My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (23 page)

He watched her become a dazzling silhouette, disappearing into the brightness and rounding the corner at seven fifty-six. Clambering inside the car, Michael placed his beige canvas workbag behind his seat and slotted the key into the ignition. He reeled off a length of the silver tape that his true love had given him, and cut the strip with his scissors. He stuck it across the top of the locking seal. He cut a shorter strip and stuck it down the seal along the side before sliding his fingers down, flattening it free of air bubbles and pressing the tape firmly. Michael put the tape and the scissors on the passenger seat and twisted the ignition key, bringing the car to life.

The radio came on halfway into a Pink song which he flicked off to LBC, the talk radio station, as he shoved his vehicle into gear, pulling his seatbelt on and maneuvering the car out from the curb and to the end of the street.

It was six minutes past eight and Michael was driving towards Dog Kennel Hill, heading into East Dulwich, Grove Vale, East Dulwich Road, Nunhead Lane, passing Peckham Rye Park. He hit the lights at Evelina Road.

Nick Ferrari, the presenter on LBC, was discussing the situation in the Middle East and whether the United Kingdom should once again stand shoulder to shoulder with its US cousins across the pond and intervene with the uprising in Iran.

"Definitely not," Michael said to the radio as he pulled to a stop at a set of traffic lights.

The travel report kicked in at around eight-sixteen, just as Michael drove over the many humps of Drakefell Road. There must have been around fifteen or sixteen or more. Along one section, on that bright morning, it was like driving blind due to the intense sunshine streaming through the windscreen, and then he hit a speed hump.

At eight-eighteen the radio station took a call, just as Michael pulled into Malpas Road and onto yet another stretch of speed humps. If he judged it right, he could drive straight over them, lining his wheels so they were evenly spaced either side of the mound in the road. Michael stopped at yet another set of lights, this time at the crossroads at Lewisham Way. He listened to the foreign caller on the radio, a young -sounding man who had spent most of his life in south London.

"Yeah, hi, this is Fariz, yeah. Mornin'. I wanna talk about da trouble dat's 'appening in da Middle East and Iran. Well, I'm from Iran. I support the protests and all that, yeah, but I fink people underestimate what the regime is capable of, yeah, cos when you protest, yeah, you've gotta be so brave and make sure you're not followed back to your house, yeah, cos dey will get you. The soldiers will get you or da people who are paid by da government will get you if you're seen to be a protestor and are recognised. Trust me, yeah, I know. I have friends who have gone missing before. My own mother, yeah, she was a teacher and she spoke out about how fings were, yeah, but... I'm trying not to get too emotional. It's hard for me. Dis situation has to be dealt wiv so carefully. Yes, da Iranian regime has to change, but it's how to change it and who is gonna do it and who is gonna replace it. Lots of factors at play here, you get me?"

"I get you, init," mimicked Michael, as he made a right, heading for the aptly named Friendly Street as another caller chirped in. He had a heavy accent. Older than the previous caller. Perhaps from India. "Hello sir. Yes, I think this whole situation is bad news for us. What with Egypt, Libya, Syria and now with Iran. It will only be bad news. More terrorism. More fear. More extremists. More radicals. More fanaticism. What do you replace it all with anyway? Another democratic puppet that the West puts in place? It's as if we are re-living thirty years ago. It's the Ayatollah Ali Khamenei all over again and the revolution back in 1979 and the demonstrations against the Shah in 1977. It is the same situation and the same outcome will occur. I tell you. It is all engineered. The entire play out. The US is behind all of this, I guarantee."

"Probably right," Michael chipped in as he found himself at the traffic lights at Blackheath Hill. He flicked over to another radio station and listened to the remainder of 'Suicide Blonde' by INXS. Michael sang along to the song as he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

Michael's car passed Wat Tyler Road and headed onto Shooters Hill Road, slowing to let a group of schoolgirls cross over. They were from St Ursula's Convent School.

Michael continued up and turned left into Charlton Way, with Greenwich Park on his left hand side.

The green lights shone brightly at the crossroads of Maze Hill and Vanbrugh Park, enabling Michael's car to drive straight over, passing the large houses on either side of him, and then Blackheath High School on his left. He grinned when he saw a pug being walked, slowing his car to take a better look. His smile was caught by the young thirty-something walking it.

There was a police presence at Mayhill Road as Michael drove past on Charlton Road. That was, of course, where an acquaintance of Sinatra Umbundo had been shot dead. Michael raised his eyebrows, fixing on several black African women holding bunches of flowers as they walked past a police officer standing at the entrance to the road.

"Wonder what went on there?" Michael said to himself as he continued his drive along Charlton Road.

He slowed at the set of traffic lights where the Cherry Orchard Estate was situated. Michael's eyes fixed on another's as he followed somebody crossing the street in front of him.

That certain somebody's eyes were clearly fixed on Michael also. It was a Groundhog Day situation. A revisited moment in time as Michael watched Sinatra Umbundo cross the very street, in front of his car, where Michael had been previously with the undercover officers.

Sinatra's gaze was well and truly fixed. Glued. Wide-eyed and concentrated on Michael like a wild animal. He was eating a box of fried chicken with a handful of fries.

"Fried chicken for breakfast. Staple diet," Michael mumbled to himself as the lights changed from red through to green. He shifted gears and passed Sinatra, who was already on the other side of the road. Michael took another glance, seeing Sinatra's stare holding firm.

"What's with the staring, man?" said Michael, driving past Charlton House and rounding into the Village.

In Cemetery Lane, Michael drove to the junction of Charlton Park Lane. He glanced at the cemetery briefly as he awaited a break in the traffic. "There'll be another one joining you lot soon," he sighed.

At eight thirty-two Michael's car headed towards Plumstead Common and Winn's Common. The road was surprisingly clear for that time of day and particularly that time of the week. Driving down the tree-lined Winn Common Road made Michael feel he was in a different place entirely, albeit briefly, until he entered into the narrow and steep road of Riverdale. Michael slowed to let an oncoming police car, heading uphill, pass him.

Plumstead Police Station was situated partly in this road, and officers, plain clothes and detectives, lined their own vehicles down the street. Michael knew this because a former pupil of his used to live down that very road and often moaned to him about how none of his family could get a parking space due to "all the bloody copper filth parking their cars in front my house".

As soon as he arrived at work, PC Norman immediately approached Michael. Norman the policeman stood tall and extremely upright, with a stern expression upon his face.

"Michael, come this way a minute," requested PC Norman, turning his back on Michael and stepping up the corridor away from him.

"Pardon me?" Michael frowned and glanced past the officer to the open door of an office at the end of the corridor. He saw Josephine Golding, the head, sitting inside.

She turned her head, ever so briefly, catching Michael's look and closed the door.

Michael stared at PC Norman, several steps ahead of him. The man glanced back round and gestured with his head for Michael to follow him. The look was highly authoritative and unfriendly.

"What's going on?" asked Michael, reaching another classroom door where PC Norman now stood.

Norman quickly opened the door wide and shoulder-barged Michael into the room.

"This is him. Michael Thompson," announced PC Norman, closing the door, with Michael finding himself inside the classroom.

The classroom had a long, boardroom-type table in the middle, with about fourteen chairs around it. There was a whiteboard at one end and some children's artwork on the walls. A water cooler was present in one corner, too.

On two of the chairs sat a man and a woman. They were smartly dressed and in their late thirties. In front of them, on the table, was a green cardboard folder, an A4 notepad and a school file on a pupil.

The woman was nearest Michael. She gestured to a seat and Michael frowned, glancing back to the door and then at the two unfamiliar people sitting before him.

"Hello. I'm Michael and you are...?" he said, extending his hand and taking one step toward the man and the woman, both of whom exchanged a look with one another.

The man edged an inch or two up from his chair to lean forwards and shake Michael's hand.

The woman did the same, not looking at him, and neither made any real effort to acknowledge Michael. She gestured to the chair once again, but Michael remained standing.

He looked at them with a pleasant expression, yet still wondered what was going on. He made an instinctive guess, but could it be true? His heart was pounding inside his chest.

The two exchanged a look again and the woman sighed.

"I'm Detective Paula Stevens and this is Detective Ben Jordan."

Detective Jordan jutted his head up, in an all too street-style manner. He was slobbish and actually wearing black tracksuit bottoms, a shirt and a black blazer.

"Okay - so... Do you have any identification?" Michael asked, receiving a deep sigh in return from Detective Stevens.

She glanced at her colleague who nodded his head, as if to give the go ahead.

"My father was in your line of work, and several of my close family, too, so I've been raised to ask these things. Thanks," Michael continued as Stevens and Jordan flipped their small, black wallet-type Warrant Cards, revealing a glimpse of passport-sized photographs of each of them and the Metropolitan Police badge. Michael eyed it closely and then looked up at each of them in turn. He straightened, gaining courage and exhaled. "Just a second."

With that, Michael suddenly darted out of the room and raced down the corridor.

PC Norman was at the opposite end and bolted after him. "Hey! Where are you going! Get back here!"

Michael's heart pounded with every step. The floor was slippery from the fluid that the cleaners used. His shoes slid as they made contact with the wood. He glanced around and saw PC Norman setting foot after him. Michael raced down some steps and through a tiny wooden door that led to a spiral wooden staircase. The building was certainly an old one. A modern school would never have had such nooks and crannies. Michael fumbled for his keys, nervously, unlocking a door to a hidden room. He locked it behind him and bounded up another set of stairs, working his way to a far corner of an upper classroom, well away from any pursuing foe.

PC Norman curled his lip as he looked around an empty corridor. He tried a door, but it was locked. He shook it, angrily, craning his neck to work out exactly what was behind it and where it led to.

Michael thought fast. He pulled his phone and dialed the one and only number he could ever think of calling in a situation such as that one: his father's.

Edward's mobile rang and vibrated on the dashboard of his jeep. He was parked on his driveway, washing the vehicle down. The sound of the phone alerted him and he straightened like a meerkat to listen. His eyes fixed on the phone. He picked it up.

"Hey Michael. Everything all right?"

"Dad, I arrived at work and PC Goon shoved me into a room," blurted Michael.

"Hold on. Slow down. What do you mean?" asked Edward.

"I mean exactly that. He barged me into a room and there were two detectives waiting inside, wanting, I guess, to quiz me about an Afghan boy we have."

"Detectives?" Edward leaned into his jeep and reached under the driver's seat. He winced as he stretched, pulling a second cell phone from underneath. A piece of red electrical tape was attached to it. "Did you get the detectives' names?"

"Yes. One man, Ben Jordan. One woman, Paula Stevens," Michael answered.

Edward pressed a button on the second cell phone. "And where are you now?"

"I'm in a room. I ran off, but the Goon is on the lookout for me."

"OK. All right. Don't worry." Edward lowered the phone and clambered into his jeep, closing the door for privacy. He brought up the second cell, adopting a completely different tone of voice.

"Two-nine-five-two-nine-three-three-six-six-two." Edward paused for a beat. "Five-seven-seven-zero-nine-one." Edward had coded in. He continued. "ID check on IC9. Ben Jordan. Male. Paula Stevens. Female." Edward waited for a reply. "Benjamin Jordan. IC3. Paula Stevens. IC1. And? Out."

Edward lowered the second, red-taped phone and brought up his original cell to speak with Michael again. "Michael? OK, listen. The two detectives are MI-5."

"What? Why? Dad." There was panic in Michael's voice.

"Listen. It's OK." Edward tried to keep his son calm.

"No, it's not OK. They're military intelligence."