The Dark Horizon, page 9
And before Adam had a chance to demur, Dan piled untidily into the car.
CHAPTER 11
Traffic had been sluggish around the city for days, motorists ponderously overcautious about the risk of ice. The police driver, however, had no such qualms. He cut through the lines of cars like a shark through a shoal.
They were heading for the Derriford area of Plymouth, home of the biggest hospital in the south west and once largely countryside. But with the constant need for housing, and the persecution of a previously green and pleasant land, it had been filled with rows of new-build faux mansions.
Many were adorned with the black and white beams of the mock Tudor. The wide and leafy byways here were all Avenues, Hills and Crescents, never the unspeakably common Roads or Streets.
The two cops in the front were even larger than on first appearance. One was muttering about being fed up with dealing with traffic shunts and that it was high time for some action. He kept rubbing his hands together, as though readying for combat.
Dan had long enjoyed his occasional trips in a police car. It felt like becoming a VIP. Other vehicles melted away from your path, their occupants staring as you passed. It was an effort not to offer a magnanimous wave.
‘Do we need to tool up?’ the driver asked Adam, with a little too much enthusiasm.
‘No. He’s got no record for firearms. Just a fair bit of violence.’
As one, the enforcers in the front of the car smiled.
Dan swallowed hard. ‘Who is it we’re going to see?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice level.
‘Are you feeling as lion-hearted as ever?’ the detective sniffed.
‘You know this isn’t my favourite part of police work.’
‘All too well.’ Adam checked his notes. ‘The guy’s name is Cliff Larson. He’s a builder with an interesting past. A few convictions for assault, also some theft. What’s key is that his company had a big contract in the early stages of Resurgam but got the boot for dodgy work. He was mad about it and made threats.’
‘And the possible link with Esther is?’
‘His car is the only one that came out of the multi storey last night to give us anything of interest. It looks low on its wheels for just a driver in there.’
The sirens and blue lights were extinguished a mile away from the movingly christened Tree Green Avenue. The police car pulled up a couple of hundred yards from number 92 and they studied the house.
It was detached and set in an expanse of grounds. At both the front and rear were large fishponds. The hedges and trees were well-trimmed and the lawns looked immaculate. A new silver Mercedes sat on the drive. It shone as though it was polished at least twice daily.
There were doors at the front, back and sides of the house. The central heating was on and working hard, clouds of steam rising from a flue. As they watched, a light went on in one room, then blinked off again.
‘Time to say hello,’ Adam decreed. ‘It’s one door each, in case he decides to go for a little impromptu morning jog. If you gentlemen would be so kind?’
The two cops hauled their bulks out of the car. They walked stealthily down the hill towards number 92 and disappeared into a neighbouring house. After a few minutes, they reappeared in its back garden and, with some effort, climbed over the wooden fence. One of the officers headed to the rear of the house, the other the side. Both took shelter in lines of trees.
‘That’s my cue,’ Adam said, and got out of the car. Dan remained firmly seated safely inside.
‘Are you coming?’ the detective asked, patiently.
‘Do I have to?’
‘I believe it’s considered good practice for reporters to be close to the action?’
‘It’s cold out there.’
‘It’s just the weather, is it?’
Dan didn’t answer.
‘I thought journalists were supposed to be intrepid?’ Adam continued.
‘They’re the ones who like war reporting. I work in Devon and Cornwall for a reason.’
‘You can hang back out of the way, don’t worry. When have I ever got you into trouble?’
Dan gave his friend a sidelong look. ‘Do you really need an answer to that?’
‘Come on,’ Adam coaxed, then ordered, ‘Now!’
As if hoping it might offer extra protection against an attack, Dan pulled his coat tight and slowly climbed out of the car.
The tarmac was white with the days of cold. Adam covered it quickly, his athletic frame striding for the front door. The leaves of the hedge were also patterned with frost. The branches rustled and a bird flew out. Dan spun around, arms raised to defend himself.
Adam looked to the grey of the skies and groaned. ‘If you can’t manage courage try silence.’
They slipped through the heavy wooden gates and onto the drive. Music was beating within the house, some indecipherable pop tune. Adam gave the Mercedes a quick glance. Inside were a couple of maps and a bundle of papers, but nothing to suggest Esther could have hidden there.
The fishpond was clear of ice despite the chill. Golden shapes swum serenely back and forth. A stone fountain trickled with a forlorn stream.
Adam was almost at the door. Dan started to fall back, positioning himself towards the side of the house where there were no doors.
The music ebbed and changed, another equally strangled alleged tune inflicted upon the world. A black cat watched from the side of some trees.
‘Please bring me some luck,’ Dan muttered. ‘Nothing too extravagant required. I’ll take continued existence, preferably undamaged.’
Adam raised a fist to knock at the door. The detective never trusted bells, always preferred a good, hard hammering. He described it as heralding the coming of the law in the old-fashioned way he favoured.
Inside the house the music stopped. Dan sensed a sudden stillness. His imagination flew. He could see the man freezing, knowing he was surrounded. Calculating what to do. Reaching inside a cupboard for a hidden gun.
The cover of a handy tree called and Dan found himself backing into it.
Adam knocked again, harder now. ‘Gas company,’ he called, with a risible attempt at a workman’s accent. ‘Reports of a leak.’
More seconds edged by. Still no motion inside the house.
Adam leaned forwards to peer through the opaque, distorting glass. He tried the handle. It didn’t turn.
And now there was sound. A window was opening. And it was right by where Dan was hiding.
The panicked mind of Dan Groves concluded there was good news and bad in what was happening only a handful of metres away.
On the positive side, the man was taking time to squeeze through the window. Adam had heard the noise and was running from the front of the house. He was shouting to the other cops to join him. Help was on the way.
But the bad news was considerably more significant. The rescue party wasn’t going to arrive anything like fast enough. On top of which, Mr Cliff Larson boasted the proportions of a professional wrestler. He didn’t look happy, either.
Larson’s face was contorted with a mix of anger and straining effort. His head was shaved and there was a less than fetching tattoo of a large cross on his neck. And despite the freezing weather, he was planning to make a getaway dressed in a vest and jogging pants.
The man-beast freed himself from the window and dropped to the ground. Adam was sprinting over, moving fast, but still twenty metres away. To Dan the distance looked intergalactic.
He thought about running, but his legs had gone for an early lunch and weren’t responding to the frantic urges of his nervous system. And anyway, there was no time. Larson was almost upon him.
The creature had thudded into a flower bed and was turning, looking for an escape. He began running towards the gate, a bearing that took him directly through where Dan was crouching.
At the sweet prospect of freedom, Larson’s expression changed. He was smiling, but far from kindly.
‘Don’t hurt me, I’m just a reporter!’ Dan wailed. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, then thought better of it. Instead he cringed and folded himself into a ball, arms across head, making himself as slight an inconvenience on existence as possible.
And now Dan waited. For the mighty kick in his ribs, the crack of bones, the knife in his back.
But mercifully Larson was too intent on his getaway. Heavy feet pounded on the frozen ground, beating just past Dan as Larson headed for the beckoning arms of liberty.
Mr Courageous opened one eye and dangled out a sneaky shin. The fugitive went sprawling on the frosty lawn, a tumble of arms and legs. And Adam was upon him, a knee in his back and handcuffs around his wrists.
THE BATTLE OF RESURGAM
THREE — THE NEWCOMERS
Of the nineteen who assembled to make up the protest line that Monday morning almost eleven months ago, all except one carried the newspaper. The sole omission was Mac, and that only because of the bitter, soggy and highly unpleasant retribution exacted upon the copy he’d bought.
It was now late January, almost a month into the construction work. Already the building was beginning to stretch its metal arms into the sky. The foundations were dug, bored into the bedrock, shaking and rattling the world around with the endless attacks upon the earth. The building’s feet had been laid in place, great pads to hold its immense weight, then encased in thousands of tons of concrete. And from that steadfast base was rising the steel lattice of the superstructure.
The snow still lay on the ground, but in a chessboard pattern. No reinforcements had floated from the sky for several days. The temperature had warmed, occasionally in the afternoons touching a stratospheric two, perhaps even three degrees. Little progress it may have been, but it felt very welcome after the endless freezing hours.
Monday had traditionally been a quiet day for the protest, with two or three figures maintaining a token vigil. But not this time, not now. The group was swollen by the need to share the news which had been splashed across one of the Sunday papers.
Barnaby Hill had written his article. The story made a portion of the front page, with another three quarters of a page within: “TERROR TARGET, ECO-VANDALISM AND A HISTORY BETRAYED”
And were that headline not enough, Resurgam had proved a temptation too far for other newspapers to resist. Several competitors had seen and presumably liked it, for they were running their own versions this winter Monday morning.
‘We’ll get bloody lynched for this,’ an older man said. ‘You stupid students, talking to that reporter.’
‘Don’t you have a go at them,’ June intervened. ‘It’s hardly their fault if he invents a story.’
Some sharp looks flickered amongst the crowd, but there were no more exchanges. All were too occupied with the paper.
Environmental vandalism is being wrought in the heart of one of our great cities. History is being betrayed, precious and beautiful seashore destroyed. And for what? opponents ask. To build an eyesore, a carbuncle, and not just that, but a monstrosity they fear will become a target for terrorists.
As earnest as ever, and today to the point of tears, Seb insisted to the line, ‘That’s not what we said at all, I promise you.’
He sounded miserably contrite; as if he’d taken the simple misjudgement of youth to his soul. Alice took his hand, kindness and comfort in a single touch. ‘All we were trying to do was tell the truth about what was going on here.’ She wound an arm around Seb, who resisted not at all.
‘No one’s holding it against you,’ June replied. She turned to the crowd and held up a fist, clad again in the spectrum of a mitten. ‘Are they?’
There was no response so she repeated the words, this time prompting a few sullen mutterings of acquiescence.
‘It could even help,’ she continued. ‘It might galvanise people to come and join us.’
‘Fat chance,’ Mac grunted, in an unusually comprehensible communique.
‘We’ve got to stand together or we won’t stand at all,’ June rallied. ‘What’s done is done. It’s only the future we can change. Right, is anyone here cold?’
Again, there was no response from the lifeless crowd. The day was too icy, the skyscraper growing too fast, the floes of fate running too hard against them.
‘Did you hear me?’ she cried. ‘Are you cold?’
‘Yes,’ was the spiritless reply.
‘Then this is the message we send!’
And if the speech wasn’t quite the beloved Henry V of June’s teaching days, if the passing of the years debarred her from leading an army into battle, she had another way.
June collected the newspapers from each of the protesters and arranged them carefully on the pavement. From one of the group she borrowed a lighter and set the pile ablaze.
A couple of the protesters started to clap. Others joined in and together they huddled around the flames, intermittently warming their hands and applauding. A smile ran, as fast and cheering as a songbird greeting the spring. From young to old, man to woman it spread. Hearts beat anew.
From the gates of Resurgam a fire bell began to ring. Tommy Ross and Phil Rees emerged from the guardhouse and came running over, slipping and balancing on the ice.
‘You stupid fucks,’ Rees yelled, and tried to barge his way past Mac. He got a shove in return and squared up, his bulk dwarfing the young man’s frame. June was at Mac’s side in a second.
‘Leave him alone,’ she commanded. ‘You big beast of a bully.’
‘The fire!’ Tommy panted, pulling Rees towards the flames.
PC Rogers was marching over too, fast but upright, as must have been his indoctrination from training college. Rees pushed Mac backwards, the student stumbling and half falling. Now Seb grabbed one of Rees’s arms, Alice the other. He shook them off with muscular ease, Alice catching a glancing blow, blood immediately beginning to run from her nose.
The fire was burning well but Rees didn’t hesitate, began stamping on it. Seb let out a yell and turned, fists aloft, a red rage filling his face. Some of Alice’s blood had spattered onto his jeans.
‘I’ll fucking kill you for hurting her,’ he screamed.
‘Yeah right,’ Rees called, like a demon dancing amidst the fire. ‘Anytime, you little dickweed.’
‘Ok, that’s enough,’ Steve Rogers shouted. Rees took no notice, so the policeman grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away from the flames. ‘You,’ he yelled, ‘Calm it down - now.’
‘But it’s fucking arson.’
‘I’ll decide what it is. And swear at me again and you’re in trouble. Now – away!’
Rees snarled, but skulked into the background like a wounded caveman. PC Steve made his way to the centre of the group, but unhurried, calm and polite, and stood beside the flames. They were failing now, only a little paper left to burn, most of the fine example of a free press no more than blackened flakes and ash.
‘That’s naughty,’ he told the protesters, folding his arms and producing a wry look. ‘We could have the Great Fire of Plymouth on our hands.’
But it was noticeable the young policeman made no attempt to put out the remaining flickers, instead stood amidst the group, watching as the fire dwindled and died.
Outbreak number two of mass disorder successfully contained, life on the protest line returned to normal. Banners were waved at supply lorries and dissenting pleasantries exchanged with some of the more affable workers.
Rees had been dispatched to the gatehouse, where he stood glowering at the demonstration. One of the cranes was edging a steel beam into position, a crossbar between two others.
PC Steve brought over a tray filled with mugs of tea and handed them around. ‘Don’t think I’m some liberal, rewarding bad behaviour,’ he told the protesters, in a scolding voice. ‘It’s just my turn.’
Alice was cuddling into Seb, cheek snug upon his shoulder, a reddened handkerchief pressed against her nose. ‘We are sorry about that story, really. It’s just – we feel so helpless.’
Esme nodded. ‘It’s like no one’s listening to us. And that reporter did. So we talked to him.’
‘Not that he bothered to put in any of the other stuff we said,’ Seb added. ‘There wasn’t a thing about our futures being stolen.’
‘Yeah,’ Esme agreed. ‘No jobs, tens of thousands of pounds of debt for an education, no planet left to live on anyway.’
‘I know what you mean about the jobs,’ Tommy nodded. ‘A mate of mine went for some work as a shelf stacker. There were two hundred people in the queue.’ He patted his fluorescent jacket. ‘You’ve got to take what you can get at the mo.’
He blew into his tea, enjoying the momentary warming of the air, and confided, ‘Between us, I really miss that little beach. I had my first cuddle with a girl there.’
‘And a snog?’ Esme prompted.
Laughter ran through the crowd. Alice waited for it to quieten, then said, ‘They’ve stolen another name, you know. It’s not just Plymouth’s history they’ve tarnished. My gran told me. A friend of hers… she had…’
June put down one of her puzzle books. ‘The support society at the hospital, you mean? Maggie can tell you all about that.’
The tall, distinguished woman at her side nodded and said, ‘There’s a terminal illness club called Resurgam. I started doing voluntary work there after a friend of mine…’ Her voice faded, just as Alice’s had before, as many would when faced with such a subject. ‘It’s a wonderful organisation.’
‘With a perfect name,’ June added. ‘The idea of some hope when…’
A lorry rumbled past, more steel jangling in its hold, the driver slowing to offer a wave. Alice waved back, transfixing the man to such an extent that he came close to forgetting how to drive, then asked June. ‘Are you ok? You sounded – strange. Kind of choked.’
She rubbed a hand over her chest, and said quietly. ‘My, err… aunt was a member of Resurgam.’
