Unquiet Mind
Simon M Gray
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Simon M Gray
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Chapter 1
Frigid night air. A dog’s eager whine. Still distant.
Cayden’s teeth chattered. He searched the blackness for the outline of a hill, a pinprick of house light – anything for a bearing. His torch battery was flat; compass and map, useless.
He held his breath, blood pounding. The dog was to his right now. Tracking by air or ground? It was important. He had learnt they used two types: big-nosed, slobbering Basset hounds that followed your scent on the ground, or nimble, sharper-nosed German Shepherds that caught your scent in the air and followed you down a narrowing cone; moving backwards and forwards across its width, until they eventually found you at the point. They always found you.
He started to run. His feet sliding on ice and twisting in the frozen ruts. The cold numbed his face; his ears ached. Bushes with hard branches jabbed at his body like iron forks. He pushed on, desperate to warm up. The pale spectre of his breath ballooned in front of him.
Cayden’s strides lengthened; the hill became steeper. Out of control, he stumbled over a log, and the ground fell away. For a heart-stopping second he was weightless, terrified he had run off a cliff. The ground hit him with a heavy punch in the stomach. He rolled in agony, gulping for air. Stones dug into his back and he rolled some more until there was smooth ice beneath him. His breathing gradually returned. His body began to shake. Perhaps he should just give up. What more could they do to him?
He stood, then cautiously shuffled away, bent forward like a novice ice skater. There was an ominous crack.
The dogs, closer, barked excitedly. He continued. This was more than a puddle.
Another crack.
He torpedoed into the vice-wrap of icy water. Fresh terror surged through him. Cayden kicked out, trying to stop his descent. He felt the slime at the bottom and kicked away. Rising swiftly, his head cracked the underside of the ice. He lashed out with his fists – weakening by the second, disorientated by blackness. He opened his mouth for air and a spike of icy water hit his throat. His brain fired a final shot of adrenaline.
Cayden punched upwards and the ice burst – like hitting the crust of a crème brûlée. He coughed and spewed the contents of his stomach. Steam again ballooned in front of his face as he sobbed for air. He surged forward, oblivious to the sharp slithers of ice. He could vaguely see the bank; darker trees above the luminescent lake surface.
Teeth chattering, he clung to a fallen tree, convulsing from cold. It was now life or death. He couldn’t stop, he knew he was very close to the end. He had to get warm. He staggered through the trees, each branch like wire brushing his skin.
Cayden no longer cared about the noise. But when, moments later, he saw the brief flash of torchlight, he veered away, surprised his instinct to survive was still strong. His legs moved under their own volition; he raced away. He heard a voice shout, but it was like listening to someone while submerged in a bath. His legs pounded below him, and gradually the shouting receded.
Staggering from the forest edge blowing like a steam train, Cayden immediately felt the bite of the wind through his damp clothes. His head was shrouded in silvery fog. He hugged the black army-issue jacket. His teeth chattered. The clouds separated like stretched dough, allowing a slice of moon to show the flat terrain ahead. Far to his right was a cluster of lights, maybe five kilometres away. That would be the little village at the end of the loch. What was it called? They would have set traps for him on every route into it. He was looking north-west. If he headed west, he would eventually find the road. That was where the Land Rover was parked – equally obvious. They were sure to have discovered it by now.
A stick cracked behind him.
Cayden lowered himself to his haunches, holding his breath. Another crack – and further down the tree line, a beam of yellow light. He could see the black shadow of the man holding the torch, his head wreathed in steam. Crouching low, Cayden set off in the opposite direction. He had gone a few steps when a shape disentangled itself from the low scrub and launched towards him.
Cayden cried out and leapt forward. He heard the body crash into the ground behind him. He sprinted for his life.
‘Stop y’bastard. It’s over. Give up.’
The moonlight enabled him to see a little more but still he fell into hidden dips and stumbled over ruts and rises in the land. He had found a pale sandy path that meandered through low gorse. Alarm tingled along his spine, anticipating the hit from a tackle.
Finally, Cayden's legs gave out. He collapsed with a groan. ‘Finished,’ he panted, ‘give up.’ He crawled into a dead patch of bracken, finding that under the frozen heads the vegetation was softer, with a residue of warmth – like crawling into the bottom of a compost heap. He curled himself into a ball, his clothes wet and clinging. ‘Oh God … I’m cold.’
Moment’s later, footsteps pounded by. He could not hear the dogs. His frozen swim must have confused them. Hopefully, they were now after one of the others.
‘Stay positive,’ he mumbled. ‘Remember … s-s-survival is in the mind. Think of something, anything, except feeling sorry for yourself. Remember your objective. Remember why.
Altnaharra – that was the name of the village whose lights he had seen. The little white-painted hotel built in 1820, with its creaking floors and deep-rolled topped bath that he had soaked in for an hour. How long ago? The dinner – the best sirloin steak he had ever had. His stomach grumbled and he curled himself tighter, his senses alert for approaching footsteps. A mouse, shocked by his intrusion, suddenly found the nerve to run. Its scurrying footsteps made Cayden’s heart beat tenfold. His mouth was dry. With numb fingers he reached for the flask on his belt and bought the cold metal to his lips. Some of the precious liquid dribbled down his chin.
A distant shout – then, from further away, an answering whistle. They were calling for him, baiting him; scaring him.
Cayden screwed the cap back on the flask and wedged it into the belt holster. He curled himself tighter after spreading more of the dead bracken over his body.
Loch Naver. Yes, that had been the name of the lake near Altnaharra. Very good fishing the hotel owner had told him, after looking curiously into the back of his Range Rover. Cayden had explained he was not there to fish, which had only heightened the hotel owner’s curiosity. People seldom stayed for anything else. If that man could see him now, what would he think?
Cayden could hear his name being called.
What was the big mountain north of Altnaharra? He tried to concentrate.
‘Come on y’bastard. We know y’re here.’
Ben Hope! That was it. Cayden curled his six foot-plus, slimmed-down frame even tighter as he heard the hard ground crunch under the man’s boots, slowly backtracking along the path.
He needed a mountain of hope.
‘Give up. We’ll take y’somewhere warm. Get y’something to eat.’
The man’s voice was shockingly loud. He must be standing almost above him. Would the steam from his breath come up through the vegetation and give him away?
‘The dogs will be here soon. We have the others. Game’s over.’
Fuck him! Fuck them all! He wasn’t going to be caught. His pursuer had not moved. An owl hooted from the forest and the boots finally crunched away. Cayden let out a slow, deep breath. He brought his wrist up to his face and pressed the button to illuminate the dial: 1:30 am. They must give up soon. He would give them another 30 minutes.
He would like to have stayed hidden all night. But the cold would kill him. He had to get moving. The trouble was, they knew that. As the 30 minutes approached, he thought he heard a very distant bark. He listened intently. Yes, on the very edge of his hearing, he heard it again.
Cayden felt adrenaline; the last reserves trickled through him. He crawled back to the path. The sky had cleared. The moon was low on the horizon, its feeble light enough to see the scar of pathway. He set off, quietly at first, but after several steps without challenge; he ran. He searched ahead, several times swerving from shadows, but none of them materialised as his pursuers.
Perhaps they had given up. He wasn’t that important, after all. If they had the others, then they had won anyway.
He ran on across the undulating landscape. When the moon disappeared behind a dark ridge of distant hills, he would have to slow down. The path made a sudden right, then a left turn and Cayden gasped as his body came up short against strands of barbed wire. He could feel the barbs pierce his skin. He backed away, tugging the wire from him. He held one strand above the other and stepped through. Immediately, he fell down a steep bank. He rolled to his knees. He was on a single-track, gravel road.
Which way?
Altnaharra was behind him to the east. He had driven towards Ben Hope to the north. ‘It has to be left,’ he mumbled. Unless he had bisected the road between Altnaharra and the vehicle?
Cayden kept to the edge of the road and jogged on, trying to keep a log of the distance he covered by counting his strides: one step – roughly one metre. A thousand steps later he had not found the Land Rover and his energy was spent along with his water. His nerves shot to pieces, he jumped as his stumbling gait sent stones clattering away into the darkness.
2:30 am … 2:35 … 2:37 … 3:05 … 3:30. Then, a structure, blacker than the starless sky, loomed to his left. For a moment Cayden stood, swaying like a drunk as he tried to focus, his brain refusing to calculate whether or not the shape was his Range Rover. He staggered the final few feet and his hands touched rough stone walling. It rose above him. He felt along the wall until he could discern a low-level opening, the top of its doorway level with his belt. He stood still and listened. A breeze stirred, pushing the damp fabric of his clothes against him. He shivered and stooped through the opening – debris blocked his way. Cayden knelt, relieved to feel dry dirt. He sat with his back against the stone and closed his eyes.
*****
Dun Dornaigil, the Iron Age broch on the River Hope. It was built to protect the ancient farming community from marauders and slave pirates – a bulwark seven metres high, accessible by a narrow entrance, its strength acknowledged by the exacting elements. Supposedly populated by ancient ghosts of the defenders buried within. Did they now take pity on the huddled body, bringing him quickly awake, his senses on full alert?
Dawn brought a tint of pink in the East, enough light to outline the 900-metre splendour of Ben Hope, its roots starting from across the road. Cayden heard another startled cry as two pheasant shot into the air and flapped over him.
He scanned the grey gorse and heather. No sign of movement. But then, on a waft of breeze, he heard the vehicle.
Cayden stooped out from his resting place, arched his back and grimaced from the pain of tired muscles. His teeth chattered. The vehicle caught him by surprise. Its headlights came out of a dip. Like a startled deer, he stood transfixed. Perhaps the occupants were friendly. The engine gunned and Cayden’s sixth-sense told him they weren’t. He bolted down the side of the broch, plunging into the gorse and down the riverbank. The vehicle revved and crashed over the lip of the bank, weaving madly down through the clumps of gorse. Cayden frantically scrambled across the shallow river and then clawed his way up the far bank. There was no way he could out-run them unless he got into the sort of terrain that would force them to abandon the vehicle.
At the top of the bank, to his dismay, he saw a wide, flat valley of gorse and heather. Perfect Land Rover country! He ran on, the diesel engine bellowing as it crested the bank. It was no good. A brace of grouse clattered into the air, their rapid wing beat soon carrying them far ahead. That was the only way he was going to get away.
Sweat began to roll down his face; his chest was painful as he laboured for breath. He could hear the diesel gaining on him. He couldn’t go on – he had lost. They had him. His foot sunk into the soft peat and he sprawled forward onto his stomach. The Land Rover was almost on top of him. Cayden crawled away; each point of contact slurped and sucked at him. The Land Rover’s engine became manic. He glanced backwards. A few yards behind, the vehicle had sunk to its sills, the wheels spinning uselessly, sending clogs of peat high into the air.
Cayden got to his feet, but slipped and fell forward. His head made contact with a slab of granite.
And then – blackness.
Chapter 2
‘ … the traffic is not bad for a Monday and the end of half-term Mike … everything flowing fairly easily … a few problems on the slip road at junction two eastbound on the M33, and the traffic lights are out of action where London Road crosses Solent Ride …’
Jac jabbed the TI button on the car stereo. He knew the traffic lights were out of action. He could see the mayhem ahead over the long line of crawling cars. Sighing, he adjusted the rear view mirror, framing the young occupant on the rear seat. Dylan was staring out of the window, a finger absently probing his nose.
‘That’s horrible, Dylan.’
The boy withdrew his finger and promptly stuck it in his mouth. ‘Sorry daddy.’
Jac took his foot off the brake and the Cayenne idled forward another car space.
‘Why is everything stopped, daddy? Is it because it’s a rainy Monday?’
Jac smiled at his son. ‘No, the traffic lights aren’t working.’
‘But mummy says it’s always raining on Monday and everything’s crap. Does that mean it doesn’t work?’
Jac frowned. ‘Something like that.’ Opening the window for some fresh air, he could smell the sea. ‘Does mummy often say things like that?’
‘No.’ Dylan sighed. His feet began to swing, kicking the rear of the front passenger chair. ‘What’s crap, daddy?’
‘It’s not nice, Dylan, I don’t want you saying it … OK?’
‘Mummy says everything’s crap since you left. Are you coming home, daddy?’
Jac flicked the windscreen wipers to clear the drizzle. A grey February Monday morning was never going to be the right time to answer such a question – not when the futility of life was so stark. But his son was thankfully many years from that stain on every adult’s life – to him, everything was fresh, no question inappropriate. Untainted thoughts flashed through Dylan's mind like impatient bees. Jac sighed again, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. A driver in a small saloon glared up at him from a side street. One of the anti-4x4 brigade? Jac waved her in. The woman tossed her head and made a point of not thanking him.
‘I’m sorry I had to go away, Dylan. You know it had nothing to do with you. I love you very much. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Roger says … ooh, look at that doggy, daddy …’
A husky was pulling its owner along the pavement.
‘What does Roger say?’
‘Can’t remember … something about um, you’re not like him … you’re different, daddy …’
Jac looked sharply at the mirror. He didn’t mind being different, especially when being compared with Roger, but he was maddened that his ex-wife’s new husband should be saying such things to his son. Roger lived with them, but that did not give him the right to discuss Jac's character with Dylan.
‘Different? In what way?’ he asked, clenching the wheel.
Dylan stopped kicking the seat and leant forward excitedly. ‘Oh, turn it up, daddy. Roger gave me this for Christmas.’
Jac recognised the latest release from Franz Ferdinand. Dylan was only seven. Too young to be listening to stuff like this. He turned the dial down a notch.
‘Ohh,’ Dylan stopped jigging about in his seat.
‘What did Roger say, Dylan?’ Jac turned in his seat. ‘Can you remember?’
So Karen thought her life had been crap since he left – good! She should have understood him better.
‘Can’t remember.’ Dylan crossed his arms, watching the dog cock its leg up against a post box.
‘Well, did he say I was different in a nice way or …’ Jac didn’t want to give him any ideas.
‘Can’t remember.’ Dylan looked stubbornly out of the window.
Jac looked at his son's little chin, thrust forward with determination, the cap pushed back on his head. A miniature version of himself, trying to look angry. Jac smiled and turned the radio up.
‘Yeah!’ Immediately, the anger vanished and Dylan was jigging in his seat again.
The driver Jac had let into the traffic was now having a conversation through the passenger window with an old woman, wearing a clear plastic headscarf and holding onto a two-wheel shopping bag.
Jac hooted.
The old woman straightened and glared at him. She said something to the driver before limping off towards the small parade of shops that ran up to the traffic lights.
Jac eased forward, thinking of Karen – beautiful, a Virgin flight attendant – and full of fun. They had married, Michael came along – and immediately it was all switched off. When Dylan arrived two years later, the clock for Jac’s departure was already ticking down. He was doing the school run because she was ill and Roger was away in the Middle East, but just looking around him made Jac realise why he had to leave. He was not a suburban, school run, Saturday shopping at Tesco, shouting from the touchline, kind of guy.
The old woman was peering at the ad cards in the newsagent's window. She moved her head from side to side to see around the burglar-proof bars. She looked like she had a cranial nerve disorder.
Jac wasn’t proud of himself – far from it. He would look at his reflection sometimes with disgust that he could be so selfish; such a coward with his responsibilities. Karen hated him most of the time, and he could understand why. But her life was crap since he left – now, that was a revelation.
‘Daddy, Mikey says we’re going to have another mummy. I don’t want another mummy.’
A white van was parked on the verge. Alongside, a man in overalls sat on a stool under an umbrella, his lap covered in cables spilling from a metal box that Jac assumed controlled the traffic lights. Jac edged out into the intersection. No-one would give way.
‘Wanker!’ a builder yelled, his expression hateful as he leaned out of his van window, his breakfast spilt down the front of his sweatshirt.
‘Just trying to get across, like you,’ Jac muttered.
‘Daddy … why does Mikey say we’re going to have a new mummy?’
Jac glanced at the clock. They were going to be late. He stamped on the accelerator and the Porsche surged forward. He hated this part of Portsmouth. Grey rows of identical semis, occasionally broken by a forlorn-looking piece of grass, a swing and a slide in one corner, and leaning goalposts in another. Corner shops with barred windows, litter caught against the tyres of parked cars, few of which he guessed would pass an MOT. Why couldn’t they just plant a few trees? Cayden knew Karen only lived here because her husband was in the Navy, but Roger was an officer – surely they could have moved to one of the better areas. He hated the fact that Dylan was going to school in a place like this. He didn’t want his son going into the Navy. Secret installations, hidden behind razor wire and signs saying trespassers would be electrocuted, passed by on his left.
‘Daddy,’ Dylan whined.
‘What?’
‘Why are we having a new mummy?’
Jac turned left down South Road. He could see the school gates; a woman with a Children Crossing sign was stopping the traffic, allowing a young mum wheeling a pushchair and dragging a girl by her hand, to cross. A cigarette dangled from the corner of the woman's mouth; her hair hung in greasy strands over a stained tracksuit; England emblazoned across her chest.
Jac pulled into the kerb behind a bus. He could see the teachers rounding up the children from the playground. There were tears in Dylan’s eyes when Jac opened his door and knelt to unclip his seat belt.
‘You’re not going to have another mummy, Dylan. Janet is my friend. Like Roger is your mum's.’ Jac picked him up and hugged him.
‘But Roger says I should call him Dad.’
Jac held back his anger. ‘You’ll never have another mummy, or daddy.’ He looked at his son’s face and his heart flipped as he watched Dylan manfully hold back his tears. ‘I promise, we will always be your mummy and daddy and we’ll always love you. Michael was teasing you. He’s naughty, but older brothers do tease. You remember that, he doesn’t mean it, OK?’
Dylan nodded, running a finger under his nose.
‘Come on, we’re late. We don’t want Mrs. Kennedy to be cross, do we?’
Jac held Dylan's hand and felt tears in his own eyes.
‘Mrs. Kennedy was last year. It’s Mrs. Newport …’
They reached the gate at the same time as the woman in the tracksuit. She let go of her girl’s hand and turned the pushchair down the street, without a word, or backward glance.
Jac hurried across the playground still holding Dylan’s hand. They passed a climbing frame over soft matting and a hopscotch grid painted on the tarmac – but the rest of the area was colourless and miserable, surrounded by wrought iron fencing and, beyond, the endless sea of grey houses. The school building was one storey red brick, utilitarian and smelling of disinfectant. Dylan went to his peg and hung up his coat. Jac could hear a woman’s voice from an open doorway calling out for everyone to be seated.
Dylan’s eyes widened with fear. Jac knelt down and held out his arms. ‘Give us a hug.’
Dylan dutifully ran into his arms and then tugged free, running into the classroom.
‘Ah, there you are, Dylan Callejon, I was just about to put a cross against your name.
Jac got to his feet. He leant against the door frame. They were all seated at their little tables, facing Mrs. Newport, who seemed young enough to be his daughter. She caught sight of him and stiffened. ‘Can I help you?’
Jac straightened, suddenly embarrassed as 28 seven-year-olds turned to look at him. ‘No … no, I’m Dylan’s father … Jac.’
‘Class, say good morning to Mr. Callejon.’
‘Good morning,’ they chorused.
‘Good morning,’ Jac responded, feeling vaguely ridiculous. ‘All of you have a nice day … and be good.’ He waved and turned away, catching the look of embarrassment on Dylan’s face.
As he was leaving the cloakroom, Mrs. Newport hurried out to him. ‘Mr. Callejon. It’s very important that all the children are here on time. It’s very unsettling otherwise.’
Jac nodded. 'Christ!' he muttered to himself as he left, 'I help run a multi-million pound company and here I am being told off by someone who still has bloody acne.'
A traffic warden was looking at his number plate when he returned.
‘I was just dropping my kid off at school.’
Blank eyes in a round, black face stared back at him, the peak of the warden's cap pulled low like a soldier's in a militant African army. He was obviously waiting for a volley of verbal abuse.
Jac shrugged and slipped in behind the driving seat.
He turned the ignition and put the Cayenne into drive. The traffic warden was still looking at him. Jac smiled and pressed the accelerator, immediately stamping on the brakes as a small boy appeared from nowhere and walked in front of him. The tyres screeched on the slick surface and Jac could feel his heart racing. The boy did not look at him but carried on through the gates. He walked in a slow, purposeful way, apparently unaware of his surroundings, as if he was sleep-walking, thought Jac. He had dark skin, with large brown eyes, his black hair cut in a pudding bowl style. Several pigeons, jabbing at the asphalt, strutted from his path. Jac looked around for the boy's mother or father.
The bus was pulling away in front but there was no-one else around apart from the traffic warden, who was now standing in front of a car, parked on the chevrons at the crossing. He glanced back at Jac and then at the school playground, holding the ticket machine in his hand, like a gun.
Jac accelerated slowly, still looking at the boy, who seemed unsure about which way to go. Weak sunlight glinted off the wet slate tiles. A fat seagull was parading along the roof ridge, eyeing the pigeons. Jac had a fleeting image of his own bleak school yard; he must have been thirteen, first year at an ugly comprehensive in a south London suburb, fresh from spending his life under the hot Australian sun – crying with frustration that no-one wanted to be his friend. They had laughed at his accent – taken the piss mercilessly. Standing alone – from leader to outcast in the space of a few months. Perhaps that was why he was so useless at relationships.
Jac looked in his side-view-mirror. He thought of the lost looking boy who had just walked in. Poor little bugger – another kid, screwed-up because his damn parents were too selfish to adapt their lives to suit his needs.
The Cayenne shuddered from the explosion.
Jac’s head slammed against the door pillar and his foot instinctively stamped down on the pedal. Over two tons of Cayenne hit the car parked opposite, pushing it across the pavement and into the front wall of a house. Jac head-butted the steering wheel. Then, as if in afterthought, the air bag exploded.
His hearing buzzed. His sight blurred. Jac pushed himself back into his seat, vaguely aware of the blood running down his face. He wiped his eyes.
He could hear screaming.
A car horn – his horn. Car alarms were blaring up and down the street.
A face appeared at the window. It was the traffic warden.
‘What happened?’ Jac shouted.
But the black face disappeared.
Ash and bits of paper, floated down onto the crumpled bonnet. There was a sudden bang as the decapitated body of a seagull bounced off the metal and slid from view, leaving a bloody trail across the paper. Red curtains hung out of a shattered window of the house he had hit.
Jac opened the door and fell onto the pavement. He looked back along the side of the Cayenne to the school entrance. The little playground was a mass of bricks and smouldering debris – the front wall missing, the middle section of the roof, fallen inwards. Slates were still sliding to the ground, and smoke billowed through the rafters into the grey sky.
People ran from the houses, shouting, screaming.
A child stumbled from the shattered entrance, his clothes blackened. He collapsed into the arms of a teacher, tripping over the debris as she ran from a Portakabin, undamaged, near the far wall.
Jac staggered forward, his feet crunching glass. What had happened? Had a plane crashed into the building? An image of Dylan crashed into his consciousness. He sprinted forward, tripping over the pavement, falling onto his hands and knees. Something stabbed into his palm. He was trying to say Dylan’s name, but his throat felt as it was clogged with flour. He had lost a shoe. Someone helped him up and they went arm in arm through the open gate.
A heavily-built man shouldered past. He ran into the shattered entrance, disappearing into the smoke. Others were running towards the back of the building, some screaming, some talking into mobiles, others shouting, crying – Jac witnessed every wretched emotion as he hobbled towards the building. The burly man reappeared through the smoke, a small, lifeless body hanging in his arms. He passed it to a woman, then went back in. He managed it three more times before collapsing to his knees, coughing uncontrollably.
Jac could hear sirens. He looked back towards the gate as a fire engine came to a halt. He shook off the arm that was supporting him and carried on into the smoke.
Chapter 3
‘I’m going to eat your psyche,’ the voice, growled in his ear. ‘I’m going to tear apart everything y’are …’ The voice faded. He felt movement behind his body. ‘A sliver of soul … hmm, very tasty … I’m going to break ye down until y’re nothing but a lump of useless flesh … y’hear me, Callejon?’
Cayden turned his head, following the sound of the harsh Scottish tones. The mask was tight around his eyes. He felt his eyeballs being pushed into his head. His arms were tied to a pipe that felt cold and rusty against his wrists. He could smell urine – a public toilet. It was cold. His body shivered with uncontrollable spasms.
‘Y’re a proud man, aren’t ye? Proud of what y’ve achieved. Proud of y’company. Proud of y’house. Proud of y’ life. You’re the biggest cock in the farmyard, aren’t ye, Callejon? Crowing and crowing …’
Cayden swung around, trying to follow the voice. The leather tightened about his wrists. He pushed up on his toes, easing the strain on his shoulders.
A hand suddenly clenched his testicles. Cayden stiffened.
‘Not much of a cock are ye? The women aren’t going to be too impressed with these, are they? I’ve seen bigger balls on my thirteen-year-old.’
Several voices laughed.
‘Ye’re a little man with a little cock, and ye’ll tell me everything I want to know, won’t ye?’
Cayden yelled as the hand tightened. He could feel his testicles being pushed up inside him.
‘Easy there boy, I haven’t finished with ye yet.’
‘This has gone far enough.’
There was another burst of harsh laughter around him.
‘Still think ye’re in charge. Giving orders.’
‘This has to stop!’ Cayden’s voice rose as the hand tightened.
‘Och, I donna think so …’
Cayden's hearing was suddenly muffled by headphones. Immediately, a noise like an un-tuned television blared through his head. It steadily increased in volume until it was a vast echoing roar, like an approaching wave which never broke.
Cayden jumped awake, his feet kicking out, striking something hard. He grunted with pain. Disorientated, he felt around the black space; the sleeping bag was keeping him warm but his exposed shoulders were freezing. The wall next to him felt cold and damp. His heartbeat calmed, tiredness enveloped him, His eyes closed.
‘Have ye heard of a wee man called Aesop?’ the voice whispered in his ear.
‘Yes.’ A mistake. Don’t volunteer anything.
‘Tell me then.’
Cayden tensed, waiting for the gloved hand.
‘Who was Aesop, mister know-it-all with the small cock?’
Cayden felt the cold air move around his exposed testicles. ‘Fables…’ he shouted, ‘… Aesop’s Fables. Lessons on … life.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere, ye wee prick. Tell me one?’
Cayden pulled on his wrists. ‘One swallow does not a summer make.’
‘Is that about you sucking your boyfriend’s todger?’ the voice sneered.
‘Bugger off.’
The gloved hand traced over his buttocks, the coarse stitching from the seam scraping down the divide. ‘How about I bugger ye, laddie?’
Cayden felt like an electrode had touched him. He swung away, clenching his buttocks. ‘Spendthrift,’ he shouted. ‘The spendthrift and the swallow … a man wastes his fortune and is left with nothing but his clothes … then he sees a swallow one spring morning and decides the weather will get warmer, so he sells his coat … except the weather turns colder and the swallow … the swallow dies, and when the man sees the dead swallow he says … "thanks to you, I’m freezing" …’
Cayden bolted upright, his head making contact with the metal frame above. He cursed, shivering. He had kicked the sleeping bag down to his feet. Now, he hurriedly pulled it up around his shoulders, pushing the nightmare away. The thick insulation warmed him; he fell back, exhaustion overtaking him. His tired brain needed the anchor of normality – the reminder of who he was; what he had achieved. Think – concentrate.
Cayden Harold Callejon, forty years old next September … no, forty-one next September … owner of Tomahawk Powerboats … successful company, built it up from nothing … live in a beautiful converted barn in the Sussex downs … drive a silver Aston Martin DB9 …
An image of a woman filled his being, filled it as she had once filled his life. He pictured her smiling face, but the details – the exact colour and shape of her eyes, the laughter lines around the corners of her mouth, the cut of her hair – were obscure, the image more akin to a feeling – a physical shock, like the tenderness he felt when she had run into his arms at the end of the day, as if he had been away for a week.
‘Rachel,’ Cayden whispered. A tear squeezed between heavy lids, before sleep once again overtook him.
‘Now here’s my wee tale from our friend, Mr. Aesop,' the voice interrupted. 'Two cocks fight over who should rule the farmyard, and the beaten one skulks away to hide in the barn while the victor flies to the roof and crows loudly about his success. An eagle hears his crowing and swoops down, taking him off, at which the other cock returns to rule the yard.’
‘Pride comes before a fall,’ Cayden mumbled.
‘Very good,’ the man whispered encouragingly into his ear. ‘Now, I’m the eagle and you are the stupid wee cock that’s been crowing for way too long.’
Cayden moaned, rolling himself tighter inside the sleeping bag, only half-conscious.
She used to love the garden. Always happy to be out there, leaning over a flowerbed, pulling weeds, running the lawn mower through the curved sections of grass or planting another flowering bush the persuasive garden centre had pushed onto her. Memories flooded his brain: her long, slim legs in ripped old jeans, worn so thin on her backside that he had been able to discern the colour of her underwear; an equally old sweatshirt, stained with streaks of mud and grass, so voluminous it hid the jut of her breasts, the sweep of her waist; her hair bundled untidily on top of her head; her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as she aggressively attacked the root of a weed with her trowel. He would watch, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, just outside the patio doors, until she became aware of him and turned, her smudged face instantly breaking into a happy smile. He had loved her so much in those precious moments. All his concerns and fears would evaporate. There was no doubt: this was the woman he wanted to be with.
Now, there was warmth on his face again. Cayden opened his eyes – her image faded. He shut them, wanting to hold on, not let the greyness close in. But it seeped in with the same determination it did every morning. He opened his eyes again, staring at the bunk-bed above; illuminated by sunlight from the window opposite. Slowly, the dreams receded. He sat up, pulling the sleeping bag around him, wincing from the bruised muscles and headache. He could see his breath. He tried to look out of the window but the inside of the glass was iced. He shivered. His clothes were hanging from a rail.
The door banged back against the wall. Cayden jumped. A short man strode in. He was carrying a steaming mug.
‘Y’re up, Mr. Callejon. Glad to see it. Here’s a mug of tea.’
Cayden recognised the Scottish accent.
‘I’ve had enough,’ he stammered, realising he had pushed himself against the wall.
The man crouched down next to the bed. ‘Aye, well that’s for the good because something terrible has happened and we’ve all been called away south.’
Cayden accepted the mug slowly. ‘What?’
The man he now recognised as McMillan stood and stared for a while out the window. ‘Finish y’re tea, get dressed and then come have some breakfast. Y'must be starving.’ He turned back from the door. ‘How’s y’head? You took a helluvva whack!’ He shook his head. ‘You didn’a have to take it so seriously, y’know.’
They were waiting for him at the long trestle table in the next room. A fire was crackling at the far end but it provided little warmth. The linoleum floor was peeling. The wall with a broken dresser against it was green from mould.
‘Sit down, Mr. Callejon,’ said McMillan.
Cayden glanced cautiously at the others. The nine men who, like him, had been trying to evade capture were sitting around McMillan and his two corporals. They nodded their good mornings.
‘How d’ya feel?’ McMillan asked.
‘Confused … very confused…I was … I was hallucinating last night … about an interrogation …’ Cayden sat down next to his colleagues, looking at the plate of fried bacon, eggs, bread and beans rapidly getting cold in front of him. ‘You didn’t …?’ He looked up at McMillan, who shook his head.
‘Och no, Mr. Callejon, we wouldn’t do that to ye, would we lads?’ McMillan winked at the corporals. ‘It must have been the videos we showed … anyway, sorry we had to cut things short. If ye want a refund, that won’t be a problem.’
Cayden picked up his fork and jabbed at a sausage. His hand was shaking as he pushed a piece of sausage into his mouth and chewed mechanically. He could taste the fat. Swallowing, he felt the hard lump stick under his ribs. He reached for the mug of tea and sipped slowly.
‘You OK, Mr. Callejon?’ McMillan asked, scooping up the last of his beans.
‘You have any Anadin?’ Cayden replied.
‘Aye, here y’go.’ McMillan tossed him a box from his backpack.
Cayden took three, glancing down the table at the other pale faces. The two at the end were businessmen like himself, wanting to learn self-defence and anti-kidnapping techniques. That’s what he had told them, anyway. He nodded and they smiled back. The one nearest was unshaven, his hair standing at odd angles. He had brown, bloodshot eyes and a long nose supporting a drop of moisture on the end. He wiped it away and went back to holding his mug with both hands. ‘Hell of an experience,’ he said through a grin, until the expression collapsed on his face so that his mouth merely quivered.
Cayden nodded slowly before looking back at McMillan. ‘So, it’s really over?’
‘Aye. You’ve all done well. Very impressive seeing ye're civvies an’ all.’
Cayden started to eat again. Dogs were barking outside.
‘Now ye know a little more about evading capture. All vital stuff. If we had more time we would work on ye physical abilities, but mentally ye’ve shaped up very well.’
At this, the two former SAS corporals stood and cleared away the breakfast plates, a bottle of ketchup and the salt and pepper pots. Wasting no time, they went immediately through the only other door to the dilapidated croft and outside to their Land Rover, already full with equipment and the two German Shepherds who sat on the tailgate. These were men more used to communicating through their hard, efficient movements, rather than with words. Whether they shared McMillan’s views or not, it was difficult to tell. They had hardly said anything to him over the course of the past few days. When instructions were needed, they had done it physically – jabbing the butt of an M16 hard into Cayden's chest to emphasise that he should hold it more tightly, or pushing him deeper into the mud to explain that he needed to lie lower, or forcing his arm painfully up his back to demonstrate how easy it was to incapacitate someone trying to attack you with a knife.
For all that pushing, shoving, hitting and yelling, Cayden had paid over £1,000.
‘So, has it been worth it?’ McMillan asked, smiling as he lit a cigarette.
They nodded dumbly.
‘Make sure ye watch again the video on interrogation.’ added McMillan. ‘It’s the hardest part, and one ye can’t practice, eh?’
The buzzing was beginning to recede as the food began to restore some of Cayden's strength. ‘I’ve learnt a lot, thank you,’ he said. But was it really over? He wasn't fully convinced. Shouldn't there be more? ‘If I wanted to … learn more, can I call you on the same number?’
McMillan laughed – or sneered. Cayden couldn't tell. ‘No, Mr. Callejon., ye’ve gone about as far as we can go with a civvy. Especially one as old as ye’self. No disrespect but I wouldn’t want to be responsible … if ye see what I mean.’
Cayden pushed his plate away. His body did feel all of its 40 years. He was tired beyond anything he had experienced before.
‘Now, as I’ve said, we’ve gotta’ move, sharpish …’ McMillan scooped his plastic plate and mug into a black waste bag. ‘… so we’re going to leave ye to it … just shut the door when ye’re ready and …’ McMillan got to his feet and stretched his hand across the table. He shook hands with each of them. ‘… thank ye for using our wee company for yer training. I hope ye never have to use what we've taught you, but if ye do, I hope it proves useful.’
McMillan shouldered his pack and went out to the Land Rover. He shooed the dogs into their space and slammed the tailgate shut before squeezing in behind the wheel. The engine started with a clatter before the tyres churned over the moss and lichen and they bumped away along the narrow track, quickly disappearing from view. Cayden sat in silence with the others, staring out of the door at the grey clouds scudding across the pine-forested valley and blurring the tops of the far hills. The wind moaned through the cracks in the building.
‘Why did they have to leave?’ Cayden asked eventually. His voice sounded as grey as the sky.
The man next to him, whose name he had forgotten, pushed back wearily. ‘Big emergency down south. They’ve bombed service targets and, because so many are overseas, they’ve called in everyone to help.’
Cayden looked up at the man. He was tall, slim, something to do with oil exploration. Bickerton – that was his name, he suddenly remembered. ‘But I thought they were no longer in the SAS?.’
Bickerton picked up his rucksack. ‘They’re not. But the bastards have blown up three schools. Everyone’s been called in. McMillan reckoned there could be civil war.’
Cayden looked from Bickerton to the others, all of them wide-eyed. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Portsmouth, Aldershot, Brize Norton. Navy, army, air force. Three schools. Suicide bombers. Fucking kid suicide bombers. These people are insane.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ Cayden exclaimed.
‘Well, I wouldn’t like to be a Muslim living in this country right now. Perhaps our training will come in useful when we attack Bradford.’ Bickerton smiled, but his eyes remained grim. He shook hands briefly and left with the others. Vehicles started-up and one by one they followed McMillan’s tracks. It had not been a week for amiable goodbyes.
One man was left. Patterson was shorter than Cayden by at least five inches; younger, but unfit, with a beer belly and arms that were undefined with muscle. He had cropped hair, and a round face that perpetually frowned. A mummy’s boy trying to look harder than he was – that had been McMillan’s description. His single interest was computer games. His eyes were dull.
Cayden found his backpack and retrieved a fleece smelling of a far-off world of washing machines and fabric softener. Not as good as when Rachel had done his washing, though. Cayden scowled at the Range Rover, backed up to a low barn that extended out from the cottage, with a roof of corrugated asbestos and flaking white-painted, stone walls.
‘What day is it?’ he asked, trying to shake some life into him.
Patterson shrugged.
Cayden pressed the alarm button before throwing his pack onto the back seat.
He opened the low wooden barn door and wandered along the narrow corridor that ran the length of the building. At intervals, to his left, were steel doors. He pushed open the middle one on well-oiled hinges. This was where they had been briefed, watching videos on a TV powered by a portable generator. The walls were two feet thick. Inside, the empty, windowless room was a rusty pipe across the ceiling. The room smelt like a public toilet.
Patterson was standing next to the Range Rover, his backpack at his feet. Cayden suddenly remembered that he had arrived by taxi at the hotel in Altnaharra. ‘Where do you live?’ he asked the younger man as he climbed in behind the wheel. He wanted to be alone.
‘Burnham Deepdale.’
Cayden looked at him impatiently.
‘Near Norwich.’
‘How were you planning on getting back?’
Patterson’s frown deepened, as if he was working on an exam question.
‘Get in,’ said Cayden, starting the engine. ‘You can think about it on the way to the main road.’
Patterson ran around and climbed in, stuffing his rucksack into the footwell, the straps scratching the leather. Cayden pressed the buttons on the steering wheel, searching for a radio signal. He got a station in Gaelic; the rest were hidden behind static. He switched the radio off impatiently.
The deep ruts were full of broken chunks of muddy ice. Cayden engaged four-wheel drive when the rear wheels started to spin.
‘So, what do you do?’
‘This and that.’
Cayden clenched the wheel. The Range Rover rocked and dipped over the surface. ‘Anything specific?’
When Patterson didn’t answer, Cayden looked at him sharply. If he was going to be sitting there disturbing his need to be alone, then the least he could do was talk. ‘How old are you?’ he asked between clenched teeth.
‘Ahh, thirty-four,’ replied Patterson, frowning. The track turned sharp left and started to descend in a series of hairpins through the pine forest. ‘My folks died in a car crash when I was sixteen.’
‘Oh,’ Cayden responded, unable to summon any sympathy. ‘So, you play games all day?’
‘Pretty much.’ Patterson picked dirt from under his fingernails. ‘They were well insured.’
Cayden sighed. ‘Why this course?’
Patterson suddenly became animated. He leant forward, his hands gripping imaginary controls. ‘To feel what it’s like … you know, like running from the enemy …like … er, holding guns … brilliant!’
Cayden looked at him with astonishment.
‘Yeah … awesome,’ added Patterson, staring ahead, unfocused.
The trees stood in silent rows, their lower branches brown from lack of sunlight. Nothing moved. Cayden remembered their needle-sharp touch in the cold night. He remembered the lake, shivered and turned up the heating – just as a branch ran down the side of the Range Rover, making him wince. Every nerve was trigger-happy. He wanted to know what day it was. He turned on the radio and tried to find a signal. Still nothing.
They reached the made-up track leading to Altnaharra. ‘I’ll drop you back at the hotel. You can get a taxi from there.’
Twenty minutes later, thankfully alone, Cayden settled into the long drive back to Southampton. He found Radio 4, amazed that it was Wednesday. He had started the Hunt and Find part of the course on Monday afternoon. Anger suddenly bubbled up at their treatment. All right, he had volunteered – no, what was he talking about, he had paid – but their casual, offhand manner now annoyed him. He had expected a proper de-brief. A report telling him how well he had done. Ticks next to his accomplishments. That sort of thing.
Then he began listening to the news – and any further thoughts of himself vanished.
Solemn voices reported the latest count of dead children. As he drove through villages and then towns, he sensed the shock in everyone he saw; could almost hear the cries of anguish behind the closed doors of the terraced houses and acres of boxes on estates packed close to the M6 near Birmingham. When he stopped for fuel, numbed people stood in queues, while the TVs and radios continued their non-stop reporting. The Prime Minister had been in South Africa; on his return, the plane had suffered engine problems. The country was leaderless. Politicians brave enough to say anything, talked in hesitant sound-bites:
‘… everything is being done that is humanely possible … we urge people to remain calm … we are awaiting a full report … no, we cannot confirm where the bombers came from …’
In the end, Cayden had to turn it off. His mood had plunged dangerously low. Since Rachel’s murder, more than two years ago, life had become desolate. She had torn an irreparable hole. Everything once so important was now dissatisfying. The problems of running Tomahawk had changed from challenges to irritations. The powerboats themselves, had become mere products – their sales contributing to a bottom line profit, which in itself should have filled him with pride, but now just meant he was able to pay for his survival for as long as he wished. Apathy had run through him like acid rain. Then, on insistence from Jac, he had gone to Scotland – a week learning basic survival for front-line business people. Cayden had done it for relief, perhaps subconsciously wanting to learn skills that might enable him to exact some kind of vengeance.
‘Jac – my God, Jac!’ The thought of his brother had triggered a jolt of panic. Jac had children in Portsmouth! Cayden reached for his mobile phone, his hand now shaking. Subconsciously, he pressed down on the accelerator; the Range Rover’s speed shot over 90 mph.
*****
Cayden pushed through the detritus caused from the pandemonium Gosport's Haslar Hospital had been suffering for 24 hours. In the crammed waiting area, reporters and camera crews jostled with tearful relatives. Bins overflowed with crisp packets, drink cans and paper cups. A trolley served as a makeshift bench for the journalists until a nurse shooed them off and wheeled it through the double doors to the Accident Treatment Centre.
Haslar was sharing casualties with the Queen Alexandra, to the north of Portsmouth. Cayden’s abused mind struggled with the simplest of tasks. In a daze, he pushed around the bags of camera equipment, tripods and islands of huddled reporters. He found his mother squashed in a corner. He hugged her.
‘I can’t find out anything.’ Her tormented face looked up at him, the tragedy etched in her face.
‘Let me see what I can find out,’ he said, squeezing her arm and moving off through the crowd.
The nurse glanced at his driver’s license for identification, then nodded sharply at her assistant, who consulted a list and confirmed that Dylan Callejon had been admitted.
‘We know that.’ Cayden rubbed his forehead with frustration. ‘We want to know how he’s doing.’
The nurse shook her head, too tired to give a reason why it wasn’t possible to tell him anything further.
‘What about my brother, Jac Callejon? Can I see him?’
The nurse picked up the phone, shaking her head again.
Cayden stood for a few moments longer, looking over her head, trying to see what was going on in the room behind, screened from the reception area by frosted glass. In the end he was shuffled away by more anxious relatives.
‘Who are you?’ a woman asked, a pad and pen in her hands. She had short blonde hair, brown at the edges, and wore tight-fitting black trousers. Pretty, but very young. She must have hated the red spot on the side of her nose with all those cameras around, Cayden thought.
‘A relative,’ Cayden replied as he started to push pass.
‘Knew it! Cayden Callejon …’ She blocked him, ‘I’m right, yeah?’
‘Who the hell are you?’ Cayden looked over her head, searching for his mother.
‘I work for the Echo. We’ve done a few stories on Tomahawk.’
Cayden looked at her sharply. ‘Have you now?’
‘Can I get your comment about what has happened?’
‘No. But you can tell me what the latest news is.’
She chewed the end of her pen with a fierce frown. ‘OK, but give me an exclusive?’
Cayden made to step past her.
‘Okay, okay.’ She touched his arm. ‘I don’t know much, but … um, let me see …’ She guided him away from listening news teams. ‘… there’s an exclusion zone around the schools, right, no-one can get near. Helicopters are bringing in the investigators. Word is, it definitely was a bombing … the other two schools helped them come to that conclusion pretty quick. Schoolchildren as suicide bombers, it’s unbelievable …’
Cayden waved at his mother.
‘Seven fatalities here … so far …’ the girl from the Echo continued. ‘… three at Aldershot, five at Brize Norton. Airports, ports … everything shut down to stop anyone leaving the country. All service personnel and police called off leave. Hmm, what else … yeah, Prime Minister still stranded overseas; they’re sending a military plane, I think, but the Chancellor and Deputy PM have already been down and there’ll be an official news conference pretty soon … it’s unbelievable something this huge should happen here, isn't it?’
Her eyes had become glittery inside the rings of black make-up.
Cayden clenched his jaw; the reporter took an involuntary step back. ‘Do you have the names of the victims?’
The Echo girl looked at her pad. ‘Nope. Just three boys and four girls.’
‘Can you find out?’
She looked doubtful. ‘One of the nurses is my sister-in-law … I could see if she knows anything …’ An eyebrow arched. ‘… for an exclusive?’
‘Find out. I’ll be over there,’ Cayden said, pointing towards his mother before thrusting his hands into his pockets. He watched the reporter weave through huddled groups of relatives to a side door. Working his way over to where his mother waited, he caught an image of himself as he passed a TV monitor. At least, he assumed it was him – narrowed eyes within deep sockets that looked bruised; a savage crease across the bridge of his nose; his hair sticking up at odd angles; the overhead light catching the flecks of grey around his ears. He squared his shoulders, smoothing down his hair. The backs of his hands were scratched, the skin dry and cracked.
The TV channel’s anchor woman came on with another update. The Prime Minister, looking deeply upset, filled the screen. He was speaking, but the sound was off. Was it the BBC or a commercial station? It hardly mattered. The news was the same. Through a window Cayden glimpsed a row of trucks - their satellite dishes ready to beam any developments straight to the millions waiting anxiously in their living rooms. Two younger men, with lenses the size of small rockets, were talking and laughing as if they were in a pub, enjoying a pint. Cayden glared, but they chose not to notice. It was just a job – photographing misery for the tabloids. Just as he would view a Tomahawk carving gracefully through the sea as the fruit of his labours, so they salivated over pictures that showed the most grief, or blood, or destruction – or an A-list celebrity's cleavage or g-string as she climbed out of a limousine.
Cayden rolled his shoulders. He hugged the frail body of his mother, who at eighty was struggling to remain calm. Her friend and neighbour, who drove her everywhere, was at a vending machine, inserting coins for a cup of tea.
‘Why can’t they tell us what’s happening?’ she asked.
‘They’re very busy … here, sit down … rest.’
‘But why can’t they just tell us?’
Cayden hadn't slept since leaving Scotland. His physical exhaustion gave him no strength to combat the battering from a deepening depression – a bleakness that the world no longer had the capacity to care. Where was Jac? He opened his phone, his hunched frame nudged by the aimless crowd. Emergency use only. He put it back in his pocket.
A helicopter roared overhead. Dust and rubbish swirled between the gaps in the camera trucks, which began to quiver on their suspensions as it sunk onto the landing circle. The news people stampeded for the door. A bin overturned, its contents quickly trodden into the carpet tiles. Relative quiet descended inside the hospital as the journalists rushed towards the now idling helicopter, microphones thrust forward like stakes to upset a cavalry charge, at two men hurrying under the rotors, carrying between them a white box.