Fear of the Fathers (52 page)

But today it was not to be. Her heart sank as she saw the familiar shape of the charcoal-grey Scorpio round the corner.

“I wish my dad had a car like yours,” said Tilly. “It looks so big and comfy.”

Tracy didn't comment. She looked over at her father who was waving cheerily from the window and, with a sigh, slowly made her way across to the car.

“How's Daddy's little angel? Did you have a good day at school?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

She spent the journey home as she spent all journey's home with her father: in silence; secretly hoping that they would be involved in a fatal crash. But he was too careful a driver for that. Too controlled and calculating to allow the needle a millimetre above thirty, let alone cause a mass pile-up.

When they arrived at the house her sister, Fiona, was already back from the big school. There was a time when Tracy would have welcomed her company, but not anymore. The days of sibling idolatry were long gone, replaced by a fearful, systemic hatred.

Tracy went straight to her room, hoping that she might be forgotten about. She unpacked her satchel and took out her copy of
The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe
. It was her favourite book and she had read it five times. Every day she checked the back of her own wardrobe in the vain hope that she might be transported to
Narnia
, and into the safe, protective paws of
Aslan
. But there was no magical portal in her bedroom furniture, just a flimsy white MFI backing with cracks in it where she'd attempted to force her way through.

A knock on the door dispelled any desire she had to be left alone. She closed the cupboard and sat down on her bed, awaiting the inevitable intrusion.

Fiona walked in. “Dad says you're to come downstairs.”

“I don't want to,” said Tracy. “I want to stay up here and read.”

Her sister walked over to the bed and grabbed her by the hair. “You're coming downstairs whether you like it or not you little bitch. Now, move it!”

Tracy stumbled down the stairs still in her sister's iron grip. They bypassed the kitchen and living room and headed straight for the cellar. The fusty smell hit her immediately and violated her throat with its sickening connotations. Her father was sat on his ancient brown leather armchair wearing the same sadistic smirk he always did. She called it his ‘cellar smile', and it meant only one thing to Tracy, and that was pain and humiliation.

“Has she been a good girl?” her father asked Fiona.

“No Daddy, she hasn't,” she replied.

“Does she need to be taught a lesson?”

“Yes Daddy.”

He got out of his seat and unbuckled his belt. Fiona dragged Tracy to the workbench and shoved her on it face down, holding her wrists tightly so she couldn't move; thankful that it was no longer her receiving the attention. Tracy struggled and kicked, but her sister was just too strong. Then it began. She started to weep as the cold, clammy fingers ran up her thigh and hitched her skirt onto her lower back. She kicked out as he dragged her knickers to her knees.

“Don't struggle my dear,” he said calmly. “You'll only make it worse for yourself.”

“Leave me alone!” she screamed. “Leave me alone! Mum!”

“No-one can hear you. Your mother isn't here. And remember what will happen if you tell her.”

His hands ripped her legs apart and she drifted away into a sea of dark dreams…

…Annie shot upright. The television was blaring, and some young college girl was about to be stabbed by a man in a hockey mask. She eyed the clock in a panic, but soon realized she'd only been out for a quarter of an hour. She got up and made a sweep of the windows and doors, before a brief check on her captives in the basement. Satisfied that everything was okay, she downed the rest of her coffee and made herself another much stronger one. There would be no more sleep for her tonight.

Inside 10 Downing Street Stone and Davis had finished their shift, and were sharing a post-work whisky in Davis' quarters. It had been a long and hectic day, with the Prime Minister flitting between public appearances and emergency meetings. The leadership challenge had thrown him into a state of fear and turmoil, and no-one, not even his wife, had been immune to his ensuing foul temper.

“What a fucking day!” said Davis. “Forget about assassination attempts – I could have killed the cunt myself. Nobody speaks to me like that! Nobody!”

“He's under a lot of pressure,” said Stone stoically.

“Yeah, I know. But there's no need to be so shitty to us. It's not our fault.”

“No, it's not. But he's only human. You know what he's like – he'll be all apologies tomorrow. Just forget about it, it's not that important.”

Davis sparked up a cigarette. “What's up with you?” he asked. “Usually you'd be the first one to lay into him. Come to think of it, you've been wandering around like a lost fucking sheep all day. It's a good job nothing happened.”

“Just shut the fuck up will you!” screamed Stone, slamming his glass down on the desk and towering over Davis. “I've had enough of your whining you old fuck! You're paid to do a job, so just fucking well do it!”

For the first time ever in their friendship Davis was genuinely scared. He'd never before heard his partner raise his voice, let alone produce a tirade like this. He leant back in his chair with his hands in submission. “Sorry mate,” he said, meekly.

Stone backed off and sat down. “No, I'm sorry,” he said. “It's not your fault. Something's happened.”

“What?”

“If I tell you you've got to swear not to do anything behind my back, okay?”

“Of course not mate.”

“It's Tracy Tressel, or Annie Steele, or whatever you want to call her.”

“What about her?” asked Davis.

“She's got Patricia and Jenny.”

“What!?” exclaimed Davis. “How the fuck has that happened?”

“I don't know, but it has. She phoned me earlier today when we were in the car.”

“Well, what are we doing sitting here! Let's go and find them. Phone up the Yard!”

Stone put his hand on Davis' arm. “No! We can't do anything. I know where they are – they're at the house, in the basement. But if anyone tries to get in there then she's going to kill them.”

“We could get the SAS to storm the place.”

“It's a nice idea, but no,” said Stone. “If she even senses the slightest thing wrong then they're dead – and I believe her. I'm not risking their lives.”

“What does she want?”

“She wants me. She wants me to go there on my own tomorrow morning.”

“And you're going to follow her demands?”

Stone demolished his whisky. “I have to,” he said. “I've got no choice.”

Bullets continued to fly all around. Jennings was crouched behind a rock, gun in hand, waiting for a chance to return fire. Stella and Jimi had made it to the trees and were shooting haphazardly at the unseen enemy on the opposite bank. Stratton lay face down on the bridge. Jennings was unable to tell if he was dead or alive.

“Stratton!” he shouted. “Stratton! Are you okay?!”

“Yeah! I'm great! I can't fucking well move though! Are those bastards ever going to stop shooting?!”

“I doubt it! We're going to have to get to the trees!”

Stratton reached up to Tali's body and started to remove his backpack. He freed it and slid backwards using it as a shield. Jennings followed suit with his own. They made it to the safety of the trees unharmed.

“Who the hell are they?” said Jennings.

“You're guess is as good as mine,” said Stratton. “But at the moment it doesn't matter. Let's just get out of here. Do you reckon we can lose them, Jimi?”

Jimi shrugged. “It depends who they are,” he said. “If they have a good tracker with them then it is going to be difficult. But nobody knows this place like me – apart from Tali of course…” He hung his head.

“Yeah, I'm sorry about your brother,” said Stratton.

Jimi's head shot up. “Yes. Thank you,” he said. “But this is no time for mourning is it? We must get along before they cross the bridge. Come on, follow me.”

He led them down a narrow path in the trees, forcing a pace that would have been crippling even without their luggage. Stella and Jennings marched on resolutely, but Stratton began to lag behind. Eventually Jennings felt he had to do something.

“Jimi!” he yelled. “We need to stop!”

Jimi turned round to see what the fuss was about.

“It's Stratton,” said Jennings. “He's falling behind.”

They stopped and waited while Stratton made up the ground. Stella could tell just by looking at him that there was no way he could carry on much further. His shoulders were slumped, his face was almost transparent with sweat, and his legs were weaker than a newborn foal's.

“We can't go on like this,” said Stella. “We've got to stop for a while.”

“No,” said Stratton, firmly. “We've got to carry on. I'll be fine. I'll get a second wind.”

Jimi thought for a moment. “I know a place where we can rest, but we have to get off the jungle path right now.”

Without another word he darted into the undergrowth and beckoned them with his hand. Stella followed behind, then Stratton, with Jennings taking up the rear. Titan padded along beside them, making light of the sticky terrain. The surrounding flora became gradually darker and heavier until there came a point where Stella felt there was no way through. It was then that Jimi dived to the ground. He removed his backpack, pushed it through a tiny gap in the wall of plant life, and slithered through after it. The others duplicated the manoeuvre, and quickly found themselves in a small clearing surrounded by impenetrable foliage.

“We should be safe here for a while,” said Jimi. “Tali and I found it by accident many years ago. For some reason nothing grows here.”

Stratton flopped to the ground and lay there with his eyes closed, and hands behind his head. Stella sat beside him and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “I'm sorry about Oggi,” she said. “I'm going to miss him. We all will. I can't believe he's gone.”

“No. But he is, and there's nothing we can do about it. And as Jimi says – this isn't the time to grieve.”

Stella forced him to sit up and drink some water. “Are you going to be alright?” she said. “I really think you should consider going back to safety. There's no way you're going to survive out here for another two weeks. Me and Jennings can go with Jimi and deliver the box.”

“Don't worry, I'll be fine. Besides, there's no way back now. I've got to go on whether I like it or not.”

Whilst his charges rehydrated, Jimi hitched his way up a tall tree to get a view of the jungle path. The busy leaves gave him ample cover, and its height afforded him a wide panorama. He looked from side to side, scouring the path for any sign of their pursuers. For a while he saw nothing, but just as he was about to climb down he caught sight of a head bobbing up through the sea of green. As he squinted for clarity he noticed another three people behind, all of them heading towards the secret clearing. He shinned quickly down to warn the others.

“We must go!” he shouted as he hit the ground. “They are on their way!”

“How the hell do they know where we are?!” said Jennings.

“It is Massa,” said Jimi. “They are with Massa.”

“I thought he was your friend,” said Stella.

“So did I. But there is no time to think about it, they will be here in five minutes. Come, we must return to the path.”

Ninety degrees to the right of the hole through which they entered was another, slightly larger one. Jimi picked up his kit and hurtled through like a ferret. The others tagged on as best they could. Jennings was the last to leave, making sure Stratton didn't get left behind.

The going was more arduous than before with the brush closely woven and resilient like a spider's web. But thanks to Jimi's relentless efforts they steadily made their way through and, after an eternity of suffocating darkness, finally burst back onto the path.

As soon as Jennings was out of the thicket Jimi raced on again.

“Does he never get tired?” said Jennings to Stratton.

“Apparently not.”

After another five minutes march, Stratton's exertions started to tell. He began to drop off the pace, and after a while had lost sight of Jimi and Stella. He staggered onwards blindly, kept up only by his mind and heart, his body having long since departed. He was about to drop when he felt Jennings' hand stabilize him.

“You're going to have to stop mate,” he said. “You can't go on like this.” He put his hand to his mouth and yelled. “Jimi! Stella!” There was no answer.