Birdkill (17 page)

There were about five pairs of hands up now, Simon Dillon almost frantic as he vied for her attention. ‘Simon. What’s your view?’

Robyn had learned fast that interactivity was the way to go – to define a theme for session and dive in to help them explore. It was a high risk strategy, it was easy to forget these were kids and yet they exhibited ferocious intellect that made the game a fast moving kaleidoscope of intellectual challenge. She’d come to love these sessions, although they drained her and left her exhausted at the end of the day.

Simon stuttered when he was excited. ‘B-b-but even whe-when you tell any s-s-story you’re j-just creating o-o-opium for the p-people.’

‘All entertainment is panem et circenses.’ Bradley Innis piped up from the back, a pale-introverted boy of fourteen who had begun to come out of his shell since they had started these discussion-led sessions.

Robyn was wondering where Martin Oakley had got to when the classroom door opened and he sauntered in. He placed a dead sparrow on her desk. ‘This is for you, Miss.’ He scuffled around the side of the classroom to take his place at the back.

She stared at it, the poor little carcass with its fine plumage, the dark striations on the brown wings, the black patch down its chest which, in that moment of absolute focus reminded her incongruously of a mullah’s beard and took her back to Beirut for an instant. Standing, watching a car stop to let the white-bearded old man cross, the crazy patchwork of cables strung across the street, the sunlight on the faded buildings and the peak of Sannine rising up whitely above the city’s rooftops into the cobalt Mediterranean sky.

The kids were quiet, waiting for her reaction. It was so fragile, its death needlessly cruel and, well, unfair. It was intended to unhinge her, yet another little piece of maliciousness from Martin. She decided she’d rob him of reward at any price. Robyn looked up at the class, found and met Martin’s stare.

‘Thank you, Martin. Why a bird? They’re free creatures, aren’t they?’

‘And stupid. Only the stupid are free. The more aware you are, the more fettered you become.’

‘And yet they’re beautiful.’

‘Yeah. Stupid and beautiful. Like a woman.’

‘And we’re free too, Martin. More free than you’ll ever know, child.’

He dropped his gaze and she was possessed of an instant of savage triumph before guilt suffused her for being proud of beating a child down. Christ, where was her balance? It struck her he wasn’t looking at the floor but staring at the bird. She glanced down then caught his gaze, the dark eyes seemed to grow in his pale, rigid face. She felt her hand moving involuntarily to her blouse, the need to undo the buttons. She shuddered as feelings washed over her, intimations of blood, sex and death. Her fingers twisted at the first button. The bell rang and she was released, gasping. The kids left silently, staring at her. Jenny Wilson held back. ‘Are you okay, Miss?’

‘Yes, thanks Jenny. I’m fine.’

Martin passed behind Jenny, grinning. The girl seemed about to say something, then nodded and left.

Robyn collapsed into her chair and let the tears come.

Mariam sat in the boardroom on the top floor of 3shoof’s offices, flanked by Kelly and Duprez. Adel Ibrahim and Alan Kingsthorpe perched opposite the three journalists. Ibrahim carried an air of suppressed glee and was positively glowing.

‘Okay, here’s the result of my discussions with your respective editors. We’re going to focus our collective efforts on folder fifteen. Mariam will continue to pursue the Lebanese angles she has opened, while Brian will focus on the contacts he has at the Ministry of Defence. Matt will travel to Washington and pursue General Parker and the American angle to this. He will have support both from the Guardian and Telegraph Washington bureaux. Any questions?’

Kelly’s arms were crossed. ‘Expenses.’

‘All reasonable expenses to be met by a pool established by the three media outlets. Your discretionary allowance is £600 per day, receipts to be provided. Beyond that, you’ll need sign off from Alan or one of your editors. Matt’s flights have been booked.’

‘Business class.’ It wasn’t a question from Duprez.

‘Of course.’ Ibrahim was expansive, but Mariam had already heard he was famously parsimonious with expenses and other incidentals. He’s playing with the big boys and wants to put on the Ritz, she thought. And then felt mean.

‘Thank you gentlemen. And lady.’

The meeting broke up. Going down the stairs behind her, Kelly chuckled his dirty little chuckle. ‘Bet you ain’t no lady really, darling.’

‘Like you’ll ever find out.’

The door to what they had come to call the ‘Safe Room’ was open, which was odd as they usually left it shut. Clive Warren was standing at the window looking down at the traffic, his mobile in his hand. He turned as they entered and grinned at Mariam.

‘Hello. I can’t get a Wi-Fi connection.’

‘It’s blocked in here. How did reception let you up?’

‘I charmed her.’

‘Who’s this?’ Matt Duprez didn’t look particularly pleased.

‘Sorry. Clive Warren, this is Matt Duprez and Brian Kelly.’

Kelly frowned. ‘We’ve met before. Right, we’re off, darling. See you in the morning. You sure you’ll be okay with Soldier Boy here?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

The two journalists bustled out, Mariam guessed on their way to the pub to toast their new expense accounts.

‘Love you too,’ Warren waved at the door.

‘So what’s new, Mr Warren?’ Her mobile rang. ‘Hold that thought.’

It was her landlord, Frank. His urgent voice sounded almost hysterical. ‘Jesus, Marri, where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to call you. The house has been burgled. The place is fucking trashed. It’s a total fucking mess. It looks like Beirut in there.’

‘Beirut is a beautiful modern city on the Mediterranean, jerk.’

‘You know what I mean. My house is in pieces, man.’

‘I’m sorry, Frank. What happened?’

‘Fucked if I know. The police are here now. Look, I’m sorry, but they made a particular mess in your room.’

She glanced at Warren, who raised his eyebrow. ‘How do you mean?’

‘The mattress is all cut up. Your clothes are all over the place. They slashed up Mr Bojangles.’

Mr Bojangles was a stupid stuffed toy monkey in a dinner suit she’d had for years. She’d always taken him with her when she travelled and took a photo of him. Mr Bojangles in New York, Beirut, Kuwait City, London, Paris. He’d got around, had that monkey. He even had his own Instagram. For some reason the news made her terribly sad.

Warren cocked his head at her as she dropped the line. ‘Doesn’t sound like that was good news.’

She shook her head. ‘Hardly. My place has been burgled. They slashed my stuff up.’

‘Would you like somewhere to stay? No funny stuff. But I think you’re in quite a lot of danger and could use the security.’

She searched his eyes and found nothing there but genuine concern. ‘No funny business.’ He held out his hand and she shook it. ‘Thanks.

Mariam cradled a glass of scotch, gazing out over the floodlit pool and smooth green lawn. Clive Warren had followed her to Frank’s place and waited while she packed a bag from the remains of her things. The police wanted her to give a statement, which she did omitting any mention of 3shoof or the story she was working on. Frank was in a daze.

Leaving the house an hour later, she followed Warren’s Jaguar in her silly Ford, the big house by the Thames surprising her as much from the outside as it did on the inside. The living room was minimalist, masculine but designed with an impeccable eye for light, colour and texture. She admired his taste, walking around and scrutinising his bookshelf, the fine little print of a Degas nude sketch on the wall.

‘You like it?’

‘Yes. Bet you wish you had the original.’

He laughed and handed her a tumbler. ‘I do. I just need to fix a few things in the kitchen. Grab a seat, I’ll be out in two minutes.’

She sat on the sofa wondering about how a soldier would afford all this. A detached house backing onto the Thames, a pool, Degas sketches.

‘You okay with lasagne?’

‘Super, thanks. Clive, look, it’s very kind of you to put me up.’

‘It’s no problem. I had my worries about your place.’

‘Why?’

He smiled, puzzled. ‘Why what?’

‘The change of heart. You couldn’t run away from me fast enough to start with. Now you’re opening your house up to me. It’s not that I’m not grateful—’

‘But you’re a journalist.’

‘…But you clearly have an interest in this.’

Warren sat on the sofa across from her. ‘I made a few calls around when you first contacted me. Like I told you, I transferred away from Odin. Soon after, I left the army. I was offered work as a contractor in Iraq.’

‘When was that?’

‘Early 2013. Stop working, journalist, I’m trying to talk to you. So I went to Iraq, but it wasn’t really what you’d call ethical. There was a lot of bully boy stuff going down and I found it distasteful. I started taking on contracts in my own right, bringing old colleagues in as freelancers. The Iraq stuff opened up new avenues and bit by bit I got away from it into more private security jobs for high net worth individuals. Sheikhs, that sort of thing. I had quite a lot of guys on the payroll by then. We were taking on stuff from rock gigs and pop star protection through to private jets and work for big family offices.’

‘Nice work.’

‘Better than slotting kids at checkpoints on IED-packed highways, believe me. Anyway, it had all got quite big so I shaved off the really fancy stuff high level personal security for myself and sold the company to a bunch in Dubai. I got out, basically. Now I just take on the jobs I want to do. The company got me this,’ he gestured around them. ‘And now I suits meself.’

‘And your change of heart about 3shoof and our investigation?’

‘I talked to three people I know who’d been involved in Odin. It was a mess. Good men have died needlessly. I’m interested in finding out what the hell has been going on. And I have the luxury of being able to follow my interests.’

‘So I’ve become an interest.’

‘Don’t go getting ideas. It’s business.’

‘You arrogant shit!’ Mariam exploded, but Warren was laughing at her and soon enough she joined in.

Robyn woke screaming into the pillow she hugged to herself. She was face down on the bed, her knees drawn up, offering herself to be taken from behind. She was quivering with lust but the Void was there, the blackness that masked the dream and just left her with waves of nausea and hate, a violent loathing at odds with her posture and the signals coming from her melted loins. She rolled over and covered herself, the duvet damp from her sweat. She curled up on her side and sent her mind into the blackness, trying to retrieve substance from the lacuna, peeling away layers of nothingness to discover the source of the smell of death and the sense of violation etched into her soul.

It all came to nothing. She lay staring up at the dark ceiling. Eventually, she peered out at the bedside clock. It was three in the morning. She tried to close her eyes and think of something peaceful, put herself back in her TT on that track, living life in the physical joy of taking a fantastic machine to the edge, honing her ability and revelling in her skill. She drifted.

The Void was greater than ever before. It curled high over her, a little figure racing round a track in a tilt shift toy car, lit by the orange light of sunset and set against a backdrop of spring green countryside as a dark tsunami poised in the sky, blotting out the sun for a moment before it crashed down onto her and drowned her, consuming her in its stygian cold.

Mariam got into the office at around eleven, but she didn’t reckon anyone would be watching clocks right now. She and Clive Warren had enjoyed breakfast in his conservatory overlooking the decked patio area leading to his pool. It was a cool, sunny morning and the glass skin amplified the tentative sunlight nicely.

He’d made croissants and coffee, there was butter and marmalade. She caught Warren’s glance at her as she tore her croissant on the table. ‘Sorry, it’s how we eat at home. Look at it this way, your croissants were good enough for me to think I was at home.’

‘You’re Christian?’

‘Yup. Mariam’s the giveaway, right?’ She licked her shining fingers and reached for her coffee. ‘So what’s our next move? We’ve lost Buddy. We’ve gained two hard-bitten journos and a soldier. A little band of heroes, aren’t we?’

‘Do you mind if I ask you how old you are?’

‘Thirty. Where’d that come from?’

‘Thirty going on fifty is what you are. Where did you pick up that eight lane wide cynical streak?’

‘Lebanon. You’ve been there, why’d you even have to ask?

‘Touché. So what’s your next move, journalist?’

‘Talk to some friends in Beirut.’

‘Why Beirut?’

‘Because that’s where you and Hamilton and Parker were so buddy. Because that’s where Hamilton used prisoners to experiment on. If we can find someone there who’ll talk, we’ll start to get to the dark heart of project Odin.’

‘Dark heart? You’re being melodramatic.’ 

‘Tell me about these men who died needlessly. Where did they die?’

‘I’ll get more coffee.’

And after that it had been small talk. Warren was holding out on her. She liked him and yet trusted him about as much as your average hungry anaconda. Getting into her Ford had actually felt like a release, the relaxed atmosphere quickly becoming stifling as he evaded her questions. Driving to the office she wondered about what the hell his agenda was and eventually concluded whatever he was up to, he was handy to have around right now.

She’d stopped at a Boots and bought toothbrush, paste, deodorant and other essentials. Feeling slightly stupid, she bought two of everything. Life at the moment seemed to be making a habit of displacing her and it was always good to have some of its niceties to hand.

She had hardly settled down at her desk, a grunt from Kelly indicating he was busy and she could go to hell with her good mornings, when Alan Kingsthorpe came for her.