Crossfire (28 page)

'Mr Nick, I come to hotel now?'

'No need. I'm outside. I'm by the school.'

I could hear movement his end as he jumped
out of bed and Mrs M gave him a hard time.

'You in the shooting, maybe?'

''Fraid so, mate. I just want your keys, OK?
Can you meet me by the wagon? Keep the lights
off in your house, OK?'

'I come now, Mr Nick.'

I closed down and went to the van.

A door opened just ahead and a skinny body in
a pullover, trousers and flip-flops joined me. We
ducked into cover as the flashing blue lights
surged past, strobing the mud walls of
the houses as they snaked up the hill.

His eyes widened. 'Mr Nick, your face – much
blood . . .'

'Don't worry, mate. It's not mine.' I peeled off
some notes. 'I just want your van. I'll pay you for
it. I've got eight hundred dollars with me.' I
grinned. 'You could buy three vans for that,
maybe.'

He held up his hands. 'Please, Mr Nick, I no
want your money. You already pay. I drive you
hotel.'

I got down on one knee and fished in my sock.
'That's the problem, mate. I'm not going back. All
that shooting up there . . . It was a prison. There
were young girls being tortured and raped. My
friend was a prisoner too. I came to get him out,
and now I must find somewhere to hide him
while he recovers. He's been badly hurt.'

I stood up and offered him the money.

'Let me pay for your van. My friend's behind
the houses here. I don't want to involve you in
this, mate.'

'No. I drive you. I drive you where you want. I
you friend, Mr Nick.'

I punched his arm. I knew I was beaten. 'Give
us a hand, then. His name's Dom.'

He followed me into the darkness behind the
two houses. The flashing blues had almost
reached the target. The Turks' searchlights kept
sweeping the hillside.

'Mr Nick, I take you to my brother woodstore,
maybe. Not far. In valley.' He looked down at the
mess in the sleeping-bag. 'Oh . . .'

'Dom, this is my mate Magreb.'

He nodded weakly, then kept mumbling,
'Thank you,' over and over. I wished he'd shut
the fuck up.

I turned back to Magreb. 'He'll be all right.
Come on, let's get him to the van.'

I slid my hands under his armpits and Magreb
took his legs. We staggered down the hill.

'You go to bar to find these bad people?'

'No. The people in the bar were all right.' I
nodded in the direction of Noah's place. 'The bad
ones were up there. So bad they weren't even
allowed into the bar.'

'They dead now, Mr Nick?'

'Yes. Very.' I didn't want to beat about the
bush. I needed him to know what he was getting
himself into.

We lowered Dom on to the ground when we
got back to the Hiace, and Magreb went to open
the side-door. 'No, mate. We'd better get in the
back and you cover us over.'

He didn't miss a trick. 'Checkpoint, maybe?'
He opened the tailgate and we lifted Dom in. I
followed and unzipped the bag to cover us both.

Magreb stood motionless at the back of the
van.

I reached over and put a hand on his shoulder.
'You sure you want to do this?'

He leant towards me, his expression serious. 'I
want my children live in peace, Mr Nick.' He
pointed at the building beside us. 'I want them
go school, be doctor, maybe. Those bad men, I no
want here. I want leave us in peace. You make
my home little safer now, Mr Nick. You my
friend . . .'

I smiled and gave his shoulder a squeeze
before we went into gratitude overload. 'If we're
stopped, act normal. Tell them you're going to
work, OK?'

He nodded and stepped back. The tailgate
closed, immediately sheltering us from the chill
wind.

We huddled together in the space between the
seat and the back of the vehicle. I held Dom
against my chest to give him as much extra
warmth as I could muster. His head rested just
below my chin. He moistened his swollen lips
and tried to talk. 'Peter . . . I did not kill him,
Nick. I did not kill him . . .'

The van lurched off downhill and we
were catapulted forward against the seats. I
adjusted the Bergen lower down my back. 'Who
did?'

'You must believe me . . .' His breath was
warm and rancid.

'I know about the drugs, the FCO connection,
all that shit. But what's so important about the
Dublin film?'

'I did not kill Peter.' The boy was on a loop.

'Listen, mate. You need to level with me here. I
need to know what the fuck's happening.'

Magreb had spotted a problem. 'Please, quiet,
Mr Nick. Police . . .'

I found Dom's lips with my thumb and forefinger
and held them tight. I hugged him to me,
and tried to shuffle us a few inches lower. I
checked that the bag was covering us as the brakes
squealed and the wagon came to a standstill.

I could hear radio traffic. It got louder as
Magreb rolled his window down. A voice gobbed
off in Pashtun and Magreb responded in kind. It
sounded like they were having an argument. It's
that kind of language. Vehicles stopped, engines
idled. The only words I could make out from
Magreb were 'Serena' and 'hotel'.

Dom's breath rasped. I pressed my hand over
his face as I heard footsteps making their way
round the vehicle. A hazy light washed across the
rear window and the cheap nylon sleeping-bag.
Dom whimpered. I pulled his head more firmly
against my chest. It was pointless flapping. There
were only two things that could happen. Either
they would find us or they wouldn't. All I could
do was shut Dom up and wait.

The light faded and the footsteps moved back
to the driver's window. There was another short
exchange, and the van jolted forwards. We drove
maybe fifty metres further down the track and
then on to the metalled road. We were soon
cruising along the flat of the valley. 'We're nearly
there, Mr Nick.'

I lifted Dom's head and took my hand away
from his mouth. Dribble poured down his chin
and soon worked its way through my T-shirt.

'Siobhan?'

'She's OK. I saw her a few days ago.'

'Does she know I'm OK? Can I talk to her?'

'Not yet. Let's just get to my mate's brother's
place, get your head straight. Then you're going
to tell me what the fuck's going on.'

'Nick . . .' His stinking breath was just inches
from my face again. 'I did not kill Peter, I swear.'

Magreb was getting a bit worried about the
waffle. I didn't think he could hear Dom but he
could certainly hear me. 'Mr Nick, please, quiet
and stay down, maybe. Just few minutes. Thank
you.'

We turned off the metalled road and bounced
along another track. The brakes squealed and the
van came to a halt. Everything went quiet. 'We
here, Mr Nick.'

I didn't know why he was whispering. It
wasn't as if he had a Stealth Hiace.

The tailgate opened and I pushed back the
sleeping-bag. All I could see were huge wood-stacks,
maybe fifteen metres high, tree-trunks,
branches, bundles of twigs for tinder. I clambered
out. In front of the wagon was a collection of
corrugated-iron shacks. TV Hill was to our right,
maybe a K away. The target was still floodlit and
flashing blue like a UFO landing site.

Either side of us were runs of half-finished
buildings, exposed reinforcing rods jutting into
the starlit sky. A car drove past on the main the
other side of the woodpiles.

We carried Dom over the tyre-rutted mud into
one of the shacks. The place stank of old
woodsmoke. We put him down on a pile of furry
nylon carpets that had been spread across a
minging old mattress tucked into the corner.
Magreb lit an oil lamp. 'My brother get wood.
Three days, maybe.'

There was a fireplace of sorts, with a badly
sooted cooking-pot sitting on old embers.
Hundreds of books were piled in one corner.

Magreb held the lamp over Dom. I touched his
arm. 'Listen, mate, I'll get a fire going, heat up
some water. You find some good stuff to drink,
OK?'

It got him sparked up. 'Of course, Mr Nick. I
get food also. I not long.'

As the rickety old door closed behind him I
slipped the Bergen off my shoulders, took the
lamp to the fireplace and tucked a couple of
blankets round Dom.

The door creaked open again. 'Mr Nick?'

'What's the matter, mate?' As I opened my
mouth I knew there were just too many
footsteps.

The next thing I heard was 'Stay where you
are, son – or you'll get it right now.'

I didn't need to turn to do a headcount. Where
you had Sundance, you had Trainers.

'Now face me.'

They were both in the room, carrying shorts.
Trainers kicked Magreb off towards the left of the
shack. He wasn't controlling his fear too well.
Dom just kept quiet and still.

Sundance and Trainers weren't interested in
him, or even Magreb. I seemed to be the star of
the show.

'Don't move a muscle, you fuck.'

A vehicle rolled over the mud towards us and
pulled up. The engine stopped and doors
opened.

Two more bodies joined us. Mr Sheen and Top
Lip stopped for a moment and glared at me, then
picked up Dom and my Bergen. Dom tried to put
up a struggle rewarded by Mr Sheen with a blow
to his face.

Magreb cowered, forehead down, knees up,
arms wrapped round his legs.

Trainers covered as Sundance took a few steps
towards me, a hand in his jeans. 'What's the
matter with you, son? Do you really think you're
so fucking clever you can do what the fuck you
want?'

He threw something at me. The Yes Man's
mobile glanced off my arm and fell to the
ground. 'You thought you'd do your own thing,
did you, and fuck everyone else?'

There was no point talking to these two but I
couldn't resist it. 'If this is the courtesy car, what
time's the flight?'

'Shut up, smartarse,' he snarled. 'Don't fuck
me about or we'll drop you here and now. Then
we'll do that fucking Pole.'

I kept my hands up and started moving. I
wanted to get out of the building as quickly as
possible. They might forget about Magreb curled
up in the corner.

Sundance retrieved the mobile and came up
behind me while Trainers moved towards
Magreb. 'What about this fucking arse?'

Sundance didn't even draw breath. 'Drop the
cunt.'

I swung round. 'He's just a fixer. You saw on
Predator, he's no part of this.'

Magreb's head came up, eyes pleading.
Trainers jammed the short against his forehead.

It was the last I saw of him.

Sundance bustled me outside to where a
white GMC Suburban gleamed in the
starlight.

A single shot rang out behind us.

Moments later, Trainers closed the door tidily
behind him. He swapped a glance with
Sundance and they burst out laughing.

The double doors at the back of the GMC were
open and the passenger lights were on.

Sundance gave me a prod. 'They got big plans
for you, son. No quick exit like Sunny Jim back
there.'

I hesitated at the back doors. Dom was already
inside the vehicle, curled up behind the rear
seats.

'Get in.'

Mr Sheen was at the wheel. Top Lip rode
shotgun. A thermal-imaging monitor from the
Predator glowed in the footwell.

Both Serbs turned and stared at me in silence.
It was the kind of silence that told me we were in
a bottomless pit of shit.

I lay down next to Dom. Sundance pulled a
taser from his coat, pushed it into my stomach
and gave me a 100,000-volt helping of good
news.

I shuddered for two or three seconds, then
blacked out.

I lay half on Dom, my cheek against his stomach,
and half on the floor of the wagon. A blur of light
flashed through the window as we raced past a
line of shops. My head spun. My insides still
shuddered. Fuck knew what lay in store. But the
first chance I got to escape, I'd grab it. Then I'd
come back to kill these fuckers for what they'd
done to Magreb. And not just maybe.

The GMC smelt as if it had been brought
straight from the showroom. My face bounced
off Dom and on to the carpet as Mr Sheen threw
us into a series of sharp turns.

I moved my hand slowly towards Dom's. He
gripped it tight. I hoped it felt as good for him as
it did for me.

He tried pulling my head towards his, but he
wasn't strong enough. He wanted to tell me
something. I pushed down slowly on the
carpet with my feet so I could get closer to him.

'I'm sorry, Nick,' he breathed. 'I thought you
were with them – the Irish guys. They're the ones
that killed Pete.'

'Sure?'

'They dragged us out of the camp . . .' He
shook his head and I felt his tears sprinkle across
my neck. 'They took us out . . . and they shot him
. . . right in front of me . . .'

A voice yelled, 'Shut the fuck up,' and a fist
appeared over the back seat and punched us
apart.

Occasional bursts of street-light strobed across
the vehicle. There seemed to be no other traffic.
The automatic gearbox stayed in fourth. We were
moving with speed and purpose, and the road
was long and straight.

We slowed after fifteen minutes or so and the
GMC hung a right and stopped. A gate creaked
open. We rolled forward maybe a hundred across
rough ground and stopped again. Mr Sheen's
window powered down and there was a muted
conversation with someone outside. Agate opened
with a metallic creak. We rolled another few metres
and stopped. Then Sundance and Trainers threw
open the passenger doors and jumped out. A gust
of freezing air took their place.

The heat had been a security blanket, even for
that short space of time. Cold meant shit was
about to happen.

Top Lip opened the back. It was pitch dark, but
he pulled a pair of blacked-out ski goggles over
my eyes for good measure. I felt my feet being
gripped and then I was on the move. My hand
slipped away from Dom's and I fell on to a pile of
rubble.

Sundance said goodbye with his boot.

Two sets of hands grabbed me under the
armpits, frogmarched me across a stretch of
gravel, then bounced me up a couple of steps.
There was no talking but plenty of grunts as they
struggled to get through a doorway without
letting me go.

I knew we were inside, because the screams
and pleading echoed off the walls. I was being
dragged along a corridor. I listened for Dom's
voice, but he wasn't doing the begging. Unless
someone already had his balls in a vice and he'd
suddenly become fluent in Arabic.

I could smell cigarettes and kerosene. We
halted, and a set of ear defenders was pulled over
my head. That meant only one thing. Everything
I'd heard so far, they'd wanted me to.

I could feel rough concrete under my boots
now. They'd taken me into another part of the
building. It was much colder here.

Hands pushed me to the ground, rolled me on
to my back and tore off my boots and outer
clothes. Something cold and hard bit into my
shoulder muscles as a heel pressed against
my chest and my boxers were pulled off.

I had no idea of the size of the room I was in,
but I was naked and had no control, so the space
around me suddenly felt large and I felt very
small.

I was hauled back to my feet and swung
round. My head slammed against a wall. But
fighting back would get me nowhere. I'd only get
filled in, and I needed to keep as fit as I could to
get us the fuck out of here.

They repositioned me and kicked my legs
apart. Then they made me lean forward until my
outstretched hands touched the brick.

I breathed long and deeply to slow everything
down. I tried to listen, but all I could hear was the
sound of the blood pulsing through my head.

My hands went numb, then pins and needles
kicked in.

I clung to the only positive thought that came
within reach. At least there was a system. I
wasn't being kicked to shit – not yet, anyway.
I must be in a holding area. I'd probably stay
there for most of the time now, between
interrogations.

I found the sensory deprivation strangely comforting.
Stripped of perception, all I could do was
think, and I needed to do that big-time.

One thing was for sure. I'd been totally wrong
about Sundance and Trainers. They did travel
beyond the M25.