Fear of the Fathers (32 page)

“Yes, you're right,” she admitted. “He's alive.”

Cronin slumped back in his chair and let out a whistle of amazement. “My God!” he said. “I don't believe it…I just don't believe it.”

Stella gave him a curious look. “I thought you'd already made your mind up. I thought you already knew.”

Cronin leant forward, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “I guessed as much, but actually hearing it confirmed puts it in a completely different light. I don't know…I can't explain it…It's like being touched by a heavenly choir.”

“Well, that's one way of looking at it I suppose,” said Stella. “I find it's like having your brain scrambled by an egg whisk.”

Unable to contain himself Cronin got to his feet and paced about like an expectant father. “I just can't believe it,” he muttered again.

“Well, it's true. There's a part of me that wishes it wasn't, but it is.”

“Do you wish Stratton was dead then?” asked Cronin.

“No of course not,” she said. “But it's a lot to take in. I wish he hadn't died in the first place. And now…now I don't know what to think. I'd only just decided to let go and get on with my life…Anyway, I'll put the kettle on. Would you like a coffee?”

“Please,” said Cronin, and followed her into the kitchen.

Stella rinsed out a couple of mugs and spooned some granules into each. “The thing that really bugs me,” she said, “is that he never let me know he was alive.”

“He probably wanted to protect you,” said Cronin. “As you now know, there are a lot of interested parties.”

“I know, and maybe he was right. But there's part of me that's hurt. I don't know…It's almost like I feel betrayed. Like I'm not important enough, or clever enough to understand. I feel insignificant.”

“I'm sure that wasn't his intention.”

“No, of course not. But it doesn't stop me thinking it. I feel like there's a barrier between us, like we're worlds apart.” She finished the coffees and handed one to Cronin. “Anyway, listen to me waffling on. Let's go and sit down, I expect there's loads of questions you're dying to ask.”

Cronin made himself comfortable and took a sip of his coffee. He watched Stella light another cigarette. His head was indeed bursting with questions, but he had no idea where to start. “How did he look?” he said eventually. “Did he seem healthy?”

Stella laughed. “He was until I punched him in the face and broke his nose.”

“You seem to take great delight in that,” said Cronin.

“Not really. But as soon as I'd done it he waved his hand and fixed it, like it had never happened. There doesn't seem any point feeling bad about it.”

“I suppose not,” Cronin agreed. “So he just fixed it on the spot?”

“Yeah. I heard a little crunch then ‘hey presto', it's back to normal. I couldn't believe it.”

“So, he's obviously got a good command of the symbols?”

“I guess so. He's had them for three months now, so I expect he probably knows them off by heart.”

“Hmm,” said Cronin. “Interesting…Did he seem different in any way?”

“I suppose he did. Although it's difficult to tell. For all I know it might have been my attitude that had changed – I wasn't in the best frame of mind when I found out, as you can imagine. But, yes, there was something strange about him. He seemed more distant, not just from me but from the world…He was somehow removed, not in an unfriendly way, but like he didn't belong – a kind of serene detachment.” She drew on her cigarette. “Am I making sense?”

“Yes, of course,” Cronin nodded. “It makes perfect sense. Do you think there's any chance I could meet him?”

Stella stopped to think. Cronin had lulled her into talking, but the request to meet Stratton made her uneasy. She suddenly felt guilty. “I don't know,” she said. “I'll have to ask him.”

“Of course,” said Cronin, and then as if reading her mind, he added, “And don't feel bad about opening up to me – you've made the right decision. Whatever voice inside told you to trust me wasn't wrong, so don't beat yourself up about it. All I want is to keep the knowledge from getting into the wrong hands. And I assume that's Stratton's wish as well.”

“Yes it is,” she said. “He wants to return the box to India.”

“Well then,” said Cronin. “I'll do everything I can to help.”

Stella thanked him. She prayed she wasn't making a huge mistake.

Shocked and disorientated by his twisting fall, Jennings steadied himself and swam towards what he thought was the underside of the bridge. The current was dragging him down, but he thrust on determinedly. He remembered school holidays retrieving bricks from the bottom of a swimming pool in his pyjamas, and was suddenly thankful for the experience.

Surfacing with a momentous gasp, he found that he had gauged his underwater swim well and was out of sight under the first arch of the bridge. Above him he could hear the beginnings of a commotion. He swam into the shadows of the brickwork.

The noises from the bridge grew louder, and he guessed there would be a huge crowd peering over into the gloom. Soon the police launches would be on their way, and then there would be nowhere to hide.

To make his life easier he kicked off his shoes. He trod water and tried to formulate a plan. His best hope was to get to the other side of the river and disappear up the Thames Path. He figured that he could go from arch to arch swimming beneath the water to keep from view. The only problem was surfacing for breath after each section. Once the police boats were out they would be lighting up the arches like an England international, and then even the slightest attempt for air would be impossible. There was no way he could make it in one go.

As he pondered his predicament, the sound of engines drew near. Responding to his panic, his brain suddenly shot out an idea. He delved into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small notepad. The paper was soaked through, but in the rings was a small disposable biro. After congratulating himself on his obsession with taking notes, he unscrewed the plastic top and got rid of the nib and the ink, leaving himself with a three and a half inch snorkel. He placed it in his mouth and dropped below the surface to test it out. It wasn't perfect or comfortable but it allowed him to breathe.

He dived under and felt his way round to the next arch. When he'd cleared the brickwork he floated up and allowed himself a few deep breaths through the pen. The stunted length of his breathing apparatus meant that he had to be precise: an inch too high and his face would break the surface; an inch too low and he would be sucking in the putrescent filth of the river.

He continued across one arch at a time. The brightness of the search lamps helped him gauge his flotation, keeping him out of sight; but the polluted state of the water meant that every time he opened his eyes they felt like they were being bathed in acid. As he soldiered on it became almost impossible to see anything at all.

Having never counted the arches underneath Westminster Bridge he had no way of measuring his progress. After what seemed like an endless cycle of breathe; dive; swim; breathe, he felt he must be nearing the far bank. He floated to the surface, took a lungful of pen air, and looked up. Compared to the previous arches this one seemed dark. He didn't know if it was due to a lack of search lights, or whether the Thames had finally destroyed his retinas. With instinct telling him it was time to take a gamble, he tentatively poked his head above the water.

The noise of the outside world woke him as if from a dream. His senses having been deprived were acute and alert. He rubbed his eyes and swam to the edge of the arch. He was right where he wanted to be, next to the bank. The police boats were speeding away from him towards where he had come from. There appeared to be something going on at the pontoon.

Seeing a window of opportunity he swam as fast as he could for the riverbank. The noise of the boats became a distant hum. With one last burst of energy he dragged himself up onto dry land and ran for the trees.

In reality the trees provided little cover, but at that moment they felt like a cloak of invisibility. Jennings propped himself up against a trunk and caught his breath. Away on the river he saw the police launches resume their patrol. He wondered what heavenly intervention had distracted them.

After regaining his composure and mouthing a quick “thank you” to the skies, he got to his feet and planned his next move. His options were limited.

Suddenly, from nowhere, a ray of light raced over the ground towards him. Before he had a chance to move, it caught his body and moved rapidly up to his face. He put his hand up to shield his eyes.

“Don't move,” said a voice. “Stay right where you are. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Jennings raised his arms with a weary acceptance and turned his head away from the blinding beam. He heard the voice radio for back up. Soon the place would be crawling. It was over.

Marvo poked his head round the door of Annie's room. She had eaten the food and taken the pills. Now she was fast asleep, a picture of discontent.

He shrugged and went back downstairs. Kamal was sitting up in his bed, beavering away at the laptop.

“Found anything interesting?” asked Marvo.

“Not a lot,” Kamal replied. “It is all much the same as the TV news items: she killed her father and sister in a fit of rage. There is, however, a small suggestion of something more sinister.”

“What could be more sinister than killing your father and sister?” asked Marvo.

“Some sources are claiming there was evidence of child abuse,” said Kamal. “Nothing was brought up at the trial because Tracy refused to speak. Apparently she did not utter a word from the time she was found until eight years later.”

“That's a long silence.”

“Yes, it is. But who can imagine what was going through her young mind. She would have been heavily traumatized.”

“You can say that again,” said Marvo. “So you think there's more to it than her just being an evil child?”

“Of course. Don't you?”

“I don't know. She doesn't seem the butchering type, but who knows what she was like back then? I'd like to think she wasn't evil. I kind of like her.”

“Yes,” said Kamal. “I like her too. So I suggest we do not make any rash judgements until she feels better and is able to talk. How was she by the way?”

“She's eaten, which is always a good sign. I gave her some pills to help her sleep. Hopefully in the morning she might be up to chatting a little, but I wouldn't bank on it.”

Kamal signed off and closed the laptop. He reclined slowly into his pillows grimacing with very agonizing inch.

“More morphine?” asked Marvo.

“Perhaps a little,” said Kamal. “But not too much. I do not wish to become reliant on it.”

“How about some tea?”

“That would be good.”

Marvo went to the kitchen leaving Kamal to his own thoughts.

Jennings stood still, as commanded. His captor, a young uniformed constable walked over. “May I ask what you're doing here sir?” he said. “You seem very wet.”

“Yes,” said Jennings. “I've just been for a little dip. Thought I might get a couple of miles in before dinner.”

The policeman's face didn't break. “Turn around slowly sir and put your hands behind your back.”

Jennings did as he was told, readying himself for a surprise attack. But he didn't need it. First, there was a sharp thud…and then a softer one. The young greenhorn hit the floor. Jennings stared down mystified.

“I believe that's another one you owe me,” said a familiar voice. The accent was American.

Jennings squinted into the dark. “Grady?! Is that you?”

Grady stepped out of the shadows. “The one and only,” he said.

Jennings gawped at his friend. “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

“Oh, you know, I was in the area doing a bit of sightseeing…I'll explain later. We've got to get you out of here. Follow me.”

Grady led him through the trees stopping behind nearly every one for cover. Sirens wailed as the might of the law descended.

“I assume you have a car,” said Jennings.

“Of course I've got a fucking car,” said Grady. “What do you think I am, some kind of amateur?”

After a couple of hundred yards, across the road from St Thomas' hospital, Grady stopped. He looked back to where they had come from. A mass of squad cars had gathered and were blocking the street. A swarm of policemen broke out and began to search frantically.

“Right then,” said Grady. “The car's over there.” He pointed to the hospital car park. “Keep to my right, keep pace at my side, and pray that they don't see you.”