The Mercy Seat (33 page)

But there was nothing left. Everything in miniature, too small to be effective. He curled up on the floor, making a noise he couldn’t classify, trying to force it from his body. Tears fell, unnoticed.

Trying to clear his head, he stuck one of the CDs he had taken from his old home into the laptop. Johnny Cash:
Solitary Man.

He flicked through the tracks, rejecting them in turn. ‘I Won’t Back Down’. ‘Solitary Man’. ‘I See A Darkness’.

‘The Mercy Seat’. Too tired to reject it, he let it play.

Nick Cave’s covered murder ballad; a death-row con dying on the electric chair. Refusing to confront his actions or consequences until death finally forces one last confession from him.

Then that noise again.

Johnny sang in his Old Testament prophet growl that the mercy seat was waiting …

The JCB tearing up his brain.

Johnny sang that he felt his head was burning …

His heart.

His soul.

David …

Annie …

Abigail …

Maria …

Johnny sang that he was yearning to be done …

The JCB … tearing …

To be done …

Tearing …

Something to take away the pain … anything …

He had something.

And anyway, Johnny sang, he told the truth …

Donovan crawled on his knees to the holdall, brought it crashing to the floor, contents spilling out. He rummaged through, throwing his belongings everywhere, not caring where they landed, pain blotting out everything else.

He found what he was looking for.

An eye for an eye, Johnny sang, a tooth for a tooth …

His revolver.

And he wasn’t afraid to die …

His heart beat wildly, his chest heaved.

The pain … JCB …

He spun the chamber.

Placed the barrel to his forehead.

Began to squeeze the trigger.

Smiling, almost in relief.

A knock at the door.

‘Joe? You OK?’

Peta’s voice.

Donovan opened his eyes. Looked around as if waking from a dream. His heart was beating wildly, his chest heaving. He looked at his hand. The gun.

Johnny Cash now singing ‘Would You Lay with Me in a Field of Stone?’.

‘Joe?’

Donovan tried to speak, found his throat hard and dry, like sun-baked clay.

‘Ye – yeah?’

‘The music’s very loud and I heard you shouting. Are you OK?’

‘Just … just a minute …’

He stuck the gun under the pillow. Moved towards the door, stopped when he saw his reflection in the mirror. In CBGBs T-shirt and boxers, his eyes red-rimmed, his face wet and tear-tracked. He wiped it on his shirt.

Opened the door.

Peta couldn’t hide her shock at his appearance.

‘Joe …’

Donovan said nothing.

‘Can I come in?’

‘It’s … erm …’

‘I think I’d better,’ she said and walked in. Then stopped, looked around.

‘What … what d’you want?’ Donovan couldn’t face her.

She turned to him. ‘I’ve just heard from Amar. He’s found Jamal. He’s safe. I thought you’d want to know.’

‘Yes. I do. Thank you.’ He sighed.

Peta shook her head. Looked at him. There was warmth and compassion in that gaze. More than that, understanding.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think you should be left alone tonight.’

Donovan said nothing.

‘I’ll get my duvet. Be back in a minute.’ Peta left the room.

Donovan looked around, sighed.

Johnny now singing that he was just a wayfaring stranger, that there was no sickness, toil or danger in the bright land he was heading to, only his loved ones who had gone on.

Donovan was suddenly weary beyond tears.

Caroline slept. Colin watched her.

She was curled up on her side near the radiator, a couple of old, stinking blankets wrapped round her to keep out the cold. She slept long, deep and often, Colin had noticed, her body shutting down, protecting itself.

Colin sat back against the wall, cradling his injured arm. It had been strapped up; a field dressing, nothing more. It still hurt, needed proper medical attention. No chance of that.

Caroline’s face. Peaceful in repose.

But he couldn’t tell what she was thinking, dreaming.

What she now thought of him.

‘What’s going on?’ she had said. ‘Why are you here?’

Colin had sighed, sat back against the wall.

‘Oh Caroline,’ he said, ‘I’ve done a terrible thing …’

And he told her.

‘It started with your mother’s death,’ he said. ‘Everything … everything started then.’

Caroline looked at him, confused, patiently waiting for him to continue.

‘It was a …’ He sighed. ‘A bad time. A difficult time. The cancer had … well, I don’t need to tell you, you know. You hadn’t moved out, then. It was hard. To come to terms with. And then there were the travellers.’

Caroline tutted, shook her head. ‘I don’t know why you let them get to you so much.’

‘You know why.’ His voice, snappy and sharp, made Caroline jump. She stared at him. He looked away.

Silence stretched, became almost a presence in the room.

He continued. ‘Every year they came … with their mess, and their fires, their washing strung out, their rubbish thrown all over the place.’ He gestured, his chain rattling against the pipe. ‘And the children … running round naked, filthy … feral. The noise, the revving engines at all hours, lorries coming and going, loading and unloading God knows what in the middle of the night … and all that shouting, swearing, rolling home drunk …’

Caroline nodded absently. ‘I know, Dad.’

‘We knew they’d be back. So we thought we’d outsmart them. That’s why we bought that land. Worth it, too, we thought. Even if that farmer did charge us over three times what it was worth.’

Caroline said nothing. She had heard it all before.

‘Yes, well … They outsmarted us, didn’t they? Good and proper. Remember? The drainage? The tarmac?’ He shook his head, lips curled in angry remembrance.

‘I remember.’

‘And there they were … all round the houses, sneering at us, taunting us to challenge them … selling furniture out of the back of vans, trying to scare us into having our houses reroofed, our drives done … thieving from us …’

Caroline laughed in exasperation. ‘No they didn’t. They weren’t like that at all.’

There were small points of fire in Colin’s eyes. ‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? They showed a different side to you. But I saw them as they really were …’ He sighed.

Caroline looked at him confused. This wasn’t the father she knew talking. He caught the look, cast his eyes down.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That was unfair.’

She nodded.

Colin continued, his voice smaller. ‘It was awful, it really was. Awful. Hell. I was trying to come to terms with Helen’s death, with your mother’s death, to mourn … and all I could see and hear were them … They terrorized us …’

He shook his head as if to dislodge the memory. Risked a look at his daughter.

‘And then you got friendly with them.’

Caroline rolled her eyes. ‘Oh Dad …’

‘Well, you did. That biker.’

‘Tosher? So what?’ Caroline attempted a shrug. ‘He was a nice guy.’ She leaned forward. ‘If you’d taken the time to get to know him, you’d have realized he wasn’t the monster you thought he was.’

Colin shook his head. ‘I just remember thinking … I’m glad your mother wasn’t there to see her daughter with …’ He sighed. ‘Oh I don’t know …’ He shook his head again. ‘I was being driven mad. Helen was gone, you were with that … that biker … I wanted them to go. And I wasn’t the only one.’

‘What d’you mean?’

Colin took a deep breath as if steeling himself.

‘Alan Keenyside invited me round.’

‘Alan Keenyside? The policeman? What for?’

Colin looked away.

‘He had a proposal …’

And Alan Keenyside’s house was before him again. And there was Keenyside himself in polo shirt and chinos; weekend leisurewear as much a uniform as his weekday suits. Coming towards him, all affable smile and miss nothing eyes.

‘Drink, Colin?’ The light catching his eyes, sparkling like diamond in dark, subterranean graphite.

‘Ah … no, no.’

‘Go on … one won’t hurt you …’ Those eyes again.

Colin caved in. ‘Just the one.’

Keenyside nodded. The right answer. He turned, disappeared.

Colin stood in the hall of Keenyside’s house, not sure whether he was supposed to follow or not. He stayed where he was. Looked around.

The house was new, one of the larger ones in the development. Decorated by Keenyside’s wife, Suzanne, with money if not taste. All laminate and leopardskin, glass furniture and ‘artistic’ wall hangings. Bright and shiny. Jamie Cullen making good songs unlistenable on a CD from somewhere in the house.

Keenyside reappeared bearing two drinks, led Colin to his study, closed the door behind them. This room had none of the brightness of the rest of the house; all dark walls, heavy, reproduction wooden furniture, blood-burgundy-leather chairs and settee. Keenyside handed Colin a tumbler of whisky, sat in his studded-leather desk chair, swivelled to look at Colin, who sat on the chesterfield. The room was manly, businesslike. Books of military history on the shelves. Keenyside sat higher than Colin. Colin felt like a supplicant visiting a feudal lord. The effect was deliberate.

‘So,’ said Keenyside, sipping his malt and smacking his lips, ‘what you got for me?’

Colin leaned forward, hands clasped. ‘It’s about what you were saying the other day, remember?’

Keenyside gave an imperceptible nod.

‘You remember?’

‘I want to hear you say it, Colin. You tell me.’

Colin found his lips suddenly dry. He quickly licked them.

‘The travellers. I don’t know what to do, they’re …’ His fingers became rigid; he made involuntary strangling gestures. ‘They’re driving me insane …’

It all tumbled out of him then. The anguish at Helen’s
death, the subsequent pain and madness, the impotent rage he felt at the way the travellers had outsmarted the village, ‘And then there’s Caroline. She’s got … involved … with one of them. A biker. Tosher, she said his name was.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve lost Helen. What if I lose Caroline?’ He held his hands out, imploring. ‘What if she just … rides off one day? And I never see her again?’ He sighed. ‘Something has to be done.’

Keenyside watched him, sipped his whisky. ‘There’s the legal challenge,’ he said.

Colin nodded.

‘Might be costly. But it’ll probably come out in your favour.’

‘That’s just it,’ said Colin. ‘Might. It might not, too. We might be stuck with them.’ He sighed, ran his hands through his hair. His face was contorted with pain. ‘They won’t go away … and if they do, they might take Caroline with them …’

Keenyside swirled his glass, watched the ice turn to water, release the oils in the malt.

‘So,’ he said, voice quiet, controlled, ‘what d’you want me to do about it?’

Colin looked up. ‘I don’t know.’ His voice was choked with desperation. ‘But you’re a policeman. Isn’t there … something you can do? Some way to, I don’t know … move them on?’

Keenyside studied his glass, smiled. Spoke slowly.

‘Back in the old days, it wouldn’t have been a problem. They’d pitch themselves up somewhere, piss the locals off and a squad in body armour would turn up at night and forcibly evict them. Burn them out if needs be.’ He shrugged. ‘So I’m told, anyway.’

He looked directly at Colin, that subterranean jewelled glitter back in his eyes.

‘That the kind of thing you’ve got in mind?’

Colin swallowed hard. He felt hot all of a sudden.

‘We’re just speaking hypothetically here, Colin.’

Colin nodded. His voice became shaky, untrustworthy.

‘Yuh – yuh – yes … yes …’

Keenyside took a sip of his drink. Frowned. ‘Asking a lot, you know. You’d have to put together a crew, shall we say, of like-minded members of the force, get them working off the clock, give them a bit of a cash incentive … Could come to quite a bit …’

He took another sip. Continued talking, his voice as smooth as the malt.

‘And then there’s the risk involved. An illegal operation like that, if something went wrong …’ He shook his head.

Colin said nothing. His head was beginning to ache.

Keenyside sat back. Light picked out the spines of books behind him. Anthony Beevor:
Stalingrad. Berlin.
Andy McNab’s novels in hardback.

‘Hypothetically,’ he began, ‘this could be dangerous for the person in charge. Say me, for instance. In that case it would be only fair that the person who wanted this thing to take place, namely you, should shoulder some of the risk himself.’

‘Wuh – wuh – what d’you mean?’

Keenyside looked thoughtful. ‘You do a lot of research at your lab, don’t you?’

‘Well, yes. I mean, not me personally—’

‘MoD stuff? Top secret?’

‘Look, I …’

Keenyside was warming to his subject. ‘Biological warfare? Viruses that could be weaponized? Should imagine there’s a big demand for that kind of thing. War on terror and all that. How much would something like that go for on the open market? To the highest bidder?’

‘I … I wouldn’t know.’

‘Oh don’t be coy, Colin. I bet you get approached.’

‘Well, yes, sometimes, but …’

‘Millions, are we talking?’

‘Look.’ Colin was almost shouting. His head was aching. ‘What has this got to do with the travellers?’

Keenyside sat back, a look of shock on his face. ‘Just …’ He gave a small shrug. ‘Talking hypothetically, Colin. Risk assessment. Once you commit yourself to something like this, you’re in it all the way.’

Colin said nothing. Stared at the floor. His untouched drink. The ice melting. He sighed. Keenyside pressed on.

‘Anyway, that’s one hypothetical solution. Another would involve you.’

‘Me?’

‘What we would need,’ he began ruminatively, ‘would be something from your labs. Something that could dissolve in water, be colourless, odourless. Untraceable in the human system.’

‘A poison?’