Part 34 (1/2)

'Quickest way of finding Dinah. And you can bet that's where Michael's headed. He's already spilled blood on this one, Sarah. I doubt he's the type to give up.'

'No. He isn't.'

'The harbour's the other side of the bay. There's boats, they're common in harbours. We should be able to hire one.'

'If the island's there, if Dinah's there, it's because she's the bait in a trap.'

'I know. But the trap's been set for an ex-soldier, not a couple of innocent tourists. I don't think shoot-to-kill's an across-the-board policy yet. And you don't look like Sarah Trafford any more, you know? You look a lot sharper. Someone else entirely.'

'Thanks.'

'Hey. You're still a mess. You want a light for that?'

'I'm not sure yet.'

'Well, give it back. They're not cheap.' Zoe took it from Sarah's mouth and put it in her own. 'You okay?'

'I think so.'

'Come on then. Harbour's that way.'

She packed the map, the gun and the bottle back in her bag, and stood up. This thrilled the gulls, who wheeled into the air again in a noisy pack: their yammering, Sarah thought, could give a girl a headache. But it wasn't the loudest noise she'd hear in the near future. She stood up too, and followed Zoe back down the path. That red jumper could give you a headache too. You could pick Zoe out of a crowd, no sweat.

VI.

The helicopter bucked again on its second pa.s.s over the Farm, and Howard nearly lost his lunch. He was certain the pilot was doing this deliberately. At Howard's feet sat a briefcase (mostly full of electric doodads); round his neck his usual tie he was an obvious suit, and yahoos like helicopter pilots hated suits. All he could manage in return was a piece of fake nonchalance: 'I can't see anybody down there,' he shouted.

The pilot, who didn't give a f.u.c.k about suits, yelled, 'They're not supposed to come out and wave, are they? n.o.body's supposed to know they're there.'

Which was true, as far as it went, but didn't mean they weren't all, in fact, dead.

'You'd better put me down.' Howard didn't want to be put down. Howard wanted to go home, lock his door and start looking for another job, because while he was pretty sure he'd beaten Amos Crane to the Farm, that didn't alter the reports about a stolen motor boat the local cops had logged that morning . . . He was pretty sure that had to have been Downey. Howard didn't want to meet him either. But going home and locking his door wasn't an option. Amos Crane, after all, walked through locked doors, and Howard didn't want to be on the other side of one after putting Amos to that kind of trouble . . . f.u.c.k. If he hadn't sent those talent-free bozos to whack Amos, he wouldn't be here now.

'There's something over there.'

'What?'

'Something. Can't make it out. Might just be a rock, the place is made of b.l.o.o.d.y rocks . . . I'll put you down close as I can.'

Take me far away instead, thought Howard. But shouted nothing: just clung for the rest of his life to the strap across his chest, while the bucking chopper that's why they call them choppers! dipped dangerously close at an extraordinary angle to the very hard surface of the island: it was indeed made of rock . . . But the machine levelled out for the final few seconds, and touched down more or less evenly, for Howard to more or less fall out.

The pilot made some gestures: his thumb, his watch, the sky. Probably, Howard decided, meaning something about how he was flying away now, but would be back in a certain amount of time . . . Right at that moment, Howard was too glad of the ground beneath his feet to sort out whether this meant an hour, a day, a week: he nodded, waved back, and watched the chopper swing round clumsily like a drunken dragonfly, and lift away into the wild grey yonder. As it droned into the distance, became the size of a pea, Howard felt very alone, very much the deskman, and he reached down and patted his briefcase nervously, as if it were an odd-shaped plastic dog.

It was a while since he'd been on the island. The Department had inherited it years ago; every so often he'd lie awake wondering what would happen if some wide-eyed auditor questioned why the Ministry for Urban Development numbered a deserted Scottish island amongst its acquisitions . . . Some miles away, he had no idea how many, lay another government-owned island, which had been used for testing an anthrax bomb during the war. It still wasn't safe to visit. At least no actual testing had taken place here, so it was still safe to . . .

Safe to what, his mind refused to supply. Howard had reached the 'something' the pilot had seen, and it was a body.

Afterwards, he was quite impressed with his own cool. He had placed his briefcase on the ground, knelt for a closer look. He wasn't an expert, but this was a pretty muscular specimen. Many of these muscles were largely intact, but the back of the head was smeared with what looked like its recent contents . . . Another thing that impressed Howard afterward was that this didn't finish the job the helicopter ride had started; all expectations to the contrary, he held on to his lunch.

He straightened up; had hardly realized how low he'd been bending. Violent death. He'd sometimes been tempted to think there was no other kind: that even the gentlest quietus was a wrench. We're all dragged kicking and screaming from the planet in the long run. Peg out immobile in your own bought bed, and there's still a spark in your brain death stamps on to put out. However. Looking at this mess, brain tissue smeared on rock, Howard knew he'd been wrong to think like that. Not all deaths were violent. This one proved it, by being just that.

Hey-ho, he thought.

Leaving the body where it lay, Howard set off for the Farm. Stupid name: doesn't matter. There were no paths to guide him, but he knew it lay nearby; the island, anyway, was too small to get seriously lost on, if not so small you couldn't die here . . . That doesn't require a lot of s.p.a.ce, a small voice insisted. Anywhere precisely the size of your own body will do, and no one's been anywhere smaller than that . . .

Yes, all right, thank you, shut up. He nearly said this aloud.

He found the second body just outside the Farm. A man, blond, and still wearing the spectacles he'd needed when he could see. He lay on his back, one arm across his chest, the other outstretched as if he were still reaching for the apple which lay on the ground just beyond his grasp . . . Or not just beyond his grasp, amended Howard. Absolutely and beyond all comprehension unattainable forevermore. That was the idea, anyway. He wasn't sure how this one was supposed to have died, and didn't feel like asking. Presumably went quietly, though; if he'd been armed with just the one apple, it couldn't have been that pitched a battle.

Hey-ho, he thought again.

The body twitched.

Enough of this. Briefcase in hand, he left and approached the low stone building of the Farm. It had been built into a depression, or else a hollow had been dynamited out of the rock; he could never lay eyes on it without thinking he'd been thrown back into medieval times . . . One thing, though: he did not belong here, and that was the truth. His job was pulling strings. A step up, it occurred to him now, from bringing about a man's death. Arranging the fix so the man had never lived: that was the ideal. In Howard's world, that was perfection. But even as the thought was forming, he felt a disturbance in the air around him, and for a brief moment but long enough for his mind to travel whole continents of fear he thought it was over; that he had failed some fundamental test, and that Downey or Crane: nothing's impossible was still there, was behind him now, ready to wrap the red ribbon round what was left of his life. Just a brief moment. And then the door in front of him, the door to the Farm, opened, and instead of Downey, or even Crane, there was a woman standing in front of him, an attractive woman with dark curly hair, wearing a big bright jumper, pillar-box red.

'Jesus!' she said. 'Who '

Howard took a step back.

'Can you help? Are you a doctor?'

'I'm not a doctor,' he said regretfully.

'Quickly. Down there.' Zoe pointed back through the open door. 'She's hurt. I think she's dying . . . I think she's dead.'

Chapter Seven.

Cemetery Road I.

Zoe afterwards decided that thinking Howard was a doctor wasn't such a wild surmise: he was carrying a briefcase, for Christ's sake; he was wearing a suit. Not conclusive, okay, but these were hardly exam conditions . . .

She also decided, afterwards, that everything had happened too d.a.m.n fast.

At the harbour they'd found three crewed boats, if a single man counted as a crew: Zoe had unhesitatingly chosen the youngest, a twenty-something in a thick pullover and three-day beard, who looked like he might be malleable given a bit of vamping and a fair amount of cash. His name was Jed, and Jed had never heard of any islands hereabouts, a bit of a dead giveaway as far as Zoe was concerned: tantamount to not noticing he lived next to the sea. But the way he dressed, the way he grinned toothily at their landlubber accents, he really looked like he thought he knew everything. She was betting he probably did.

'Only we've been told there's a place worth a visit.'

'I can't imagine who told ye that.'

'So you do know it?'

'It's likely just a lump of rock.' He scratched his bristled chin. 'There's better places.'

'I'm sure there are.'

Sarah pulled Zoe away. 'Is this getting us anywhere? He's says he's never heard of it.'