Jago (54 page)

‘It’s Swamp Thing, man,’ Dolar said. Paul might have known the singer would be a comics reader.

Even Salim’s eyes were not moving now. He was leaking red and grey on to the flagstones.

‘Come away,’ Paul told Dolar. ‘Slowly.’

Dolar smiled. The Green Man had taken root, tiny tendrils from his splayed feet digging into the earth. But he was none the less dangerous. He fetched Dolar a swipe with one branch, and the singer staggered away, falling first to his knees, then to his face.

‘So much for trying to communicate with it,’ Ferg said. ‘We’ve got to rig up some electricity, or get some fire going. That should see it off.’

Paul wasn’t sure the boy’s suggestions were practical.

‘Come to Daddy, Jerm.’

Paul remembered what Jeremy had said about his Daddy when they had first met. ‘Daddy’s penis got funny… Daddy tried to hurt me with his penis… Daddy put his hand right through Jethro.’ That was the last time he discounted anything a child told him.

‘Do what Daddy says,’ the horsewoman said, her voice musical, lyrelike. ‘It’ll all be fine.’

‘We’ll be a family again.’

Jeremy, unconvinced, was clinging very tight.

W
e pass this way but once,
an ex-SAS training sergeant had told him years ago during a four-week course,
so if there’s anyone you want to shoot in the head, do so at your first opportunity. No member of this department has ever been prosecuted for murder or manslaughter. You make a mistake, you can always say sorry.
The gist of Sergeant Parry’s lecture on Skill at Arms was, there was no point in employing a gun as a threat. On television, anyone who had a gun pointed at him put his hands up and obeyed orders. In real life, the mere sight of a gun makes a surprisingly high proportion of people react like a claustrophobe locked in a broom cupboard, so you have to shoot them anyway to keep them quiet.
People are arseholes, don’t expect them to act in their best interests.

Discounting Badmouth Ben, Lytton had never shot anyone. In Canada, he hadn’t even been issued with a gun. And on this assignment, the most he’d got to do with the Browning, before last night, was take it out once a month and, following carefully the instructions in the manual, clean it. Now, he was making Parry—who’d been knee-capped with a Black and Decker drill by the Provos in Belfast and succumbed later to a trauma-induced coronary—turn in his grave by breaking his first rule. He was employing the pistol as a threat.

‘Draper,’ he said, gun steady, ‘have Young Adolf step back.’

The detective nodded to Erskine, who looked like an illustrated Nazi, almost all of his exposed body covered with swastika tattoos, a nine-inch-blade hovering before Teddy’s bare chest. If Lytton was going to have to shoot anyone in the head, it would be Erskine. He had already drawn the slide, jacking the first of thirteen rounds into the chamber, pulling back the hammer. He was textbook-ready to kill.

Erskine stood over Teddy, knife in his hand. In the gloomy tent, Lytton couldn’t see the policeman’s blue eyes, but he thought the madman would probably force the issue before standing back.

Don’t bother with any of that Roy Rogers faeces about warning shots or firing for the legs or hands,
Parry had insisted.
If you absolutely must talk to the bastard afterwards, give him a bullet in the gut or groin. Take my word for it, he’ll be only too pleased to give away all his H-bomb secrets if you promise to put him out of his misery. Otherwise, the safest bet is between the eyes or, if you’re a wobbly shot, slap in the chest. With the kind of overkill cannons you lads get issued, six inches either way around the heart doesn’t matter much.

Erskine looked at Lytton, smiling, swastikas crinkled in the lines of his face. He was the image of the Beast of Belsen, his own fantasies shaping him. Jago’s constituency must be spreading around the whole village. The state of Teddy suggested Erskine had been beating the boy to death. There were already a couple of corpses in the tent.

Lytton focused on Erskine, aiming the Browning at his chest, but was still aware of Raine and Draper at the extremes of his vision. If he took Erskine, the others would come for him. As policemen, they were trained for these situations. He’d shoot the black constable first, then the overweight sergeant.

Don’t think about it, do it.

Erskine spread his hands and stepped back, away from Teddy, out of the circle of lamplight.

‘Drop the pig-sticker.’

Erskine shrugged and tossed the knife to the groundsheet. Then he took another step back, canvas behind him shaking a little.

‘Not that far,’ Lytton said, beckoning with his left hand.

Don’t use a gun to make gestures or point at things. That’s what you have an extra hand for.

Erskine halted. His truncheon dangled from his belt by its thong.

It wasn’t the department’s stated policy to shoot British policemen. Then again, it wasn’t the Avon and Somerset Constabulary’s stated policy to torture and kill teenagers.

‘Teddy?’

The boy, slumped and cuffed, bruised and bleeding, groaned. He was still conscious, which would make it easier.

‘Fuck, James,’ he said.

‘Uncuff him,’ Lytton said to Raine.

‘He’s got the keys,’ the policeman said, jabbing a thumb towards Erskine.

‘Well, get them.’

Raine fumbled with a pouch on Erskine’s belt, and the white policeman giggled.

‘Careful, Chocky, don’t get too intimate,’ Erskine said. ‘I don’t want to catch coon
AIDS
.’

Raine, whose face was studiedly devoid of expression, flashed angry for a moment, then swallowed it.

‘You realize you’re interfering with officers in the course of their duty?’ Draper said. ‘That’s a serious offence.’

Raine had Teddy’s feet uncuffed, and was bending under the chair to get to his hands. It was awkward for him.

‘Possession of an offensive weapon,’ Erskine added. ‘That’s a good one.’

‘Breach of the peace.’

‘Conspiracy to assist the escape of an apprehended suspect.’

‘Blue murder.’

Teddy was free. He stood up carefully, wincing. Tonight, everyone had their bruises.

‘The cuffs,’ Lytton said. ‘Use them, Teddy.’

The boy took the handcuffs from Raine.

‘Arrange them around the maypole.’

The central support pole of the marquee was sunk at least a foot into the ground. Lytton had the three policemen hold hands crosswise in a circle around it, and then had them cuffed together. They were satisfactorily cramped, and Erskine was making exaggerated faces at being so close to Raine. ‘There’s a bloody monkey smell here,’ he said. Raine looked away, pretending not to be involved.

‘You are making a very big mistake, Mr Lytton,’ Draper said. ‘Charges will be brought.’

Lytton held up a flap of canvas, and Teddy stepped through. Without saying goodbye, he followed. He’d managed to get through the scene without shooting anyone, and he levered the hammer down.
Remember, no one was ever killed by a dead person.
Of course. Sergeant Parry hadn’t met Badmouth Ben. Or conceived of a world with Anthony William Jago in it.

Outside Checkpoint Charlie was a bonfire. A group of kids sat around it, passing a foot-long joint between them. The smell of marijuana wafted towards the drug-squad tent.

Teddy was bent over double, feeling his pains.

‘That Erskine’s gone fucking mental,’ he said.

‘So has everybody,’ Lytton said.

The police car parked by the roadside was locked.
It’s for killing people, not hammering in nails, so don’t use it for any purpose for which it was not intended.
Lytton smashed the front driver-side window with the butt of the Browning.

‘Vandal,’ one of the dope smokers shouted.

‘Keep the countryside tidy,’ said a girl.

He could hear a woman’s voice on the police radio, and bored officers exchanging CB codes and traffic complaints. Lytton jammed the gun into his waistband and got the door open. Sliding on to the glass-strewn front seat, he pulled the radio handset from the dashboard. He found the send button, and pressed it.

‘Hello, Achelzoy?’

The woman answered, ‘Who’s that then?’

‘My name’s Lytton. I’m in Alder, Checkpoint Charlie. I’m using Sergeant Draper’s radio.’

‘What are you doing that for? Put Ian on. He’s well past report time. I was going to put a query on his sheet.’

‘I’m at the fish-and-chip van now, Stace,’ interrupted a male voice, ‘two cod and chips and a spring roll, right?’

‘Hello, Achelzoy?’

‘Still here, where’s Ian and Barry?’

‘Listen, this is important. Who am I talking with?’

‘WPC Stacy Cotterill.’

‘Who’s the senior officer present?’

‘Um… me? Ian’s in Alder, and Sergeant Sloman is on the chip run. There’s only Greg Dunphy otherwise, and he’s very junior.’

‘Ms Cotterill, can you get hold of Alistair Garnett?’

‘Who’s he when he’s home?’

‘Fishcake, sausage in batter and chips for Greggie?’

‘Garnett. He’s been liaising with you. Your station has been a message drop. For
IPSIT
.’

‘Eyesight?’

‘Fancy some curry sauce, Stace?’

‘My name is James Lytton. I’m working for Garnett. In Alder.’

‘Sorry, don’t mean a thing.’

‘…motorway tailback to Shepton Mallet,’ said a new voice, ‘and we’re stuck in it…’

‘Ms…’

‘Miss.’

‘Miss Cotterill, things are out of hand here.’

‘Don’t I know it? Complaints all night about the noise. But we’ve promised not to go on site. They’re just kids, and it’s only for a week.’

‘Mission accomplished at the chippie, Stace. Back in five mins. Put the kettle on. Ten-four, heh heh.’

‘…be here all bloody night…’

‘Sergeant Sloman?’ Lytton tried.

‘Who’s this?’ the chip runner replied. ‘Get off the line.’

‘Call Garnett, and tell him to send in the cavalry. If Jago isn’t shut down soon, this will blow up.’

‘This one of they terrorist hoaxes?’

‘Where’s Ian?’

‘…roads are impassable, everyone’s gone whacko…’

There was a whine, and the radio choked to death. Lytton spun across the frequencies, but couldn’t pick up anything. He hoped he’d started the machinery working, even if it was clanking. At the least, Sloman should send a car to Alder to investigate his unauthorized use of the radio.

‘Any luck?’ Teddy asked.

Lytton shrugged. ‘No idea.’

‘What’s bloody happening?’

‘A deluge, Teddy.’

The dope smokers were up and dancing, moving slowly like deep-sea divers. Two girls picked up one laughing man and, after three good swings, dumped him into the bonfire. He didn’t stop laughing and rolled off the logs, damping the flames. Several dope smokers had large scorch marks on their clothes. Two guys were rolling another colossal joint, paying minute attention as if they were assembling a bomb.

Checkpoint Charlie was shaking, the point of the central pole wavering, guyropes snapping. The pole lifted up and slowly fell. ‘Timberrr,’ the dope smokers shouted, clapping as the canvas puffed out and fell in on itself, a wriggling centre showing where the policemen, hands entwined, were struggling. They might be free of the pole, but the heavy canvas, pinned to the ground by stakes, would keep them where they were for a few minutes.

Lytton knew he’d come to the end of another rope. He would have to look after himself, and whoever else he could manage, until help turned up. Teddy didn’t have to be told. They walked away into the milling crowds, deeper on to the festival site. The Browning was uncomfortable against his hip. Everywhere, there were people: sleeping, talking, dancing, scrapping. It was late, but there were hours to go before the dawn. Hours.

J
eremy was hiding behind the two young men, the normal one and the one with the punk haircut. The goodness of the soil rose through Maskell’s tubers, feeding him strength. This summer the topsoil was baked dry, but there was always goodness a few feet down. When the land was sick, it was a passing, surface thing.

‘Get away from my son,’ he told the men. They didn’t move, despite his order. He’d have to teach them a lesson, put them in their place.

His knob pointed at the flesh of his seed. If Jeremy defied him further, Maskell would have to lay about him with his quirt. The memory of a transforming shock thrilled in his knob, reminding him of the moment when the spark of the land had passed into him, setting him on his course.

His woman was behind him, their daughter with her, up on Fancy. The family’s animals were a part of it. Together, they were Maskell Farm. The land was the most important thing. All served the land. Farm and family, custodians of the soil.

Jeremy pushed past the men, and stood on his own, wobbly on his feet, ‘I’m not afraid of the dark any more, Daddy. There’s no Evil Dwarf.’

Maskell was pleased that nonsense was over.

‘I killed him.’

Maskell bent his head, bark of his neck splitting. ‘Come to me, my flesh.’

Jeremy was on the steps of the sunken verandah. The others were holding back, hiding under the eaves of the house. Those he had put aside lay unmoving in their places, one on flagstones, the other on grass.

‘It’s all right, Jeremy,’ Sue-Clare said, voice like a flute. ‘We’ll be together.’

Jeremy looked silly in a baggy T-shirt that came to his knees and a pair of shorts cinched tight with a belt marked like a tape measure. His hair was wet and he had his hand behind his back, concealing something. Boys were like that—he’d been like that—hiding fat frogs and curious stones and toy soldiers. Maskell smiled, the wood of his face shifting.

The normal man stepped out of his place and said, ‘You have a real problem. Something is happening to you…’

The man didn’t understand anything.

‘Something is happening to us all… maybe we can get help…’

‘Jerm, don’t listen to this clod, come here and give Daddy a hug.’

Jeremy took a few steps. Maskell felt his son’s body warmth. He bent down and made a basket of his arms, sweeping Jeremy up in it.