A Season in Hell, page 11
“I shouldn’t, but I will.”
Egan went down the steps. The door closed behind him. Shelley and Sarah were halfway to the car park when suddenly Tiller and one of his friends stepped out of a doorway and confronted them. At the same time, Brent and the fourth member of the gang came up some basement steps behind them.
Shelley said calmly, “Team-handed, eh? Just about your style.” He raised his voice and cried, “Frank, where are you?” At the same time he closed the umbrella and lunged, using it like a sword, catching Tiller’s companion under the chin. The unfortunate youth fell to the pavement, hands tearing at his collar.
Egan arrived, running silently, stamping one foot behind Brent’s knee, grabbing a wrist, forcing the man’s arm up behind him, then running him through the gate in the railings to fall headfirst down the basement steps. The fourth youth backed away in horror, dodging Tully and Varley as they came running, fleeing for his life.
And Tiller didn’t show any fear, simply took out a cutthroat razor and opened it. “Big man,” he said. “Jack Shelley, the governor. Well, let’s see how good you are.”
Shelley waved Tully and Varley away. “Leave him,” he said.
In the same moment Tiller slashed out, the blade slicing into Shelley’s sleeve. Shelley took a step back and examined it. “You little bleeder. I paid a grand for this at Gieves and Hawkes. You’ve ruined it.”
His foot flicked forward, catching Tiller under the kneecap. Tiller started to double over and Shelley raised a knee into his face, at the same time catching the wrist and twisting the arm up so that Tiller was forced to drop the razor; then Shelley hauled him over to the railings and forced his palm down on one of the spikes.
“Now then, you ponce, how tough do you feel?”
Sarah cried out, “No, Mr. Shelley, please don’t!”
He turned to look at her, eyes glazed. “Please!” she said again.
He nodded and threw Tiller at Tully and Varley. “All right, get him out of my sight. Kick his arse and send him on his way.” He turned to Egan. “Take the lady home. I’m sorry about this, Mrs. Talbot. It turned out to be like a bad night in Belfast.”
She walked away, Egan’s arm around her shoulder. They passed Tully and Varley frogmarching Tiller down the street, got in the Mini Cooper and drove away quickly.
Tully and Varley dragged Tiller into the car park. Shelley strolled in a moment later. “You’ve got the bastard then?”
“I figured you’d want a word, Jack,” Tully said.
“I certainly do. Put him down on his back.” They threw Tiller down and Tully and Varley held him.
“For God’s sake, Mr. Shelley,” Tiller pleaded.
“For God’s sake? I’m God here, my old son,” Shelley told him, “and you’ve been right out of order. You need a lesson.” He stamped down on the right shin very hard and a bone cracked. “I said I’d put you on sticks for six months and I just did. I always keep my promises. And one more thing.” He pulled the gold watch from Tiller’s wrist. “There you are, Frank. You always wanted a Rolex. Be my guest.”
He walked to the Rolls Royce, got in. Tully and Varley hurried after him, Tully clutching the Rolex. They drove away leaving the unfortunate Tiller writhing in agony. There was a step in the darkness, and Jago appeared and looked down at him.
“Are you all right, old man?”
Tiller moaned and managed to croak, “Help me.”
“Yes, I thought you were,” Jago said cheerfully, and he got into the Spyder and drove away.
When they reached Lord North Street, Egan took the key from Sarah and opened the door. She looked exhausted and sad.
“A hard night on the town,” he said.
“A nightmare.”
“I warned you what you were getting into.” She moved into the hall and they stood there for a moment. “Have you had your lesson?”
“No, Sean, I need to go on. More than ever now.”
“You stubborn fool,” he said. “You just won’t learn, will you?” And then he had an idea. “You’ve seen the violence in action tonight. That’s fine, but how would you feel about dishing it out yourself?”
“What do you mean?”
“Could you shoot someone if you had to?”
“I don’t know.” She was drained, unable to think straight. “I really don’t know.”
“All right. Tomorrow’s Saturday. I’ll take you downriver to see a friend of mine. Jock White, my old sergeant major. He has a farm in a marsh the other side of Gravesend. Runs survival courses. We’ll see what you’re made of.” He shrugged. “It’ll help fill in the time while Uncle Jack tries to turn something up.”
“Anything you say.”
“Go to bed.” He smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and not too early.” He closed the door and went down the steps to his car.
Jago listened to the tape a few minutes later and then contacted Smith. They discussed the evening’s events.
“You’d think it would have finished her off,” Smith said. “First plane home and so on.”
“Not the sort,” Jago said. “Lady of pluck and determination. About this farm at Gravesend. You want me to go?”
“Of course.”
“Then it’s time I changed vehicles. Sensible precaution. Arrange for a Land Rover or something like that in the morning. I can switch the equipment in a few minutes.”
“I’ll see to it,” Smith said.
The line went dead. Jago drew the curtain slightly and looked across the street at her house. There was a light in the bedroom. It went out.
“Sleep tight, sweetie,” he whispered. “You’ve earned it.”
Egan drove into the yard at the side of The Bargee and killed his lights. As he got out of the Mini Cooper, he noticed a sedan at the back of the yard. Its lights were suddenly switched on and Tony Villiers got out.
“Sean.” He nodded. “How are you?”
“Pretty fair. To what do I owe the honor?”
“She found you then?”
“That’s right.”
“Keep her happy, Sean, no more than that. I don’t want her involved in anything. You understand?”
“She told me about Sally,” Egan said. “About what you found on that computer.”
“That was privileged information. There won’t be any more, and remember one thing, Sergeant. For your first six months after release from the army you’re still subject to military law. In your case, you’re also on priority reserve. With your security classification, I can haul you back any time I want.”
“Colonel Villiers,” Egan said, “why don’t you go to hell?” And he opened the door and went inside.
Villiers stood there for a moment and then smiled reluctantly. “That’s my Sean,” he said softly.
SEVEN
It was raining the following morning when they set off just before noon. Sarah felt herself again, fit and surprisingly cheerful. They never seemed to leave the city, which amazed her.
“London seems to go on forever,” she observed.
“It only seems that way.” Egan grinned. “Soon out of it now. Dartford coming up.”
They were through Dartford and into Gravesend almost before she knew what was happening. Beyond Gravesend, they moved into a different world. A desolate landscape of flat green fields broken by marsh, all drifting toward the river.
She said, “I’m not too sure I like it. Strange to find such a place so close to London.”
“Yes, you get the feeling nothing’s changed much here.”
There were sea creeks and mud flats and in the far distance she could see large ships moving down to the sea. Here and there reeds grew almost as high as a man. They drove along a narrow road raised like a causeway, then passed through a small village called Marton where there was a caravan site.
“Who on earth would want to come to a place like this for a holiday?” she demanded.
“Bird watchers. Nature lovers. This kind of place would be just their cup of tea,” Egan said. “It isn’t everybody who wants to be on the beach at Cannes.”
Jago, a quarter of a mile behind, smiled softly. “I do, old man. Just give me the chance.”
He was driving a green Land Rover, a fishing basket and rod case in the back, plus a canvas holdall. He wore a crumpled tweed hat and a green parka and waterproof leggings and boots. There was a pair of Zeiss glasses on the seat beside him.
Just outside Marton a wooden sign to the right said, “All Hallows Farm,” and the place was clearly visible through the trees, a rambling house with stabling and barns joined to it, the whole surrounding a courtyard reached by an archway in a wall. Egan and Sarah drove in and he braked to a halt.
“Jock?” Egan called and sounded the horn.
There was no response. Sarah said, “What a marvelous place. It looks very old.”
“Parts of it are sixteenth century. Jock’s wife owned it. Came down through her family. She died some time ago. He took his papers after the Falklands campaign and settled here.” There was no response to his knocking. “Let’s see if we can find him.”
They followed a path up through trees and along a small valley, a stream gurgling through. It was very quiet and undeniably scenic.
“It’s lovely,” Sarah said.
“Oh, sure, only don’t drink the water.” He nodded toward the stream.
“Why not?”
“Try it and you’ll soon see. This is a salt marsh.”
They moved on, following a path between tall reeds. She said, “You’ve known Jock White long then?”
“Ever since I transferred to the SAS. We’ve served together in the Oman, Cyprus, Ireland and then the Falklands.”
“How old is he?”
“Supposed to be sixty, but I think he’s lived forever. He was in the Korean War, for God’s sake, Borneo, Aden. Oh, and Vietnam on secondment with the Australian SAS.” He glanced sideways at her. “Did you know Villiers was in Vietnam?”
“No, I didn’t.” She was shocked.
“Yes, there are few places the SAS don’t go. But getting back to Jock, he runs survival courses here for anyone willing to learn.”
“He sounds like a very special kind of man.”
“He’s that all right. More than a legend in the regiment—an icon.”
A rough voice with only a hint of a Scots burr said, “Don’t listen to a word, lassie, he was always big for exaggeration.”
As they turned, Jock White stepped out of the reeds. He was a giant of a man with unkempt gray hair and a white beard, wearing a camouflage jump jacket, corduroys and rubber boots. A shotgun was tucked under his arm. There was a movement in the reeds and a yellow Labrador appeared. From her appearance, she’d recently had pups. She whined, wriggled and approached Egan in delight.
He crouched to caress her. “Hello, who’s a lovely girl then?” He said to Sarah, “This is Peggy, sheer delight, and this,” he looked up at the older man, “is Jock White. Whenever he did a tour in South Armagh, the IRA used to shut up shop and go to Florida for the winter.”
“Cheeky young devil,” Jock said. “Always was. You’re in bad company, lassie.”
“Not now, Mr. White.” She took his hand. “Sarah Talbot.”
“Oh, I like this one, Sean. For once you’ve done something right. Let’s go back to the house and we’ll have a cup of tea. You’re staying, of course?”
“We had hoped to.”
“That’s good.” The big man drew her arm through his and they went back along the track.
Jago drove through Marton as far as the sign to All Hallows, then reversed and went back. He’d noticed the small caravan site behind the village garage and entered through the gate. An old man in overalls and a cloth cap was standing on a stepladder painting one of the caravans. He turned and looked at Jago.
“Something I can do for you?”
“You the proprietor?”
“Fancy word, but true enough.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a caravan for rent, would you?”
The old man propped his brush across the tin of paint and descended the ladder. “How long for?”
“Tonight—maybe tomorrow as well.”
The old man peered into the back of the Land Rover. “Fisherman, are you?”
“Bird watcher, really.”
“Just as well, you wouldn’t catch much with that gear around here.” He turned, scratching his backside. “Well, take your pick. No one else here this time of the year. Ten quid a night and there’s a gas cylinder included.”
“Marvelous.” Jago got his bag and the fishing gear out of the Land Rover.
“I own the garage as well. We keep most things in the shop there. What name?”
“Mackenzie.” Jago smiled charmingly and followed him toward the nearest caravan.
The sitting room had a ceiling so low that Jock White’s head almost touched it. The fireplace was large enough to stand in. There were chairs, an old sofa bed, a sideboard with a few photos from service days on it, and books everywhere, a pleasant clutter to everything.
Jock White sat on the window seat, a pair of steel-rimmed army issue spectacles on the end of his nose, working his way through the papers relevant to Eric’s death. The French windows stood open, and Sarah was sitting in the garden with a basket of puppies, Peggy crouched beside her. Egan sprawled by the fire, smoking a cigarette. Every so often he coughed quite badly.
Jock said, “Are you trying to kill yourself or what, laddie?”
Egan shrugged. “Come off it, Jock, it’s all one in the end. You know how much scrap metal I’m carrying around.”
“How’s the knee?”
“I get by.”
Jock sighed, removed his spectacles and held up the papers. “A dirty business this.”
“You could say that.”
Jock looked out at Sarah in the garden. “A fine young woman like her shouldn’t be getting herself mixed up in this sort of thing.”
“She’s very determined,” Egan told him. “Got the bit between her teeth. Wants to take them on, face to face.”
Jock White shook his head. “So why have you brought her here?”
“We’ve got the weekend to spare while my uncle’s people see if they can come up with anything. I thought she might find it interesting. I mentioned your survival courses.” He stood up and put a log on the fire. “There’s another thing. She’s never even pulled a trigger in her life. I’d like to think she couldn’t, when it comes to the crunch.”
The older man nodded. “You’re still a cunning young swine, laddie. What you’re really saying is you want me to put her off by putting her through it.”
“Exactly.”
“You always were a hard young bastard,” Jock said. “I’m going to take her for a walk. You stay here and mind your business.”
He picked up his jump jacket, pulled it on and went out to Sarah. “How about you and me taking a breath of air, lassie?”
“That would be nice, Jock.”
They left the garden by a small gate and went up through the trees, following a stream. He said, “I’m sorry about your son.”
She paused and looked at him searchingly. “You’re the first person who’s called him that. Most people say stepson.”
“Oh, it isn’t always the blood tie that’s important. It’s how people feel. I get a feeling he couldn’t have been more important if he’d been your own flesh and blood.”
She reached up and softly patted his cheek. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.”
They continued the walk. “I knew your husband,” he said. “Served with him in Aden a long time ago. There was a district called the Crater dominated by Marxist guerrillas. When they ambushed a number of our lads he took a platoon in to rescue them. All he carried was a swagger stick in his right hand. I can see him now, right out in front as if he was on a Sunday afternoon stroll, daring them to shoot.”
“They got him in the end, didn’t they?” she said.
He glanced at her, puzzled, then saw the point. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”
“I’ve never understood soldiers. The first boy I ever loved was killed in Vietnam. It always seems so stupid.”
“Sometimes necessary, lassie. The trick is to live here and now in the timeless moment. To act as if that’s all there is. No beginning, no end.”
Jago, on top of a dike in the far distance, watched them through his Zeiss glasses. Seeing her with White he felt almost overwhelmed by resentment that someone else should be allowed the contact he was denied. A feeling of desolation touched him for a moment.
He said softly, “Now don’t start going soft on me now, old man.”
“It’s so lovely.” Sarah shivered slightly in the cold as she looked out across the salt marshes.
“It’s been a sanctuary for some since Roman times,” Jock said. “Then there was Saxons here. Outlaws hunted by the Normans. Centuries later it was the smugglers, revenuers breathing down their necks. There’s a bit of that still goes on, mind you.”
“That’s it,” she said. “A place of shadows. A dead world.”
“Never that, lassie. There’s life here. Crab in the gulleys, fish in the creeks, curlew and redshank and brant geese fly here every winter all the way from Siberia. All a man needs to survive is here.”
“And that’s what you teach, survival?”
“If it pleases you. You could survive a holocaust with what I teach, but then there are those who deny life. Poor, miserable creatures who would curl up and die without a roof over their heads, a wrapped loaf and milk delivered to the doorstep in a carton.”
She laughed. “You think I’m like that?”
He waved his hand. “Those reeds, woven properly, make a fine dwelling and proof against all weather. Almost every living thing on this marsh can be eaten. Insects for their protein. Crows, hedgehogs.” He stooped at the side of the track, grabbed into the ooze and came up clutching a large toad. “Fine eating, Mrs. Talbot. Would you have the stomach for it? Or dried worms? There’s real protein for you.”
She was fascinated by the sheer ugliness of the toad. “Well, I don’t suppose worms would go down very well on the menu at The Four Seasons.”
