Part 12 (1/2)
”You are like John?”
Hicks didn't answer that for a moment. He knew that Milton had killed more than just the Albanian. He didn't know how many men and women had been unfortunate enough to have had their files pa.s.sed to him, but he knew that there would have been plenty. Dozens? Probably. Hicks had undergone the selection procedure that would have seen him admitted into Group Fifteen, the agency that had employed Milton. It had been Milton who had been responsible for rejecting his application. No reason had been given, and Hicks had never asked for an explanation after meeting Milton again. But, seeing what his career had done to Milton-the solitude that he wore like a badge of honour, the conscience that was so obviously tormented-Hicks found that he was glad that he had been turned down.
Sarah was looking at him expectantly.
”Let's change the subject,” he said.
Sarah was content to walk in silence and didn't seem interested in asking Hicks anything else about himself. He found himself relaxing in her company, lulled by the steady cadence of their feet on the trail and the chirping of birds as they flitted between the branches overhead.
”Is John paying you?” she said at last.
”For what?”
”Looking after me.”
”No.”
”So why do you do it?”
”I owe him a favour.”
”He seems like that sort of man.”
”What sort?”
”The sort who is owed favours. I think he is the sort of man who likes to help people.”
”I suppose he does,” Hicks said, thinking of his own history with Milton.
”Thank you,” she said at last.
”For what?”
”For this. You do not know me. You do not owe me anything, yet you are here. That is kind.”
They turned the last, darkened corner and emerged from the vegetation into the open s.p.a.ce of the car park again. They made their way across to the Range Rover and Hicks opened the doors. He pressed the engine start b.u.t.ton and the console flickered to life. Sarah didn't wait for an invitation: she waited for the apps to appear, scrolled through to Spotify, selected it and browsed through until she found the entry for Eminem.
”I can't tempt you with some Roxy Music?”
”I don't even know what that is.”
'The Way I Am' started to play as Hicks fed revs to the engine and rolled out of the car park. Sarah turned her head and gazed out of the window as they picked up speed. He could see her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were closed and she was gently nodding her head to the beats.
Hicks headed back to the south.
Chapter Twenty.
MILTON SHOWERED, dressed in a pair of clean black jeans, a grey crew neck T-s.h.i.+rt and a black bomber jacket. He checked that he had his pa.s.sport, phone and charger, cigarettes and lighter, car keys and cash, and left his room.
Breakfast was being served in a dining room that was just as bland and functional as the bedroom he had left behind. There were two businessmen sharing a table, and a woman in a skirt and jacket who eyed Milton up as he went to the table and helped himself to a gla.s.s of orange juice and a croissant. He ordered a full English breakfast and a pot of coffee and polished it all off while reading the news on his phone.
The businessmen left, and then the woman. Milton finished his third cup of coffee, collected his bag and took it outside. He smoked a cigarette, enjoying the cool breeze that was blowing in off the water and watching as a large ferry moved sluggishly out of the harbour.
He finished the cigarette, ground it underfoot, got into his car and set off.
MILTON DROVE to the detention centre, went through the rigmarole of signing in and pa.s.sed into the reception room again. Two volunteers were waiting inside, setting up their table and fanning out a series of leaflets. Milton went over and took one; it was written in Arabic, and the cover featured a picture of a man and woman who beamed out at the camera with happy smiles. It all seemed very false.
”h.e.l.lo,” said one of the volunteers. ”Are you a relative?”
”A friend.” He held up the leaflet for her to see. ”That happen often?”
”What do you mean?”
”Smiles and laughter. A happy ending.”
”More than you might think. But I'd be here even if it didn't. Some of the kids here, they're just boys. They don't speak the language. They're frightened. If we can help them improve things just a little, it's worth it.”
Milton nodded and slid the leaflet back into a holder.
The woman smiled at him. ”What's your story?”
”Similar,” he said. ”Just trying to help.”
”We could always do with an extra pair of hands.”
Milton smiled back at her. ”I'm not qualified to give that kind of help.”
He turned before she could try to continue the conversation, just as the doors were opened and the detainees were allowed inside.
Samir was at the back of the group. Milton caught his eye and pointed to the same table that they had used before. He went to the table at the back of the room and made two coffees. He turned and saw that Samir was watching him.
Milton went to the table and put the paper cups down.
”I did not think you would come back,” Samir said.
”I said that I would.”
Samir took the paper cup and put it to his lips. He looked at Milton the whole time, the whites of his eyes standing bright against his black skin.
”I spoke to the lawyer.”
”And?”
”She said she will take my case. She says I have a chance. Asylum-she says it is not impossible.”
”That's great,” Milton said.