CAUSE & EFFECT (26 page)

Thomas woke to the sound of banging against the van.

“Wakey, wakey!”

The door retracted and daylight flooded the interior. He struggled to his knees and blinked against the glare, trying to cover his face. Someone — no, it was two people — wrenched his arms forward and dragged him out, smacking his shins against the ground. He cried out and they laughed.

“The other one’s still under — we’ll have to carry him.”

Even with his eyes closed, Thomas recognised Ray’s voice. They walked him, arms out to the sides like a crucifixion, into the hangar-like shell. Ray came around to face him, leering at him in the semi-darkness.

“Surprised to see me?”

The punch, though half expected, doubled him over.

“Get the hood. Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

He saw someone scrabbling about on the ground and the hood was pulled down roughly over his head. The stench of diesel choked him; the stupid bastard must have dropped it on the ground. Time to sleep again.

* * *

He jerked awake and reached forward, but his arms were restrained. He moved his fingers and felt the radiator. A quarter-turn on his wrists and the cable ties dug into his skin. Holding his breath he sensed his own terror, like a presence beside him.

He pushed back with the heels of his boots to try and ease the pressure on his shoulders. It helped a little, but not much. All he could do was wait and try to keep calm.

The sound of footsteps crushing glass stirred him. Someone was standing close by, their breathing steady and rapid — someone was getting off on this. When the hood was wrenched off he saw Ray and Charlie standing over him. He didn’t bother saying anything.

“Time for your medicine.” Charlie tilted his head back and tried to open his mouth.

He resisted, so Ray got handy with his fists again. When he cried out Charlie squeezed his jaw until he relaxed and opened his mouth. The liquid slithered across his tongue, leaving a chalky aftertaste. When he’d swallowed he suddenly smelled orange peel, so strongly he started coughing.

They replaced the hood.

“We’ll have a little chat later.”

Through the cloth he felt Charlie’s face close to his.

“Come on, Ray, the other one should be ready now — he’s far more interesting.”

* * *

Thomas breathed in and out in tides, and the world floated around him in darkness. Somewhere beyond,
they
were watching him. Someone was always watching; had been his whole life: the voices from the dark and the one voice that could pierce his defences with a single word.

He was in the water now, swimming against the tide, and the creature — he never looked back but he knew it was there — was gaining on him. Faster and faster he swam, reaching for breath, trying to escape the shadow in the darkness that would overwhelm him. He screamed in rage as it engulfed him, swallowing him whole, fighting, clawing for breath as he slid into its guts.

* * *

Light bleached his world. Two faces came to meet him, but they weren’t saviours.

“Let’s try again.”

A huge hand slapped him hard across the face and he fell away until the wrist restraints bit in, jarring his shoulders. No point calling out — he’d tried that before. One of them spoke and he heard someone else replying with his voice. They wanted to know all about Jack, and Natalie, and it was funny to tell them about Natalie and Ray. But the big one, Charlie, was angry then. And now Ray was angry too.

Charlie’s was the dominant voice. “I told you not to get involved with Natalie. Just like I told you not to pick on the kid.”

“That ain’t my fault — those stupid lads were only supposed to spray the buggy. Anyway it did the trick. Jack’s so paranoid now that he’s given me more control so I can run things.”

Thomas closed his eyes while they argued with one another. How long had he been here? Hours? Days? His brain tried to figure it out, only every thought slithered free. The world had gone quiet again so he risked opening one eye. The faces had gone and there was a bucket not far away, reeking of piss. On the floor nearby were four broken cable ties. He shut his eyes again and slipped away.

“Medicine!”

This time he didn’t resist the road to oblivion. The voices retreated and he began to float again, until he heard a scream, fearful enough to scare the living and the dead. As if in primal response, something stirred deep inside him; coiling, besieging his organs to break free. Another scream and he screamed back, out into the darkness.

He opened his eyes and he was still in darkness. And there was still screaming — his and Karl’s. He called his friend’s name but it made no difference. Someone ran into the room and knocked over a container. It rattled around on the floor.

“Shut your fucking noise.” Ray, again.

He heard the fateful click that could only be a gun. And then his own voice begging for life.

Bang.
The wall exploded by his ear, showering him with dust and brick fragments.

“Next time it will be you and then Miranda will be all alone.” Ray’s laughter scorched him, peeling away his defences until there was nothing left but despair

The monster breached the waves and vomited him up on a shoreline thick with oil. He twisted and turned, rolling in the slick as he tried to get free, but every breath drew in more viscous poison. Death would be slow unless he took that courageous step. He leaned into it and fell, face first, into the inky blackness. The smell permeated his skin, rippling through him until it spewed out again.

He choked up the vomit through stinging tears and felt its heat against his chest. He tried to lean sideways to avoid the stench from the hood. Sleep overtook him again.

He dreamt that someone was hitting an old-fashioned dustbin lid with a hammer, and then there was yelling. Someone was telling him his own secrets about the bugging device and about Karl. And then there was nothing.

The world tilted forward, before he realised he was moving backwards against the radiator. A hand pressed down against his shoulder, then two clicks, and he could move his wrists again.

“You’re safe now. Save Karl.”

Something hard pushed against his foot. He was alone again. He waited a long time, or it seemed that way, until he lifted the hood. His legs throbbed in protest as he rolled forward to his knees, coming face to face with the pistol.

Instinct took over. He staggered to his feet and felt the silencer to make sure it was on properly. As he stumbled towards the doorway where he’d heard Karl screaming, something moved behind him to the left. He turned and fired, listening for the satisfying
thwap
. Whatever it was back there dropped like a stone.

His hands began to tingle the closer he got to the doorway. It didn’t matter how many of them were in there, they were all as good as dead. He saw two silhouettes at the far end of the room, stark against the windows. Point and fire; dead and buried.

More voices came from beyond the building, hidden by torch beams. He stood against them, holding back the storm, and the last words he remembered were, “Put down the weapon and get on the ground — do it now.”

The torches converged on him and he complied. Now he was flying again, flying free.

Thomas woke from a dreamless sleep. Light filtered through the blue curtains; he figured it was morning wherever he was. His hand felt sore and then he noticed the Tube in his vein. There was no sea and no monsters. As he raised himself to sit up, the mother of all headaches decided to throw a street party in his skull.

When he gazed around the room everything looked unfamiliar, until he saw the armchair in the corner. Despite the throbbing in his head he couldn’t help smiling.

“Miranda?” he rasped.

She shrugged off a blanket and rushed to his side, looking like she needed the bed more than he did.

“Can I have some water — and a painkiller?”

“Let me tell them you’re awake.”

When Miranda left he stretched out in bed — no broken bones anyway, although that hand, with scratches across it and a needle going in, was stinging like a bastard. Miranda returned — with Christine. She handed him a painkiller while Miranda poured some water.

“Well,” Thomas tried to see the funny side, “this is awkward.” The current and the ex, along with a fractured memory. Not good at all.

“I’ll give you two a moment and then someone will come and unhook him.” Christine turned back at the door. “Remember what we agreed, Miranda.”

He was grateful when the pain subsided a little. Miranda said he’d been there a day, but he couldn’t make out when that day might have started from.

“And where are we, exactly?”

“Safe house in Hertfordshire.”

A stranger knocked and entered the room. He gave Thomas a cursory once-over, nodded to Miranda and then removed the cannula to the accompaniment of some choice epithets from Thomas.

“Drink as much fluid as you can.”

The orderly left while Thomas was still wiping away the blood with a tissue.

“I grabbed some things from the flat . . . once I’d heard . . .” Miranda fetched some clothes out of a wardrobe.

“What did they actually tell you?”

“You’re better off talking to Christine.”

Walking took more effort than he’d expected. Miranda supported him on the short journey to the main room and left him at the door. He gripped the handle and went inside. Christine had her back to him. Karl leaned over to look past her.

“Ah, Tommo — the man himself!”

She turned aside, revealing Karl wearing a dressing gown. Christine waved a finger at Karl. “Two minutes, and then we need to get everything straight.”

Karl mock-saluted behind her back as she left the room.

“Alone together at last. How much do you know about what happened?”

Thomas saw now that Karl was nursing an arm close to his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate. “I shot three people . . . fuck! I killed Charlie and Ray.” He opened his eyes and looked straight at Karl as the truth hit him. “I’m glad.”

Karl had his mind on other matters. “How did you get yourself free? More importantly, how did you get a gun?”

Thomas recounted the few details he had any faith in. Then Karl delivered the killer punch line.

“Evidently Charlie and Ray were already dead. Unless you shot them, propped them up, and then shot them again for good measure.”

“I don’t understand; they were right by the windows — I couldn’t miss them.” He stopped then as he remembered the familiar, Scottish voice —
you’re safe now
. “Ken Treavey.” His eyes widened. “Which explains the gun.”

The door handle rattled and Christine returned, this time with Ann Crossley and Bob Peterson. Christine moved over to the dining table. “Shall we?”

They sat down together, a party of five. Christine filled in the blanks — and there were a lot of them. How, when Thomas hadn’t come home and neither he nor Karl had answered their mobiles, Miranda had called the SSU and everywhere else she could think of until she obtained Christine’s mobile number.

The SSU ID cards had given them a location, and then Bob Peterson had provided what Christine called
an assault team
to rescue them. Bob smiled then, and Thomas couldn’t tell if he was being smug or conciliatory. Bob’s team, whoever they actually were, had discovered two very dead people and another one wounded. A thorough search also revealed, as Bob explained, “a significant quantity of chemicals, which I’ve removed to secure storage.”

Karl looked distinctly unhappy. “I’d like to have a wee chat with you about that.”

Ann seized the moment and spoke directly to Karl. “A raid was executed at the house with the olive-coloured door — a home chemist had set up business there, for Charlie Stokes. They gave you both Scopolamine,” she explained, not that Thomas understood anything from it. “Plus some other compounds. It interferes with memory and renders you open to suggestion.”

Christine glanced at her watch. “Let’s move on. Knowing we’d be pressed for time, Bob, Ann and I have already agreed an
official
version of events.”

Thomas listened without comment to the mixture of half-truths and lies. It was a paper-thin fairy-tale: he and Karl had been looking for someone on behalf of Bob Peterson and stumbled upon a criminal connection, with unforeseen consequences.

The triumvirate of Bob, Christine and Ann had decided that Sir Peter would know nothing about the drug seizure or any connection to the Shadow State. Charlie Stokes wasn’t even mentioned by name.

And from the looks of things Bob and Christine had managed some sort of reconciliation — even if only in their working relationship. Thomas sneered to himself; Bob’s wife must be thrilled.

Christine didn’t mention Ken Treavey either; maybe Bob had left out the finer details. Maybe he needed more painkillers.

“Well . . .” Bob stopped talking and Thomas realised he’d zoned out again. “That seems to be about everything. Any questions?” Bob smiled in Christine’s direction and rested his hands on the table, near hers.

It seemed rude to disappoint him. Thomas coughed to get everyone’s attention.

“What about the dead people?”

Bob didn’t miss a beat. “What dead people? We only found you and Karl there.”

Thomas felt the beginnings of a smile. Bob had the drugs and Christine’s support and the glory. Yep, three steps ahead, just like he promised. But he was still a tosser.

“I think we’ll end it there.” Bob left the table. “Christine and I will see Sir Peter. He may want to speak with the rest of you afterwards.”

* * *

Thomas sat down at the kitchen table. Miranda was seated opposite, with Karl and Ann either side of them. Four mugs of tea were on the table, untouched, while two rooms away the grown-ups were presumably redrawing the map.

“Is someone gonna say something?” Karl finished stirring his tea and put the spoon down next to it.

Miranda smiled across the table and Thomas suddenly thought about Ray Daniels. “I’m totally lost here. I don’t know what we can and can’t talk about.” He glanced first at Miranda and then at Ann.

Miranda fidgeted. “Listen, if you three need to discuss work I can make myself scarce . . .”

“Karl?” Thomas stared daggers at him.

“The little boy is home now,” Ann announced, out of the blue. “I kept an eye on things while you were away, Karl. I forget to mention that we intercepted the van — that was how Bob knew it wasn’t just your IDs there — a smart move, leaving a message in the back.”

Thomas had heard enough. “I’m going to get some air in the garden. You coming, Miranda?”

Outside, the autumn trees were all browns and copper. The grass was still wet and he trailed a foot across it to feel the dampness against the top of his trainer. The painkillers were doing their job nicely but he couldn’t settle. There were things to be said and no easy way to say them.

“Ray Daniels is dead.”

Miranda’s face twitched for an instant. “Did he suffer? I hope so.”

That was unexpected. He didn’t push the point; she’d tell him in her own good time — or not. When he explained about Ken’s return she suggested they ask for their money back. At least she’d kept her sense of humour.

“So what do you want to do when all this is over?” He threw an arm around her.

“Does that mean you’re done with Jack Langton?”

“I dunno.” The question unnerved him because he didn’t have an answer. “I’m getting cold. I don’t suppose there’s another way in?”

“There is, as a matter of fact; I’ll show you.”

They reached a side door.

“You certainly know your way around.”

“I remembered from last time.”

Her face said it all. He caught the inference straight away. This was where she’d been held in exchange for the papers Yorgi’s brother had stolen from him. More inescapable history.

“I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t to know. Shall we see if Karl wants to cook again?”

As they entered the corridor, Sir Peter was leaving the dining room.

“Ah, Thomas! And Miss Wright.”

The combination of bluster and bullshit riled him, but he felt Miranda’s steadying hand on his shoulder.

“I wonder if I could speak to you alone for a moment, Thomas?”

He shrugged Miranda’s hand free. Who was he to disappoint a willing audience?

* * *

The table seemed larger, but maybe that was because there were only three people in the room; Christine and Bob had made themselves scarce. Karl was already seated at the head of the table, funny but true.

“The floor is yours, Mr Bladen.” Karl opened his good hand.

Thomas threw him a glance that said, “really?” Karl nodded. He felt a tremor in his hand and flexed his fingers. “We could have died, clearing up your mess.”

“That was regrettable. I knew nothing about it.”

“You knew about Ken Treavey though.” He paused, waiting — in vain — for Karl to jump in. He levered himself up. “I can’t do this your way, Karl.” He leaned against the table for support and then eased himself back to freestanding. “Ken was none of my business until you got me involved. Now two people are dead — that I know of — and the trail of evidence leads back to you.”

Karl found his voice at last. “We have photos of Thomas leaving Main Building with a large parcel, along with its dimensions. We have a photo of the Ingersoll key, a match for the ballistics as well as Bob Peterson twice replacing the weapon.”

To Thomas it sounded like a Royal Flush laid out on the table. But Sir Peter’s face suggested he had a killer hand of his own.

“Excellent work, gentlemen. I knew I could rely on you.”

Thomas sat down again; it didn’t make any sense, unless . . .

“You wanted us to find out?” That made even less sense.

Sir Peter raised himself to his full stature. “Are you aware of Eva Fairfield?”

“The Home Office minister.” Karl made it a statement.

Sir Peter stared across the room, as if seeking inspiration. Thomas figured absolution was a more likely objective.

“Eva had a request and she made it very clear I was in no position to refuse. Sidney Morsley murdered a little girl and she wanted justice. Real justice. There was a distant family connection.
Blood for blood
.”

Karl was ahead of him. “But you had your misgivings so you laid a trail for us.”

Thomas shook his head. “It wasn’t conscience, Karl. He couldn’t bear to be under her control — he had too much to lose.” He glared at Sir Peter. “At least it was personal for her, but you — you don’t have a conscience. And why choose Ken?”

“Because of you, Thomas. I knew I could rely on your mistrust, and your loyalty to Karl. I involved Bob Peterson, as a contingency, because — unlike you — he’d do exactly as I told him and not ask questions.”

Thomas’s hand was throbbing again, aching to become a fist. Karl took one look and spoke again.

“And what about the second murder?”

“Eva contacted me again — a series of
incidents
would take the media’s attention off Morsley, to say nothing of the saving to the British taxpayer. Public opinion seems to be on her side.”

“Un-fucking-believable.” Thomas had heard enough. “You really are a monster. I’m going home, Karl. You do . . . whatever . . .” He pushed away the air between them.

“Hold on, Tommo — let’s think this through.” Karl showed no sign of moving.

Sir Peter adjusted one of his cufflinks. “Name
your
terms, Mr Bladen.”

Thomas reached the middle of the room and faced the negotiation table. The bastard was smiling. He wondered if Karl would intervene if he made a move on him. Even Thomas knew he was more valuable where they could see him. “You give Ken Treavey his life back. And this . . . Eva Fairfield? She has to go — within a month. You take care of this, Karl. Or, so help me, I’ll find another, more public way to resolve this.”

He left them to it.