileen had made a fuss of Ben. Got him something to drink, asked him if he wanted a bath, what his favourite TV show was, all of that. He was wary at first, not wanting to answer in case it was a trick. But Eileen had spoken to him clearly and honestly, and he had responded. He was now curled up in a bed upstairs, fast asleep.
And now she was sitting with Don and Eileen, in their living room, sipping from another bottle of wine. The room felt lovely. Warm. Safe. The armchair nearly big enough to sleep in. Donna could have done.
She could get used to this, she thought. Just stay here. Always.
She felt herself tearing up. Didn’t want to cry. Struggled to hold it in.
She looked across at Don. He seemed friendly too. He had the feel of an ex-copper about him, but he didn’t shove it in your face the way some of them did. Like some of her clients did, even. But now he seemed on edge, distracted.
‘You heard from Phil?’ Donna asked.
Don looked up, startled, as if she had woken him from a dream. ‘No. No. I don’t … don’t expect to. Not tonight.’ He slumped back into his own thoughts.
Eileen leaned forward. ‘So, Donna … what about you? What are you going to do next?’
Donna had thought about that. She had followed Ben upstairs, had a bath after him. Lay there thinking. She couldn’t go back to the way things had been. Not any more. Not after what she had just been through. She didn’t want to go home, either. Not after everything that had happened there.
Maybe it was time to get herself sorted, she had thought. Get her head, her body straightened out. Maybe.
‘I don’t know, Eileen,’ she said. ‘I can’t … I don’t want to go home. Not after … you know.’
Eileen nodded.
‘And there’s Ben … ’ She sighed. ‘I suppose he’s … ’ She trailed off.
‘You’re all he’s got,’ said Eileen.
She was right. He was Donna’s now. Whether she liked it or not. Her responsibility. And she had to act responsible.
Donna smiled. ‘Maybe I’ll write about what’s happened,’ she said. ‘Get it turned into a film.’
Eileen smiled along with her. ‘That would be fun.’
‘Yeah,’ said Donna, nodding, ‘maybe I’ll do that.’
Don stood up, went to the kitchen. She heard the fridge door open and close. Heard him rummaging around in a drawer for a bottle opener. The glug of beer into a glass. He returned with a pint, took a large mouthful, set it on the table beside him.
‘Don’t get drunk,’ said Eileen.
‘I’m not going to get drunk,’ said Don, a trace of irritability in his words.
Eileen turned to Donna. Dropped her voice. ‘Don’s never left the police force. Not in his heart. It’s difficult when he knows there’s something big going on. Still wants to be there. In on the action.’
‘I can hear you, you know.’
Eileen turned to him. Smiled. ‘I know you can.’
Donna saw love in that smile. Silence fell.
‘Well I don’t know about you,’ she said, ‘but I’m glad I’m not there. Too much excitement. And not the right kind, you know what I mean?’
‘I quite agree,’ said Eileen.
Don sighed.
‘Let’s see what’s on the telly,’ said Eileen, searching for the remote.
They heard a cry from upstairs. Donna stood up, ready to run.
‘It’s all right,’ said Eileen. ‘It sounds like Josephina turning over in her sleep. Nothing to worry about.’
Donna sat down once more. Eileen was still looking for the remote. She found it, but before switching on the TV, she turned to Donna. ‘You responded like a mother,’ she said.
Donna stared at her. ‘What? What you on about?’ But she knew. She could feel her face reddening at the words.
Eileen smiled once more. ‘That’s what a mother would do. Her first thought. Protect her child, whatever.’
Donna took a mouthful of wine. Another. Until she had drained the glass.
She thought about Eileen’s words. Her own actions.
‘Yeah,’ she said, heart full of love, full of fear. ‘Maybe I’ve … maybe I’ve gained a son.’
She stopped speaking. Felt herself tearing up once more. Wouldn’t allow it to happen. Forced herself under control.
Eileen looked away. Fumbled with the remote, turned the TV on.
Spooks
. Impossibly beautiful spies saving the world in implausibly ridiculous ways.
‘Oh,’ she said, more to fill the silence than anything else, ‘I like this. Although I thought it was better when that handsome one was in it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Don, bitterness curling the edges of his words, ‘let’s watch someone else save the world, shall we?’
The three of them fell into silence once more.
Eileen looked over at Don. She felt for him. Donna could see why. It couldn’t be easy to feel redundant. Especially when he’d been in the bar with the rest of them earlier on. Especially when it was all he wanted to do.
‘So you’ve gained a son?’ said Don, quietly, apology in his eyes as he looked at Donna.
She nodded.
‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Very good. You look after him, mind.’
‘I will.’ And she knew, as she said the words, that she would.
Don sighed. ‘I just hope I’ve still got one … ’
The three of them fell back into silence and watched while the impossibly beautiful people saved the world.