скачать книгу бесплатно
As I rise from the sofa, I become aware of how ill I feel. This doesn’t seem like a regular hangover; I ache all over and I feel sick. I am simultaneously hot and cold. Maybe this is my body protesting yet again at the way I have treated it.
I assume that Proctor is still asleep. I move quietly. When we returned here last night, we didn’t talk much. He showed me where the bathroom was and I changed into the jeans and sweatshirt that I was carrying in my rucksack. Then he sat me on this sofa and poured me one whisky after another. I don’t remember how many it took to eradicate my in-built sense of caution. Exhaustion was to blame, but by the time I was ready to talk, I was ready to sleep. Proctor realized this and fetched me a pillow and some blankets. I suppose he thought we’d talk this morning. He’s going to be disappointed.
He was wearing a worn leather jacket when he picked me up. I cannot see it in this room so I put on my shoes, gather my things, fasten the rucksack and pull on my overcoat. Then I open the door as quietly as I can and I tiptoe past Proctor’s bedroom, which is on the left, and make my way down the hall.
My temples throb. I feel nauseous.
Before I reach the front door, there is a final room on the left. Somebody could have used it as a second bedroom. Proctor uses it as an office. There are two tables in it; on one, there are box-files and correspondence, on the other, a computer. On the back of the chair between the two hangs his leather jacket. I creep into the office and run my hands through the pockets until I find hiswallet. I open it up and ignore the cards. I am only interested in cash. He has eighty pounds; three twenties, two tens. I fold them in half.
Which is when I hear him behind me.
‘Are you looking for something of yours?’
Stephanie spun round. Proctor was filling the doorway, blocking her exit.
‘Or just something of mine?’
The wallet was in her hand.
Proctor was wearing track-suit bottoms and the same black shirt he had worn the night before. There had not been time to fasten the buttons. On one side of his head the hair was flat to the skull, on the other it stood out like bristles on a brush.
He looked dejected, not angry. But Stephanie had long since learned to distrust appearances. He said, ‘All you had to do was ask. I would have given you money.’
‘Yeah, right …’
‘It’s true.’
She squinted at him. ‘And why would you do that?’
‘Because I know about you.’
His hand was outstretched, waiting for the return of his wallet. Stephanie stepped forward to give it to him. And then she charged, ramming his chest with her shoulder, knocking him off-balance. Clutching the wallet as tightly as she could, she sped across the hall and reached for the front door. But Proctor’s hand grabbed her shoulder, spinning her round. In an instinctive continuation of the movement, she raised a fist and punched him on the jaw. Proctor recoiled, amazed by her speed and strength.
She tugged at the front door catch repeatedly but couldn’t open it. The knowledge came to her gradually, sapping her strength. She let go of the catch, her hand falling limply to her side. When she looked round, she saw the keys dangling from the key-ring that was hanging on the tip of his forefinger.
His other hand was massaging his jaw. ‘Double-locked, just in case,’ he said.
The front door was at the end of the corridor. Proctor had her penned in; there were no rooms to run to, no surprises left to spring. Stephanie’s reactions were automatic, a by-product of experience. She retreated into the corner and slid to the floor. Mentally, she began to go blank, closing everything down, numbing herself. When Proctor took a step towards her, she wrapped her arms around her head and pulled herself into the smallest human ball possible.
‘What are you doing?’
She braced herself for the first blow.
‘I’m not going to hit you, Stephanie. I don’t want to hurt you.’
Those very words had been the preface to a savage beating more than once. She knew that Dean West always tried a little kindness before administering his punishments. She stayed still, knowing better than to lift her head.
‘I’ll tell you what, I’m going to move back. All right? I’m going to move back to my office doorway and then I’m going to sit down on the floor, like you. And when I have, you can look up. Then we can talk. Is that okay?’
There was no reply.
‘That’s all I want to do. Just talk.’
She sensed his retreat before allowing herself to peep through crossed arms.
‘See? I can’t hurt you from here.’
Stephanie felt dizzy. She swallowed.
‘Where were you going to go?’
No answer.
‘Is there anywhere? Anyone?’
She was trembling.
‘What about last night?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to tell me what that was all about?’
She kept her head protected.
‘Look, I know you don’t trust me – there’s no reason you should – but I really have no interest in you, apart from what you can tell me. I have things to tell you too but if you don’t want to hear them –’
‘I don’t want to hear anything,’ she whispered.
Proctor shook his head. ‘This is your family we’re talking about.’
Stephanie shrugged.
‘How about if I asked you some general questions? Would you answer them?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘There’s nothing you need to know about me or about my family.’
‘I see. Well maybe you could just sit and listen. I’ll tell you what I’m working on, what I’ve found out, how I’m –’
‘Don’t you get it yet? I don’t care.’
‘No. I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all. If it was my family on that 747, I’d want to know why it went down and who was responsible. I’d want justice. For them and for everyone else on board. And for all their relatives and friends who’ve had to deal with the aftermath. That’s what this is about, you know. That’s what this investigation was when I started. A human interest story. What happens to the families and friends of the dead a couple of years down the line when it’s no longer news? How do they cope in the long term? You may not talk to me but there are others who have. I’ve seen their grief. I’ve felt it. Two years plus hasn’t diminished it. They’ve learned to live with it – some of them, anyway – but the wounds haven’t healed. And they probably never will. Every single one of them has suffered and –’
‘Do you think that I haven’t?’ she snapped. ‘That I still don’t?’
‘Of course not. It’s just that –’
‘Just what? Odd that I don’t like to talk about it to journalists? I bet you think my situation is a consequence of the crash, don’t you? That would be a good story for you if it was true, wouldn’t it?’
He wanted to say yes, but said, ‘I don’t know enough about you yet. I can’t tell.’
‘You see? You’re lying like everyone else. I can see your outline from here: a family in ruins, four dead, two survivors, one who copes and one who can’t. Like you said, a human interest story.’
‘My story is changing.’
‘What makes you think I want to see my life in print?’
‘You wouldn’t necessarily feature.’
‘Not unless I improved the story. Then you’d include me. Right?’
For a moment, Proctor considered the temptation to lie. ‘It’s my job. It’s what I do.’
‘Yeah. Fucking people for profit. It’s what we both do.’
She looked in worse shape than she had the night before, outside the Underground station, when her skin had been a riot of goose-bumps tinted by the harsh light falling from street lamps. Now, wherever he looked, she was bones. Her cheekbones were too prominent to be attractive, her wrists looked swollen because her arms were so fleshless, and when her knees showed through the tears in her jeans they looked sharp enough to cut through her blotchy skin.
Proctor said, ‘I’m not writing the same story any more. This isn’t human interest. It’s gone way beyond that. Every day, I learn something new and the angle alters.’
‘Well, you’re a real one-man Woodward and Bernstein, aren’t you?’ He was surprised and it must have showed because Stephanie smiled humourlessly. ‘Yes, I know who they are and what they did. You think just because I sell my body I have the intellect of a footballer?’
‘No. I know that’s not true.’
Stephanie ran her hands through her tangled blonde hair. ‘So, all these other people you’ve been talking to – all the other ones like me – what do they think?’
‘About what?’
‘Your bomb theory.’
Proctor looked at the floor. ‘They don’t know.’
‘What?’
‘I haven’t told them yet.’
Stephanie felt herself tensing again. ‘Why not?’
‘I spoke to most of them before I found out. And when I did find out, I wasn’t sure it was true.’
‘But you are now?’
‘As sure as I can be, yes.’
‘When did you discover this?’
‘Three days before I came to see you for the first time. I never meant to say a word about it but when you refused to talk to me, I just blurted it out without thinking. It was frustration. It was unprofessional. And now it’s too late to take it back.’
Stephanie shivered and then felt hot. ‘Who else knows?’
‘No one. It’s just you and me.’
She made no attempt to conceal her incredulity. ‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’
‘It’s true.’
‘Why haven’t you told anyone else?’
Proctor bit his lower lip for a moment. ‘Because I’m scared.’
The building in which Proctor lived was a small Victorian mansion block. It was not smart but his apartment had some style, although most of it seemed to have been lifted from a magazine. There was a Bose sound system, a widescreen Sony TV, and Danish furniture – armchairs, lamps, bookcases – all of it minimalist and clean. A beautifully-made wooden table dominated the centre of the sitting room. There were Turkish kilims on the floor, African batiks on the walls.
Stephanie lit a cigarette and noted his reaction, a grimace. When she asked him for an ashtray, he produced a saucer.
She said, ‘What do you know about him?’
‘I know that he’s young, probably no more than thirty, and that he’s a Muslim. I know that he’s living somewhere in this city. And I know that this is known at MI5, SIS and the CIA. And I’d guess we could include the FBI in that group, although I don’t know that for sure.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘He probably has several but I don’t know any of them.’
‘Nationality?’
‘Same answer.’
‘What about a photo?’
‘I haven’t seen one.’
‘You’ve hardly narrowed the field much, have you?’
‘I can tell you that outside of those groups I’ve already mentioned, you and I are the only two people who know about this. And that we’re not supposed to.’
Stephanie’s cigarette was making her feel worse. She stubbed it out, half of it unsmoked. ‘That’s another thing. How come you know all this?’
‘I was contacted by a man at MI5.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
She pinched the top of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to will the pain into recession. ‘Why did he get in touch with you?’
‘Apparently, he discovered what was going on and couldn’t live with it.’
‘But when it comes to leaking classified information, he has no problem living with that?’
‘I don’t know what his deeper motive is. I think it’s possible that he had a relative or a friend on the flight. The point is, when it became apparent that the bomber was in London, MI5 were detailed to do the surveillance on him.’
