Fanatics: Zero Tolerance (18 page)

The term “quiet chat” was his, not hers; the longer the conversation continued, the more difficult Joanne found it not to shout. She had never thought of herself as someone particularly noted for her volatile temper; so what was it about this man that provoked her so much?

“Why can’t you understand,” she said slowly, wearing the face of someone who has to suffer a fool gladly, “that there are a lot of very good reasons why I can’t make that commitment?”

“But don’t you see, said Michael, “this a million times more important than any so-called good reason you might have for ignoring it?”

“But you don’t even know what I’m talking about!” she said testily. He started to say something else, but she shushed him. “Michael, I can’t come over to your side. It’s too late for that now.”

“Joanne, it’s never too late -”

The last thread of her patience snapped. “Oh, give me a break, will you?” (At that very moment, high on the hillside behind Jericho, a single bullet was fired; but since three walls separated them from the source of the sound, Joanne’s cry was enough to drown it out.) “What does it take to get through that thick skull of yours -” she stopped, immediately repentant when she saw the hurt look on his face. “I’m sorry, Michael,” she said “I didn’t mean to be nasty. But you mustn’t keep shoving your beliefs onto me.
Things have changed. We don’t have to put up with that any more. Zero tolerance, remember? Anyway, isn’t my opinion as good as yours?”

But he managed to disagree even with that. “It isn’t just a matter of opinions,” he said quietly. He looked at her again, and decided against pressing the point; her frustration with him was plainly about to get the better of her again. “Joanne,” he asked instead, “why have you come to Jericho if you’re not one of us? What are you doing here?”

She waited silently as he watched her, hurt that he couldn’t seem to see what was in her eyes, hoping against hope that the long wished-for romantic moment would finally blossom. “Don’t you know, Michael?” she said at last. “Can’t you tell?”

He looked at her, not comprehending.

“For you, Michael. I came for you.”

His face was suddenly full of pity. “Joanne - I’m sorry -” He fought to find words that wouldn’t sound cruel. “I thought you understood about Clare -”

“Don’t mention that Latimer woman to me!” she screamed at him. Then she realised what she’d done; and suddenly frightened that she was going to alienate him for ever, she threw herself against him, murmuring “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over. He didn’t put his arms around her. She lifted tear-filled eyes to his. “I love you, Michael. Why can’t you just forget her? I love you. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Michael struggled for something to say. He hated himself for not being able to comfort her. “Joanne -” he began. “Clare and I -” She began shaking her head. “Please, listen to me,” he insisted.

But she found she just couldn’t listen to any more of this. She would have to make him understand. She took his face in her hands and shushed him like a mother quietening a distressed child. “Michael, Michael, it’s too late for that now. There’s no point thinking about her any more. I’m the only one who can help you now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s all over for you here. It’s all over for this place. The Special Services will be here very soon now. But I can help you. They’re going to let you go. I asked them, you see. We can be together - I’ve arranged it all for us, everything will be all right -”

Michael looked at her with a growing sense of alarm as the pieces of the jigsaw suddenly fell into place. “What about Clare?” Joanne babbled on; he took her by the upper arms and shook her. “What about Clare?” he shouted.

She shook herself free of his grip and swore at him. “Clare! Always Clare! Why don’t you forget her? She’ll be dead by now anyway!”

She stopped, again frightened by what she saw in his eyes: pity and disgust at what her lack of control had let him see of her; and unable to face him, she turned away.

Michael said nothing more to her.

Joanne waited, unable to bring herself to turn to him again. The hammer had been raised over her heart; all that remained was to brace
herself for the blow. How could he possibly love her now?

But a hairsbreadth away from losing forever the thing that she wanted most of all, something intruded upon her private feelings. It was alien, and mocked her by wearing Michael’s face; and she found herself hating it for the way it seemed to
trivialise her present circumstances by rushing upon her and demanding her attention.
Now,
it seemed to say.
Make the choice now.
It began to fill the space around her.

But though it seemed she could no more resist it than deflect the path of an oncoming train, somehow she shoved against it, clinging to the memory of Michael’s arms around her, and thinking of all the things that
were threatening to slip away from her just now.

The thickening feeling of being
under pressure suddenly dissipated like a balloon popping, leaving her with a sense of anticlimax and a sensation of chill so slight that she hardly noticed it. Her hands twitched, beginning the movements that would pull her wrap more tightly around her shoulders, then ceasing again as she remembered she wore no wrap.

She realised that Michael had still not said anything. A rush of something that might have been hope or panic swept away the distractions of the last few moments, and she turned around again, babbling: “Michael I’m sorry I didn’t mean it I didn’t mean it oh please Michael -”

The flow of words stopped abruptly as she realised she was in an empty room. Joanne looked around her, feeling foolish. She turned to the room’s only door; it opened with a noisy squeak. “Michael!” she cried. Her voice reverberated hollowly down the corridor’s length. She listened carefully, but could hear neither a reply nor the sound of a footfall.

*****

Clare Latimer’s nerves were quite definitely on edge. She was almost certain that someone had followed her after she left work; and when she left the nursery school after picking up her son, the same young man with the half-grown beard was there again, keeping a steady thirty paces behind her. Each time she looked in his direction, he pretended to be interested in the nearest shop window, or in something happening across the road - which meant, judging by some of the things he looked at, that he was fascinated by the prospect of joining the Army, irresistibly attracted by ladies’ lingerie, and spellbound by signs which said TO LET. It could be, of course, that Clare was mistaken; she’d been safe at home in her flat for an hour now. Was she being paranoid? Well, what of it? In today’s world, she thought, a paranoid attitude could be quite easily justified.

She sat in her favourite armchair by the television, keeping one eye on her toddler and one eye on the box. (The TV was running a trailer for a
chatshow to be screened later in the week, and the guest was some author she’d never heard of.) In an act half-intended to provoke one of her neighbours - she didn’t care which - she had turned the volume up almost to maximum,
(How do you like a taste of your own medicine? Go on, I dare someone to complain)
and so almost missed hearing the sound of someone knocking at the apartment door.

She stabbed the “mute” button on the remote control as she got up, then walked to the door and squinted through the spyhole. She could see
no-one. Whoever it was rapped the door again, making her jump. “Who’s there?” she snapped.

“It’s the plumber. The l
andlord says you were complaining about a blocked bathroom sink.”

This was
true; she’d been hassling Mr Farren for days about the sink. But she was reluctant to open the door immediately. She glanced over her shoulder at the clock. “How come you’re working so late?”

“In my business you work all kinds of hours,” said the man, sounding a little impatient. “You can’t say to someone standing in ankle-deep water, sorry, mate, I finish at five. Look, is there a job to be done here?”

Clare hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t see you. Would you move over in front of the door?”

The man gave a little grunt of irritation. “Okay, here I am. Satisfied?”

But Clare could see only a blurred shape that was about the same colour as a workman’s overalls; there seemed to be something gelatinous or greasy smeared on the other side of the lens. She frowned and said, “Shake your toolbag.”

“What?”

“Shake your toolbag. I want to hear the tools rattle together.”

“You won’t hear anything. It’s a leather bag, and each tool has its own pocket. Look, I can’t stand around here all night - are you going to let me in or not?”

Clare made up her mind: better safe than sorry. Anyway, she didn’t like his tone. “No,” she said. “Go away.” Through the door she could hear a snort of disgust as the plumber turned away, and the echo of his footsteps as he made his way down the concrete staircase. She kept listening until she could hear nothing more; then she opened the door, stepped outside, and looked down the stairwell.

She jerked around at the sound of someone rushing her from behind. The bearded man came at her trying to press a thick cloth over her mouth and nose; it reeked of something pungent and suffocating. She wasn’t strong enough to push him away, but she scrabbled at his eyes with her fingernails, and he backed off, cursing and cupping his face with his free hand.

She slipped past him into her flat and tried to slam the door, but he threw himself against it with all his weight before the lock had clicked. Clare cried out as the edge of the door connected painfully with her left cheekbone. Her child, who had been oblivious to the loud voices and scufflings up to this point, now had his attention captured too suddenly for his liking; he began to scream.

Clare struggled breathlessly with her assailant in an effort to keep the chloroformed cloth away from her face, and desperately trying to steer him away from her son. They careered crazily across the room before tripping over something and falling apart. The bearded man fell close to the boy. “Martin!” Clare yelled. “Get away from him! Run! Run!” But the bewildered child only stood there and cried even harder.
Oh God, don’t let anything happen to him!

“All right,” said the man, thankfully ignoring Martin. “I’ve finished playing games.” At that moment, he seemed so ridiculously macho that he was almost a caricature of the kind of villain who always turns up in American police dramas on TV. Under any other circumstances, Clare would probably have laughed at him; but now, all she could think
of was:
Why haven’t the neighbours come?
Then she remembered the TV; if they could ignore that, they could ignore any racket.

She watched the man reach into his coat pocket for something, and guessed from his change of expression that whatever he was looking for was no longer there. His gaze darted to and fro across the floor for a couple of seconds; then he spotted the place where the knife had fallen, nearer to Clare than to him. He dived for the knife; but his attention had already been diverted from his prey for too long. He heard an incredibly loud sound as something was smashed over his head; then he collapsed, groaning. He thought he heard the sound of footsteps receding, and a door slamming somewhere, but he wasn’t sure whether or not these were just aural delusions, a soundtrack for the fireworks video he could see projected on the inside of his eyelids.

The next thing he was aware of was being awakened by the touch of a cold draught coming from an indeterminate direction. It was not at all invigorating.

He sat up, rubbing the bump on his head, and looked around; the door lay ajar, and there was no sign of either the woman or the boy.
Into the empty room the television was blatting a newsflash about an armed police action against terrorists in some place called Jericho. That gave him a start.

Police!
he thought.
Time I wasn’t here.

*****

Ellen Martyn had almost finished her copy of
Raptures
when the lights began flickering annoyingly. She paused, certain she knew what was going to happen next.

It happened: the room light bulb and the one in the table lamp beside her both popped, plunging her into a darkness relieved only by the faint glow of a corridor bulb leaking through the narrow fanlight above the door. She could hear a dull thud and a cry coming from the next room as someone’s knee or hip connected with something just as unyielding as bone. Most of Jericho’s lights, she knew, would be out of commission.

She put down the book and carefully made her way out to the corridor. “Mark!” she called. “Are you all right?”

Her husband, answering in the affirmative and sounding only slightly doubtful, joined her a moment later.

“I thought you said you and Richie had fixed the system once and for all,” she accused.

“We thought we had,” said Mark. “I can’t think what we might have missed.”

“Me neither,” said Richie, who suddenly appeared out of nowhere, complete with torches; the apparition made them both jump. “I didn’t think I was
that
ugly,” he said, grinning.