‘I take it the odds are stacked?’
The first draw, a brief lifting of the veil, an answer giving way to seconds spent on assessment, appreciation. He pointed to the two trucks, their back doors opening to his gesture. Caged interiors, a view of tan and brindled coats, pricked ears, large muzzles. Dogs. And huge. There was pride in Bell’s voice, affection for the breed, for the sport. It softened his tone. ‘Winner takes all, Special Agent. They catch you, they eat you. And heat doesn’t improve their mood. The law of nature. It’s what my Argentino babies are bred for, trained for.’
And they say hobbies broaden the mind. She squinted, attempted to count the beasts, gauge the threat. But the doors had swung shut, the snapshot concluded. Christians and lions came to mind, the trembling delay, the arena wait, crouching in rags with the sclerosis of inevitability, the incomprehension of victimhood. Krista, the crowd-pleaser. To play or to capitulate, to be torn to pieces or to bow the head for the dum-dum. Either would lead to blood drying on the desert floor. A bullet was the safest option, the quickest. That should disappoint. They had gone to so much trouble, travelled to such lengths for the show. She could bring the curtain down, terminate the run. It was tempting. She swallowed, larynx constricting, fluids evaporated. The pressure of decision, tension concentrating at the back of her skull. Climbing. Lead would only compound the headache. Time, world and brain were shrinking. Hard to weigh alternatives without alternatives, when the scales were tipped, piled high, with bad shit. Canine excrement. To think she had believed herself a dog-lover. An allergy was imminent. She eyed Bell, met his stare. No give, not even halfway. She would run, she would damn well run. Situation go. Situation red.
‘You didn’t offer the same deal to Fletch Wood.’
‘He wasn’t unionized, didn’t ask.’
Fair enough. Fairness had nothing to do with it. ‘I’ll go with the hounds.’ Breathing gave more scope for cheerfulness; regrets could wait until the jaws dragged her down, closed on her throat.
Pleasure behind the tinted glass. ‘The right choice.’
‘For me? For you?’
‘Something for everyone.’ His expression suggested free dog food as the greater advantage. ‘Stay still.’
The movement of a knife, a sharp jolt, and a piece of fabric was torn from the back of her issue overalls. It was followed by a section of trouser-leg. Something for everyone. Something for the snarling perros to get their teeth into, their noses around. It explained the absence of soap, the unwillingness of her captors to provide for the basic essentials of hygiene. She had underestimated, dismissed it as random unkindness, the brutish custom of the breed, to a psychological process of deprivation, intimidation. A mistake. They were holding her not for interrogation, but for the chase, keeping her alive for this day, for this one hour. Ripen before picking.
Tobacco scent curled to her nostrils, the stub length of the cigar jutting absurdly from the covered mouth. Covert smoke at a private venue. The man was self-assured. He removed the Havana, lodged it between index and forefinger. ‘You’re imprinted on their circuits. They’ve sniffed your cell, your belongings, had the take on your odour. They’re the best anywhere.’
‘I’m supposed to be impressed?’ She was meant to be cowed.
‘If your heart and eyes still function in the terminal phase, you will be. Blown away. I swear.’ He raised his covered face, smelt the air, parodying. ‘Scent of a woman, Krista. Nothing like it.’
The stench of psychopathy was itself unique. She tried to ignore it, was thinking ahead, thinking back, her thoughts stumbling over rocks and scrub, sifting dog-eared files on escape and evasion. Dog-eared. She liked that. Must be dehydration squeezing out her sanity. The man stood square to her, hands on hips, the precursor to giving orders. Jesus, her very own Spaghetti Western. Eyes … sky … sun … hands … dust. Frame-by-frame, the awareness of detail, of the smallest action, the stretching of seconds. Somewhere she was in shot, expected to perform. She anticipated the moment of command, had so much to say. No point in prolonging.
‘Force isn’t the answer.’ A lame appeal to reason, a waste of diminishing energy, but she wanted to summon her wits, collect her courage. Vocalization was a short-cut.
‘Isn’t the answer? That from the FBI that killed at Waco, that raids patriots, that tramples the rights of the white indigenous.’
‘The Bureau doesn’t hunt with dogs.’
‘Doesn’t need to. It’s got tanks, night-vision, sniper scopes, wire-taps, SWAT teams. It’s got liberals, faggots and niggers on its side. We’re using guerrilla tactics, the tools of the freedom-fighter.’
She waved a hand towards the clump of impassive Forresters standing with combat shotguns beside trail bikes. ‘I fail to see the upside.’
‘Y’know we could’ve cut your hamstrings for the chase? Dropped the idea. Thought it’d be ungentlemanly.’ He puffed the cigar back to life. ‘Babel’s burning, two tribes are going to war, and there’s not a lot you can do about it. You’re in the middle, Krista. The meat.’
‘It’s where most of the American people are. Not out on the goddamn crazy fringe.’
‘Try the goddamn crazy desert. See how you like it.’
Discourse over, coursing to begin. She was escorted to the mouth of the canyon, her feet dragging, instincts pulled between breakout and retreat. One water-bottle, one wristwatch, one hour. On her own. There would be no return to her cell. She drank long, crouched to scan ahead, started to scoop sand to fill her pockets. Later, it could be dumped or thrown to spread her scent, lay false trails. A dog is only as good as its handler. First lesson, first page, first paragraph. She would have to confuse the participants, throw their mutual trust. No wind in the canyon, so air scent would be low, minimal range. They would concentrate on ground scent, tracking odours that drifted downwards from her body, off her feet, gaining on her as they chased and pointed along an invisible wake. The freshest spore in the area, the alien aroma that marked her out, highlighted her route. It could last up to forty-eight hours; it did not have to.
Move out. She jogged – five minutes, ten – her neck and face stinging, reddening to the ultraviolet. The advantage of speed: putting distance between her and pursuers, tiring them, covering terrain whose dust and aridity weakened the trace. It would be cancelled by the disadvantage: the sweat, the nervous energy, sending out signals, advertising passage. Another gulp of water, relief for fractured lips, clogged throat. She kept running, dodged on to hard ground, was zigzagging to disorientate the hounds. They might break lock, take minutes – precious minutes – to regain contact and determine bearing. A side canyon. She dodged in, made her feint, doubled back and repeated the procedure for fifty yards into a narrow fissure on the opposite side of the main drag. Wiping a pocketful of dirt against her face, she threw the contents high on to a ledge before trampling wiry ground plants and setting off. The Forresters had introduced her to their stone graveyard; she would create a maze. It might yet lead to the single, blocked, centre.
Echoes of footfall and breathing rasped off the monumental rock faces, feeding back solitude, relaying desperation. The reminder was unnecessary. She was slowing now, her legs heavy, lungs blistering. Beneath her, the shoes travelled more erratically, stumbling occasionally, wandering. Had to stay on the solid ground, had to avoid leaving impressions. Twenty minutes. She was wheezing, tripped, fell, bounded up to avoid blood spill and carried on. More water, a single mouthful. It brought little comfort, magnified the drought, the dizziness. Her eyes were raw, the skin about them inflamed. She wiped her forehead with a sleeve, peered ahead. Same colours, same clay oven. Her face was glazed, liquid blisters bubbling up behind evaporating sweat. Jinx, duck, loop, scatter earth into a hollow, and a walking-trot into a further counterfeit gulch. Hers was the collapsing gait of the weakest girl at the back of a school cross-country running gala. The conditions were harsher, hazardous, the incentive to finish greater. Abandonment – if it had ever been visited. The sun was high, the shade elsewhere. Searching for animal trails, their droppings, looking to mingle aromas. Thirty-five minutes.
A mirage. Indication of one-time, short-term habitation rather than signs of life. Crumbled adobe walls, the beaten remnants of a shack, the wood and stone detritus of decline and evacuation. People had subsisted here, scratched for gold. Her survival period, her aims, were more limited. Over a century on, conditions had worsened. She circled warily, clambered over boulders and exited into a narrow passageway that opened to a slab-sided depression. Burst of willpower, of shortening sprints, and she was into a parallel complex of desert ravines. No way out. She paused, imagined she could hear the howls of the pursuit pack. Must be her own tortured gasps, twisting mind. Last of the water. She let it drip into her upturned mouth, could not taste it. Dark spots drifted on her vision field. Don’t sit down, don’t lean on the rock. Don’t think; thinking slows you, gets you bitten. She doubled over to rest, hands on knees. A treacle drop of blood had smudged the earth by her feet. Frenzied, she stamped it down, covered it, and broke into a clumsy dash. Every clue brought them closer, every error allowed them to leapfrog to her position. She backed out of a box canyon, blundered on, the sun in her eyes, in her head. Boxed in.
Fifty minutes. The ache ran with her, wracking her chest, her ribs, her abdomen, searing her face, snapping at her tendons. Dragging her down. She was too far gone, too far in, to give up. Had to keep going. She wanted to sprawl flat, to sleep, wanted the faintness to translate to unconsciousness. Decision time. One way or the other. A cleft appeared in the limestone, a layered ascent on a sloping gradient. She passed it by, returned, hauled herself five feet to the lower level, and lay, energy-drained on its surface. Five minutes. The bark was faint, but recognizable, a suggestion transformed to vibration that rippled in on the stillness. They had lied. She was climbing, hand over hand, feet scraping for purchase, her body on reserves, on empty, leaving its senses and seeking height. Her fingers were cut, working, worrying, levering her to the next stage. Upwards. It would end nowhere, in oblivion. She was beyond tactics, pushed by instinct.
Sixty minutes, seventy, eighty. She could not focus on the watch face, had lost track, mislaid the recent past and immediate present. Blind, blank, burnt out. Her eyelids were sticking, her thoughts glutinous. She could stretch out here, cook to death on the rock. At least she was out of reach of the dogs. She sighed, heard the croak, found it lengthening to the dim sputter of an engine, a motorcycle changing gear, traversing, drawing nearer. Of mild interest. She tried to raise herself, to belly-crawl, managed a few feet and rested. Whoever she was, she was unconcerned. Waiting. A hair wrapped across her eye, a thin stripe of shadow on a restricted vision field. It widened, gained shape, took human form. ‘I’m gonna cut ya, girl…’ She was up, racing to climb to a stone shelf, heaving herself over. But she was pinned, a hand seizing her ankle, reeling her in. ‘You’re mine. I ain’t gonna let you go …’ Rough, nicotine-flavoured speech, matching a grip that wrenched her backwards. She was falling into consciousness, returning to awareness. ‘I’ll stick you, bitch, slit ya throat…’ He was on her, pressing down. ‘Don’t fight. You’re dead. Go with it.’ The bodyweight grew, driving, grunting. She wriggled forward, battling for air, for a handhold. A fist rammed her kidney. ‘Iced in the desert. How d’ya like that?’ Gritted teeth. ‘You Fed piece of shit. You’re ’bout to fly off this fuckin’ mountain.’ She was snuffling with effort, with rage. ‘You’ll be biodegradin’, bleachin’ while we move into Compton. That’s right. Takin’ on Azania. Try stoppin’ us, pussy … Bye-bye.’
Farewell. Snap decision in place of judgement. Powerful for it. She punched the rock into his forehead, repeated, saw red – on him, on herself – and struck again. One corpse up. She found the equipment belt, was drinking from a water-bottle, devouring an energy bar, tugging at his clothing before she noticed the face. Little to go on, little left. A combat knife was halfway out of its sheath. The bastard. No point in dwelling on the subject, remaining on the mantle. A question of priorities. She removed his boots and desert fatigues, shrugging herself into them, rubbing his blood on her calves, neck and forearms. New guise, another’s scent. Hat, desert goggles and sand mask on, sidearm and load pouches fitted, and she was slithering earthwards, rough-riding on the sloped descent. False identity would take her a distance. The rest was down to skill, bluff, bike-handling and enemy complacency. And luck. Mostly luck. The barking was louder. She hit the ground. Fight back.
* * *
The UK
Confidence. That was the spin, the intention. The government was clawing back the initiative, taking ground from the extremists. It must be so. News bulletins carried reports of the mass arrest of neo-Nazis, the swoop on those implicated in the slaughter of the Somalian immigrants. They had been caught red-handed, seized while mounting an operation in the heart of London. Few facts were available, but the message was one of optimism, the snatched footage showing alleged perpetrators bundled off to cells and interrogation at Paddington Green. A turning point, a significant victory. All burnished by media advisers, adrenaline-stirred with hand-held camerawork. The Prime Minister had appeared elated outside Number 10, had struck the right pose between lip-service to caution and an impulse to perform triumphalist flick-flacks across Horse Guards and St James’s Park. People were weary of affray, tired of open warfare. They wanted to party, to forget, to move on. They wanted order restored. It was a convincing theme.
Some were not so persuaded, found it hard to travel further. The dark green hatchback remained parked, a solitary automobile in a cul-de-sac emptied by owners unwilling to weekend in London during the closing days of August. Notting Hill throbbed, thronged, danced; Notting Hill provided the excuse for residents to flee. Yet Sophie would stay. There were definite advantages in possessing a parking permit. She kept the photograph wallet open on her lap, touching the pictures of Hugh and Freddie. They were elsewhere, indisposed, unable to enjoy the entertainment, to hear the steel bands and bass vibrations of the carnival floats. But then, the noise might have scared Freddie, and it was hardly Hugh’s kind of music. She would be representing the family; she would be sitting it out, seeing it through, to the bitter end. Her two-year-old giggled in the shot, his eyes Beatrix Potter-blue, mouth thrown laughter-wide in a dazzle of milk teeth. She could hear him, smell him, feel him. It was his third birthday next month. Everything she was, everything she had been, crushed, pressed into two dimensions in a worn leather pocket case. She wondered if her boy would recognize her, if her husband could ever forgive her. There would be time to talk, eternity to spend together. So much to look forward to.
Her eye was dry, as moisture-free as the day she left hospital. It came down to practicalities, to concentrating on what was important. Finding a house, acquiring a car, regaining her nerve, adopting the persona that would lull her friends and fool her enemies. She was doing so well, making huge strides, conforming to the patterns they had chosen, the rehabilitation they so wished for. Of course it would be slow. But she was resourceful, a wonderful girl, making the most of what was dealt her. Comment and observation, advice and platitude. She let it settle on her, hid beneath it. They did not know about Catford, were unaware of her trips to the grey council house with the peeling paint, of her training, her preparation, her commitment, of the modifications applied to the car in which she sat. She was merely the driver, the deliverer of messages. Not for her the press conference of a grieving mother, the whispered appeals for justice or information, the tissues and cups of tea from police officers, the sobbed demands for society to change. There was never change, only a worsening. It would be forgotten within a day, the atrocities repeated within a month. She was wasting her breath. Unless she had the final word.
Making the most of what was dealt her. She had a Bible on the seat beside her, favourite passages marked out for reading. Weddings and christenings were represented there, the language of King James, of English country churches, of a decency soiled by filth. Just a point of view. And she was allowed that, permitted some sentimentality, on the last day. Funny how she had always taken religion for granted, enjoyed its traditions, cherry-picked its values. It somehow felt right, going out with the psalms and more than a whimper. I mourn in my complaint, and make a noise … for I have seen violence and strife in the city. God help me. She was ready, had what she needed. Had what it took. Josh Kemp, the Security Service officer, would be startled by the news, perhaps upset. With hindsight, he would comprehend. He had touched her suffering, grasped its destructive energy; he had seen her evolve from bandaged patient to solitary widow. The pupation was complete, the lifecycle over. A mere twenty-eight years. Some would call it a waste, a crying shame; others would see drama, heroism, tragedy, a wake-up call in her goodnight kiss. She would have liked to have clarified. But the act was explanation enough. There was only her remaining, left behind to fight a rearguard. Hugh would be worried for her, fretting over the dangers. No concerns. They would be together by close of day, a family once more.
The car bounced, the human form heavy on its roof. They had arrived, party-goers congregating, over-spilling, to bring rhythm and dance to every street, to reach across boundaries. A bringing together. Sophie stared ahead. She remained still, did not respond to the face mouthing and inverted on the windscreen, the hammering on the window, the bucking of the vehicle as more bodies climbed aboard. The chosen venue. They were making their point, driving it home with excited shouts, with beer cans, marijuana, with fists clenched, with dicks exposed to provoke or urinate. The area was theirs. They could demand, they could take. She was unmoved. It was best to make merry. One never knew how long it might last. And so she opened her mouth, began to scream. It was not panic, it was a call. They reacted well, drawn to the sound, drumming their sneakers on the sides, jumping harder and higher, amused at her distress. Things were rocking. She sounded the horn, stirred the hive. They yelled with delight. Agitation was a turn-on, a challenge. There was sport in scaring an ugly white whore with a slashed face and one eye. Potential to do worse. Inside, it was dark, the light blotted by a blanket curtain of moving shapes and clambering limbs. Sophie heard her own shrieks, had found her voice. No more shame, no more hiding. She had identity. Those outside had none. It made it easier, so much easier. Going solo. She would show them fear in a handful of dust.
* * *
Safety, a basic tenet of civilization. No one was safe. Ergo, civilization had ceased. Take these revellers, for example. They were uncontrolled, uncontrollable. No appeal to reason, conscience, common humanity would modify their behaviour, restrain their appetites. For that was not street, that was not happening. It was impossible to bring sense to those who had none, who chose – yes, chose – to bounce crassly through life as assholes on air-soles. Parents had shot through; education had passed them by; patois, propagation and effort-free stupidity were currencies traded as openly as drug-wraps. An embarrassment, an eyesore. They would have to be taught a different way. He had watched them as they swaggered and pranced along Portland Road, seen their attention turn, their mood switch, at the sight of Sophie’s car. The narcotic fix and instant gratification of harassment. She was the lure, the target. Their faces drew him. They carried a craving for peer approval, the sneering arrogance of the unsure, the homing instinct of the thug. This was a chance to perform, outperform, to prove themselves. Their lucky day. They had the crew, the opportunity, the addiction – had found her. The screams could be drowned with music and laughter. It was horseplay, harmless, unless she annoyed them, unless she failed to cooperate, hand over her keys, her bag, her car, her dignity. There were rules of engagement to be followed, established norms. They had yet to discover his rules, the process of his mind, the promise he had made to himself to protect this woman. It was a point of honour, his personal code. Foolish to ignore. But these types were foolish, suicidally so. Every action had a consequence, every beat of a butterfly wing could create a storm. It was how the underclass had brought society begging to its knees. Each robbery, each threat, each benefit fraud, added to infirmity. He would raise it up, demonstrate his preferred method. The youths were parading now on the car, emboldened, louder. They had merely chanced upon Sophie; he had researched and followed her. A coming together. Serendipity. She was easy to trace. With contacts, with perseverance, he could stalk and bring to ground the most elusive quarry. Today, he would bring to justice. He dropped the flowers and reached inside his jacket pocket. Lilies were inadequate in expressing loyalty, love, in seeking to make amends; they could not ward off evil, persecution, could not scrape clean the bodywork of a car. He would say it in lead. Feet crashed menacing on the vehicle roof, a war cacophony, denting metal, stamping again and again. It was so loud inside, so loud. They had plainly never heard of the three strikes rule. A double-tap principle was more appropriate. He walked towards them, pistol butt cupped in his hands, barrel extended, closing the distance. Fifteen yards, ten, five. Safety off, sight aligned. Let it slide, let them slide. They had seen him, their voices petering, their nervousness stifling play, quashing machismo. Their hearts were not in it; their hearts were fit to burst. He would officiate. Selection made. He was going for the drop, doing this for her.
* * *
There was clarity, a focus born of purpose and completion. The outside was incidental, of no consequence. She was alone, had been for a while, could sit and breathe and choose the moment. Taking back the initiative, initiating the unexpected. It was worth a smile in a grim world. They were shouting at her, and the call she heard came from elsewhere, from a place they could not recognize, from people they had not seen. She was a stranger to them. But a stranger could do strange things; a stranger could intrude, invade; a stranger could wield a knife, fire a shot, cut up a soul or a family. They had to know that. Their tempo had altered. They might be bored, preparing to discard her for new attractions in their makeshift funfair. She could not permit it. Weight shifted above her. No time like the present, no time to say goodbye, to give a wave, to write it down. This was her testament. Her will. She was not afraid, she was not afraid. A summer’s day in London. White fury versus ghetto delinquency. Fury had won. She bent forward, kissed the photograph wallet, and twisted the ignition key twice. The car detonated.
