In Pieces (34 page)

They reached Piccadilly and, crossing to the left of Eros, washed along by a flood of German tourists, turned into Regent Street. The sun glinted off the elegant crescent and, not for the first time, Si marvelled at London's beauty. Simple understated lines borrowed from Rome, but breathtakingly modern on a sunny day in London.

~

The Sleeper finished writing the letter to Greta. Among other things, he told her where to find the dictaphone so she could play the tapes. He folded the sheet of paper carefully and put it with the three small tapes into a plain brown envelope. He sealed it carefully and left the room.

In the kitchen Greta Andrews was giving her youngest an early lunch. The child had thrown most of it on the floor. The rest was spread liberally around his mouth and clothing. Greta sighed.

‘Hi.'

‘Hi, you,' she looked up and watched him standing in the doorway scratching the chipped paint. ‘You all right, Baa?'

‘Yeah.' He waited in the doorway watching, fiddling nervously with his watchstrap. ‘Greta, I've got something to ask you.'

‘Uh huh?'

‘Baa, Baa, Baa…' chanted the child, demanding his attention. But he ignored this and the spoon being waved threateningly in his direction by the infant.

‘This envelope… Do you mind keeping it safe for me?'

‘Course not.' Then her face clouded. ‘Why? Are you going away or something?'

‘No. Well, maybe. Don't know yet. But it's just that if I do, I need to keep this safe, you see?'

‘Are you going to tell me why?'

‘No.'

Greta looked at him sadly for a moment; she seemed to realise she was looking at a stranger. She nodded. ‘Okay.'

The child began to howl. ‘Oh, be quiet,' sighed Greta from the heart. ‘Please be quiet.'

‘And see, if…if something happens…'

‘What?'

‘Something… You'll know what I mean if it does…'

Greta raised her eyebrows ironically. No doubt, thought the Sleeper, she thought he was being silly or over-dramatic, but there was no scope for further explanation.

‘If something happens, you can open the envelope. Okay?'

Perhaps something in the way he said this persuaded Greta not to make light of the request. She looked at him for a few moments. Her piercing green eyes drilled into him, but failed to extract any further information. Then she sighed and put the envelope to one side. ‘Yeah, okay,' she said and returned to feeding her demanding son. Immediately, he stopped crying.

‘Bye bye Baa, bye bye Baa…' The child waved a little hand.

‘Hey, I'm not going anywhere, you tyke.'

But the child thought otherwise. ‘Bye bye Baa…' he intoned, enjoying the sound of his own voice.

The Sleeper waited in the doorway for a few seconds, fixing the scene in his memory. Then he went up to his room. Not long now. Wasn't this what he'd been waiting for? Of course it was. He lay down on his bed and watched the ceiling for a while.

At twelve fifteen he went out.

‘So where are you going, young man?'

The familiar voice made the Sleeper stop in his tracks. Damn, this was the last thing he needed. He turned about and composed a smile of greeting. There was no point in raising suspicions, even those of a drunk old man. ‘Hi, Lenny. How's it going?'

‘Fine, fine.' Lenny caught up with him and fell into step. ‘In fact, quite wonderful.' Something had clearly happened. The weathered face cracked into a broad grin. ‘You'll never believe it…'

‘Go on, try me.'

‘Well…' Lenny looked round dramatically before continuing. ‘I've got it all sorted out.'

‘What?' Despite himself, the Sleeper was intrigued.

‘You know. What we were talking about the other day.'

The Sleeper racked his brains. They talked about so much, most of it trivia and instantly forgettable. What could Lenny be on about? He sighed. ‘I give up.'

‘The big issue. That's what. I've been talking to that Father Theodore…'

‘I thought you didn't like him?'

‘Oh, whatever gave you that idea? The Father's a fine man, a holy man, he is.'

The Sleeper waited for his friend to go on.

‘So I checked out with the father if Catholics are cannibals and he said just what you did. They're not.' Lenny stopped and examined the Sleeper's face for a reaction. Evidently satisfied by what he saw, he went on. ‘When you eat the bread, Catholics don't believe it really turns into human flesh. But it doesn't just remain as bread either. No, what the father said was that it's a sacrament between man and God; so something mystical happens to it, something beyond the comprehension of human understanding.'

This all sounded far more complicated than anything the Sleeper had been taught as a child.

‘I can't tell you what a weight off my mind that is,' said Lenny.

‘Great. It's a bit odd, though, don't you think, that the answer is something you can't understand?'

‘I know, I know,' Lenny replied patiently. ‘But that's where faith comes in.'

That was a word the Sleeper remembered his mother using a lot. ‘Ah, faith. Is that what it means, then?'

‘Yes. Amazing, don't you think? So, anyway, when the penny dropped I realised that there's really no reason at all why I shouldn't become a Catholic.'

‘No?'

‘No. And there's a very good reason to do so…'

‘So that you can be buried in the churchyard?' The Sleeper looked over his shoulder to where he could just make out the spire and the weathervane.

‘Exactly. Not that I've got any complaints about the Anglican Church—it's served me well. But one has to be practical in such trying circumstances.'

‘Aye, I suppose so. What does Father Theodore think?'

Lenny looked thoughtful. ‘Well, I'm still working on him. But I think he sees I'm ripe for conversion, and a few more of our little chats should do it. We're doing intercession next.'

The Sleeper restrained himself from asking what that was; it sounded quite sexy. He really had to get on if he was to keep to the plan. But he needn't have worried; Lenny was obviously keen to get off.

‘I'll tell you all about it next time I see you, okay? Must rush… I'm trying to work out whether I'd prefer a plot near the church wall, or round the back outside the east transept.' Without further ado, Lenny turned on his heel and strode vigorously back the way they'd come, his gaze fixed firmly on the church spire. ‘Goodbye,' he called with a cheery wave, without looking back.

The Sleeper watched him go, envious of Lenny's certainty.

The bus took him to Kilburn, where he unlocked the garage. As he swung back the door light streamed in; the space looked dank and empty. The Sleeper stepped into the gloom and flicked a light switch behind the door. A strip light spluttered into action and the Sleeper closed the door behind him, locking it with a bolt.

The unforgiving light showed a small pile of cardboard boxes in one corner, an old card table and rickety wooden chair in the centre of the concrete floor. He had salvaged the furniture from a skip. The Sleeper set to work.

First, he unpacked his boxes. He placed his three main ingredients separately on the table. He sat down. Before starting, he sat quietly recalling instructions and training in his mind. It was a long time since he'd actually made an improvised explosive device, or IED as the Brits called it—and this was the first time for real—but he was more or less confident that he could remember how to do it correctly. All the same, he wished there was someone he could call just to check a couple of small details. ‘Stop being daft,' he told himself. ‘It's easy, just get on with it.'

The Sleeper picked up a metal cylinder, the size of a cigarette. He attached the electrical detonator carefully to the circuit board. He placed the small clockwork egg timer into position beside a nail hammered horizontally into the side of the wooden casing. As the dial rotated, it would shoulder up against the side of the nail and close the circuit. He inserted a light switch into the circuit as a safety precaution, up for safe, down for armed. Then, he turned to the amorphous lump of white matter—it looked and felt like putty. The Sleeper had never, even during training, handled thirty pounds of Semtex before. He bit his lower lip in concentration as he slowly pushed the detonator into the yielding mass. Just like playing with plasticine as a kid, he thought. He recalled how some of the explosive used in training had smelt of almonds—but this stuff had no odour. Okay, almost done. He took a deep breath. Was he going to flick the safety switch now or at the target? he asked himself. As far as he could remember it depended on the situation. After a moment's thought he decided that as the plan involved planting the bomb in public and there would be little opportunity to fiddle with the mechanism at the last moment, he should set it now. After all, he was going to set the timer before leaving the garage, so it made sense to do the switch too. He turned the dial on the timer—the bomb
would go off at two o'clock, allowing him ample time to get up to the West End, leave it in the rubbish bin outside the Café Royal and make his escape. Finally, hesitatingly, he flicked the small metal rod down into the armed position. The Sleeper rocked back in his chair and surveyed his handiwork with satisfaction. It had been quite easy after all—child's play, really.

After a couple of minutes, he emerged from the garage, locked up and left carrying a red sports bag with black and white trimmings.

He knew where he was going. He'd already walked the route twice. But this wasn't a recce any more. This was for real. Previously, the bag had contained a bundle of rubbish, old newspapers and the like. This time it was much heavier, and his arms ached. He handled it carefully, avoiding lampposts and other objects which might disturb the contents. He thought about the size of the bomb and bit his lip. It was huge. God knew what would happen when this mother went off. Certainly, he didn't want to be around when it blew.

~

Mary was running late for lunch. She'd not been able to get out of work on time because a client had rung her. She'd never admit it to Si, but sometimes she felt like a slave to her clients. If they wanted something, she had to jump. Her own life had to take second place. These days slaves were an expensive commodity—hence her hefty salary.

Such dark thoughts made her contemplate how much longer she'd be able to sustain the patience and hypocrisy. She'd taken the call and politely answered a string of stupid questions, reassuring the client through clenched teeth that she was delighted to help.

There must be more to life than making money. It struck her that this was the first time she'd admitted this fact. Occasionally, she surprised herself by envying Si his freedom. Perhaps she should take a leaf out of her grandmother's book and move to the country and have a garden. That would be nice. But not yet. In a few years' time. She found herself thinking how fulfilling it would be to have a family.

Snap out of it, she told herself. You've got a great job, with amazing prospects. How could you contemplate another existence? Well, marriage would be nice, okay. But watch it… A baby. God, that'd be death for your career…

Mary took a cab to the top of Regent Street, but seeing the traffic crawling along she decided it would be quicker to walk. She was almost a quarter of an hour late. Apprehensive though she was, she was looking forward to meeting the famous Jimmy at long last. If he was so important to Si, then she really should make an effort. But what would she find to talk about with a footballer?

In front of Liberty's window she stopped to study her reflection. She smoothed her navy Chanel skirt, plumped her hair and practised a smile. Not bad. It would have to do. If she was any later, it would certainly not be fashionable. At least she didn't have to worry that Si would leave the
restaurant. He had nothing else to do apart from wait for her, and even if he had other commitments, she knew from past experience that he would wait devotedly until she arrived. She smiled at the thought. He really was very sweet, and she was a lucky girl.

~

‘I love London when it's like this.'

‘Yeah, me too. Pity it's dull and grey most of the time.'

‘No, it isn't. Just this summer. Normally, the weather's quite good.'

‘Maybe,' Jimmy sounded dubious. ‘Well, whatever, it's better than Manchester. Up there it just rains, non-stop. Terrible.'

They paused to cross the road. As they waited, a man crossed in front of them. He was carrying a Man United bag.

‘Watch out, Jimmy. Your fans are everywhere.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘That guy there. He's a Man U supporter. If he recognises you he'll be wanting your autograph.'

‘Ah, piss off.'

But Jimmy need not have worried. The Sleeper walked straight past them, frowning with concentration.

Jimmy and Si reached the opposite pavement and walked into the restaurant.

‘Can I help, sir?'

‘Yes, thanks. I've got a table for three booked under the name of Simpson.'

The Maître d' looked at the page of the large bound book in front of him. ‘Yes of course, sir. We've reserved one of our best tables in the window for you.'

Si looked knowingly at Jimmy, who just raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

‘If you'll just follow me…'

~

Ricky stopped and polished the toe of his boot on the back of his left leg. That was better. The black leather shone in the bright light. Then he entered the pub.

The darkness of the interior forced him to strain his dilating eyes after the pupil contraction of shimmering Oxford Street.

Once accustomed to the gloomy interior, he strode confidently towards the bar. This was a big opportunity. If The Crocodiles played here, the A and R men would come. It was a regular talent-spotting venue. Bands queued up to play on a Saturday night and often did it for nothing; the chance of being signed up by a record company was a big enough incentive.