The Dark Horizon, page 10
‘What happened to her?’ Seb asked, and received a sharp look from Esme.
‘What do you think happens to people in a terminal illness group?’
The young man’s face flushed. ‘Sorry, I meant – what was wrong with her?’
‘She had cancer.’
June was looking unusually ruffled, and the diplomatic Alice decided it was time to change the subject. ‘Seb’s got something he wants to ask you,’ she told PC Steve.
‘It’s not about where babies come from, is it?’ He nodded to the intertwining with Alice. ‘Now that you’re, well…’
Seb reddened further, his face shifting to a shade just short of incandescent. ‘No, it was – you made me think about joining the police.’
‘It’s a good job. You get to meet some interesting people.’ Steve offered a meaningful look at the protesters. ‘But the trouble is we’re not recruiting and I doubt we will be for ages.’
‘Same old shit,’ Mac grunted.
‘He had his name down for an apprenticeship at the dockyard,’ Esme explained. ‘Just to tide him over, while Mac waits to be discovered as an artist. But they’re not taking anyone on, either. No one is.’
They lapsed into silence, all with thoughts for the future. PC Steve’s were of Kathy and their first date. The pub had been quiet, the corner welcoming, the wine a deep and relaxing red. It had gone pretty well he reckoned; lots of laughter and no awkward silences. There’d even been a quick kiss goodnight, cut ruefully short by the incessant cold, but perhaps with the hint of more to come.
As for Alice and Seb, the daydream images were of a burgeoning relationship and whether it could survive the college years that lay ahead.
Esme wandered through a world healed by her actions, catalysed to change by the spirit of these protests. Her generation was feted, not forgotten.
And the laconic Mac, for him the visions were far more expansive than his few words; canvases as rich as the artworks he produced. Upon a stage Mac stood, fans at his feet in dizzy ecstasy as another riff of the bass guitar was sent skywards.
And in the background, unknowing and uncaring, foot by foot and hammer by drill, Resurgam continued to grow.
A car drew up in a taxi rank, just along from the protest. It was a large green BMW and one of the more aristocratic members of the range. A man and woman got out. Both were rotund to the point of being inflated, dressed in matching bubble jackets and armed with faces harder than a Siberian frost.
‘Oh, shit,’ Mac muttered.
The couple made straight for the line. The black-clad Emo tried to hide behind a placard, but it was too late. He had been targeted, as surely as if the human eye possessed a laser sighting dot.
‘Matthew! What the hell have you been doing? You’re all over the papers!’
The woman set a course straight for the prodigal son, an accusatory finger leading the way. ‘You stay out all hours, you never talk to us, and this is what you’re getting up to!’
‘I’m just trying to…’
The attempted defence was as effective as bales of straw before a battle tank. ‘All that money we’ve invested in you and this is how you repay us. All the neighbours are talking about us. I wouldn’t be surprised if your poor father gets suspended from the Community Watch Alliance.’
The silent man standing dutifully beside didn’t look unduly concerned, until she turned to him. Upon which, Mr Mac’s expression transformed to looking like an undertaker with depression. Mac himself had shrunk several inches in height and was trying to submerge himself under the collars of his trench coat.
‘You’re coming home with me,’ the woman continued. ‘And I don’t want any arguments or you’ll be grounded and you won’t even be allowed to play that infernal guitar.’
And with that, she turned and headed back for the car. In the trueness of the teenage tradition, the rebellious son hunched his shoulders, but slouched along in the unforgiving parental slipstream.
It was mid-afternoon, the thin light already fading when the first bus arrived. There were no reporters, no cameramen, no media whatsoever to witness the coming. Which was a pity, as surely the point of the profession is to capture moments of change.
The first of the coaches was streaked with mud and heard well before it was seen, the exhaust blowing hard. The second was painted in swirling psychedelic colours, a drunken pastiche of reds, blues, yellows and greens. The third was nominally white, but more patterned with rust and dents. The fourth was the most modern, and green with white flashes.
Upon the side of three coaches was painted “ECO WARRIORS UK TOUR”. The other sported the legend “THE PROFESSIONALS”.
All four pulled up along the road in a zone marked “Strictly No Waiting”. From the buses began to disembark young men and women in thick, rag tag coats, wide-brimmed hats and beanies, old boots and wellies, threadbare jeans and combat trousers, and a variety of unkempt hairstyles. Several carried copies of the paper, folded onto Barnaby Hill’s article.
And in silent harmony, they gathered and looked to Resurgam, growing above the fences.
CHAPTER 12
Untroubled by the dramas of the human world, the golden spectres were still making their way around the pond. It was a serene and stately procession which would last a lifetime, and sometimes difficult not to envy. Dan stood and watched and tried to calm down.
For the first time in the recent reign of the cold, his feet didn’t feel as though they’d been planted in the tundra. It was probably something to do with his heart rate. It was pounding along at a tempo of double time at least.
Adam was contentedly telling Larson his rights, a ritual of the law the detective always enjoyed. The other two cops had appeared from the sides of the house and looked downcast.
‘A bit of bloody fun, at last, and we missed it,’ the marginally smaller of the two complained.
Perhaps to help lift their mood, Adam let the pair walk Larson to the patrol car. The attempted fugitive had managed to vent a little abuse, but it wasn’t particularly colourful. The handcuffs had ended his bid for freedom and eroded his spirit. A couple of neighbours watched from their gardens. They were smiling in a way that suggested Mr Larson may not have been the most popular member of the community.
Adam paced across, flicking some mythical dirt from his overcoat and straightening his impeccable tie. He eyed Dan disdainfully. ‘Blimey, you look rough.’
‘It might be something to do with staring mortal fear right in the face.’
‘Yeah, we appreciate your extraordinary valour,’ Adam added, with a double shot of irony.
‘It worked, didn’t it?!’
‘It wasn’t exactly the way of a knight.’
‘I wasn’t attempting to join the Round Table.’
‘I’m not sure you’ll ever have that option.’
‘Adam! I’m not a cop and I don’t want to be one, ok? That’s your department. I’ll take the thinking over the fighting.’
They began walking back to the patrol car. Dan caught a glimpse of himself in a window. He looked like a tramp who’d suffered a shock. More people had emerged to watch Larson being shoved inside. The misfortune of others was always good sport.
Dan’s phone rang. It was Nigel.
‘We’re just wondering where you are,’ he enquired, mildly. ‘Given that it’s quarter to one and we’re on air at half past.’
They reached Resurgam a few minutes after one. The traffic was sticky with Christmas shoppers. Despite Dan’s plea, the police driver wouldn’t turn on the siren and rush them back.
‘It’s bad enough we have to make a detour to drop you off,’ Adam observed, loftily. ‘We’re not your taxi service, whatever you might think.’
At least Dan got to enjoy the comfort of the front seat. Adam and the smaller of the two cops sat in the back, squashed each side of Larson. He wasn’t saying much, apart from the cryptic, ‘All this for a few fish when there’s paedophiles walking the streets.’
For the last five minutes of the journey Resurgam rose on the horizon, as if a reminder of the looming deadline. Dots of figures were working on the Sky Garden, making the last preparations for Finale Friday. Some of the building’s lights were on, a scattered pattern of glowing blocks in the day’s gloom.
Dan tumbled out of the car and almost slipped on some ice, but managed to right himself. Nigel was waiting, holding out the talkback unit which linked them to the studio.
‘Hell, you look awful,’ he noted.
‘I wish people would stop telling me that.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’d rather not go into it,’ Dan replied, with feeling.
‘Not been forgetting the day job again, by any chance? Doing too much of your undercover investigator thing?’
Dan’s mobile announced the arrival of a text. It was Claire, asking whether he’d seen the earlier message about dinner. He turned the phone off and threw it into his satchel.
‘I’ve got to work on these words. Give me five mins.’
Dan hopped into the Satellite Van to find Loud pulling out tufts of nasal hair with a small pair of pliers. It took but a second to decide to sit in the front to write his lines.
A banner had been strung along the wall by the entrance to Resurgam. Grand Opening Friday – Don’t Miss It! Even with a young man lying critically ill on a hospital bed, a marketing opportunity could not be missed.
But the protesters had begun a counter attack. Each held up a sheet of paper and arranged themselves in a phrase which had become a symphony for the demonstration.
TEAR DOWN THE WALL
Security staff eyed Nigel as he set up the camera. He smiled affably, but received only the flinty expression which is the international mark of those so very tough they should not be troubled with.
By quarter past one, Dan had positioned himself in front of the camera, a view of Resurgam and the remains of the guardhouse behind. The protest was corralled to the side, watched carefully by a line of police officers.
Dan had written some approximate words on a piece of paper and was trying to fix them in his mind, but like leaves in the wind they wouldn’t stay. On each attempt at authoritative, commanding journalism, he jumbled them up.
‘You join me after a marked morning by controversy… yet more trouble flares in the run longing story of Resurgam…’
Nigel was shaking his head. ‘You’re still not looking great. Permission to take extreme measures?’
The cameraman bent down, scooped up a little icy snow and cupped it around Dan’s cheeks. He yelped and recoiled.
‘That’s better,’ Nigel said.
‘For you or me?’ Dan complained.
‘It’s got some colour into you. But I’m still going to shoot you in soft focus, if that’s ok?’
‘How soft?’
‘Given the way you’re looking – like a valium dream.’
The protesters were watching the pantomime that was television in preparation. Seb and Esme walked over to Alice’s shrine. She made sure the flowers were tidy, a large picture of her friend proud above them. He watched, then knelt down, bowed his head and tenderly ran a finger over the photograph.
How he had changed over the past eleven months. They all had, these young protesters, with what they’d gone through, but none more so than Seb. He was thin now, gaunt, almost haggard. When the others asked why, he told them it was because he ran. Around the city, round and around. First two or three miles a day, then, when that wasn’t enough, five or six and now nine or ten. He ran and ran, as hard as he could, as if trying to escape the memory of the fate which had befallen Alice.
Esme tried to reach out, but he eased the touch away. Not with anger, but the intensity of profound sadness. There would only be one woman for this heart the simple gesture said, however many years may lay ahead.
The time ticked on to twenty five past one. Dan still couldn’t get his lines straight. ‘Even as it’s due to open, Resurgam is at the controversy of centre again…’ Every new attempt swirled the word soup further.
‘Are you going to be ok?’ Nigel asked.
‘No, I’m bloody not. Never mind, only half a million people will see me make a fool of myself.’
‘Three minutes to air,’ came the director’s voice.
Nigel wheeled away to the Satellite Van, flung open the back doors and rummaged inside. He returned with a large square of white plastic and a marker pen.
Dan smiled. How absurdity could ease tension, like a miracle medicine.
‘The Idiot Board. I haven’t had to use that since I was a trainee.’
Nigel scribbled the key words on the plastic and held it up beside the camera.
‘One minute to air. Standby.’
Another gust of biting wind blew in from the harbour. Grey swirls of cloud chased each other across the winter sky. And the opening titles of the bulletin began to play.
It was, Dan reflected ruefully as he followed the walk of doom, his own idiotic fault.
He’d ignored a basic rule of television journalism. Never relax. Never step so much as an inch into the perilous land of overconfidence.
A couple of colleagues had already given him sympathetic nods and semi-smiles. The long trudge to Lizzie’s office was notorious. She wasn’t the kind of boss to send out a summons to congratulate you on some wonderful work. It was an adult version of the trip to the headmaster’s study.
And it had all been going so well. The lunchtime broadcast had almost passed off delightfully. Thanks to Nigel’s fatherly efforts, Dan looked as human and sounded as intelligent as could be hoped, given the raw material.
He’d spoken of the attack on the gatehouse and the pictures had run, precisely on cue. Then Dan introduced Dance’s denunciation and June’s dignified counter. And so came the simple part, the last few lines.
‘Thoughts now turn to the actual opening of Resurgam, the long-awaited day itself. With the protesters here promising to demonstrate to the last, and security heightened following the lorry attack, it’s expected to be a tense time when the building finally opens its doors tomorrow.’
Nicola, the latest in a long line of Personal Assistants, produced an understanding smile. Lizzie got through PAs at the rate of one every six to nine months. Life expectancy in the post was only a little better than that of a Tommy in the First World War. The current incumbent had been in the job for four and a half months and her hair was already greying.
Dan knocked and opened the door. The reaction was so fast that he might have trodden on a trip wire.
‘Do you know how many calls we’ve had?’ was the charging rhino of an opening question. ‘Almost a hundred!’
‘Can I sit down?’
The request went unanswered, so Dan did. It presented less of a target and gave him a chance to think.
‘It’s a terrible mistake,’ the carping commentary continued. ‘It’s something you might expect from a trainee, but certainly not an alleged correspondent.’
The word alleged was emphasised in a pitch that would have made an opera singer proud. Just to make unmistakably clear her mood, Lizzie’s attire was a double danger warning. She was clad in the blackest of blacks, from polo neck to boots. And they were sharp and spiky.
‘Making a cock-up like that! Everyone wants to know if Resurgam’s opening tomorrow instead of Friday. It’s humiliating.’
Dan studied the carpet. It was a familiar experience and he recognised each stain and join, old allies over the times he’d sat here.
‘What the hell’s the matter with you anyway? You look wretched.’
The unexpected easing of the assault prompted Dan to look up. ‘What?’
‘I want to know what’s the matter with you.’
‘I wish people would stop asking me that!’ he protested.
‘They’re asking because it’s obvious. You’ve been mooning around with a face like a goat with indigestion for weeks. What is it?’
‘Nothing. It’s – just nothing.’
‘Really?’
‘More or less.’
She paused, considered, but only briefly. Many said this was a woman with a warm heart, whose job demanded she hide it. Dan tended to agree, but such comforting thoughts weren’t a help today.
‘Look, this is a huge story,’ Lizzie continued. ‘We can’t afford any more mistakes. Do you want me to take you off of it?’
‘No! Of course not,’ Dan recoiled. ‘That’d be… well, I’d be… I don’t know what I’d be.’
By no means for the first time of late, he found his eyes felt sore. Lizzie studied him, a sheet of black hair sliding across her face. ‘Personal problems are your business, but Wessex Tonight is…’
‘Who said it was personal problems?’ Dan yelled. ‘Why the hell does everybody in the whole damn world think they need to poke around in my life...’
He was stopped by her look. It was a surprise, nothing like Dan had witnessed before. And when Lizzie spoke, it was more gently than he could ever remember.
‘You get the biggest stories for a reason, Dan. Remember that. You can do the Media Day tomorrow, but I’ve got no choice - if you make a hash of it I’ll have to put someone else on to covering Friday.’
CHAPTER 13
Sometimes, however discreditable it may be, running away feels a temptation too far to resist.
This December Wednesday evening, as Dan parked outside the flat, Nigel’s words drifted in his thoughts. They were joined by those of Adam and even Lizzie’s too, all individual in their phrasing, but variations on the same theme. And the words were growing ever louder, as they had throughout the day.
The front door, which last night appeared so intimidating, had grown in stature. His hand was even shakier as the key found the lock.
The smell of fresh pasta served only to heighten the guilt. The sight of Claire, smiling through her sadness, wearing a rare dusting of make-up and sporting a new top, was another salvo to add to the bombardment of regret.
They were going to talk as soon as he got in. That was what Dan had resolved. No more waiting, no further procrastination, no more putting it off.
