'You mean did I shag him?' She shook her head. 'No.'
'Did that upset him?'
'Not at all. In fact, the one who was upset was me. After a time I really got to like him. More than that, actually. I fancied the pants off him. He had real style, know what I mean? And he was funny, too.
Not only that but he was really kind. Looked after me. I liked that.'
'Did you-' Suttle shrugged 'make any moves?'
'Loads. I was so uncool about it. He could have helped himself any time, night or day. I was the only girl in Waterlooville sunbathing naked in April. Anything. Anything to turn him on.'
'But it didn't happen?'
'Not once. Then I decided he was gay because it made me feel better, only that wasn't true either because it turned out he was shagging my mum.'
'When did that happen?'
'Fuck knows. I only found out a couple of months ago. I called round home to pick up a CD and they were at it in the bedroom. I couldn't believe it, just couldn't believe it. That's why I went crying my eyes out to Dave Pullen. The older man again, see? Thought he might be able to help, give me advice. Fat fucking chance.'
Suttle nodded, remembering Trudy with Winter in the Gumbo Parlour at Gunwharf. No wonder she'd been so lippy about her mother.
'So where are you living now?'
'Back home.'
'With your mum} After all that?'
'Yeah.'
'How come?'
'Can't say.' Her face had suddenly brightened again. 'Except that it's fine now.'
'Just like that?'
'Yeah.' She snapped her fingers. 'Just like that. You get yourself in a state, get really worked up, then you realise you'd got it all completely wrong. Me? Total wuss.'
The drinks arrived. Trudy diluted the rum with a splash of Coke and held the glass under her nose. Then she looked up.
'You know how people talk about life? How it can be so funny sometimes? Only I'm just learning.' She tipped the glass to her lips and took a tiny sip. 'Something else, too.'
'What's that?'
'You're really, really nice.' She paused, then looked at her watch.
'Amount you've drunk, there's no way you're driving me home.'
'You want a cab?'
'No.' She reached for his hand across the table. 'I want you. Where's this place of yours?'
'Across the green. Last cottage on the left.'
'And your mate?'
'In London all week. Training course.'
'Cool.' She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. 'Think you can manage to fuck me?'
By eight o'clock, the demo was beginning to break up. The column of protesters had surged through the shopping precinct in Commercial Road, picking up support en route and finally emerging at the roundabout that funnelled rush-hour traffic onto the motorway. Keen to keep the demonstration on the move, the police had stopped three lanes of cars, hurrying the column on towards Whale Island. To the delight of the veterans at the head of the march, the forest of placards had stirred the odd toot of support from waiting drivers, but Eadie — hunting for pictures amongst the blank-faced commuters was only too aware that the bulk of these people simply wanted to get home. Portsmouth, after all, was a naval city martial by instinct and once the fighting had started, a protest like this smacked of treason. Our boys and girls were in harm's way. Now was the time to get behind them.
Whale Island was a mile north, beyond the continental Ferry Port. The protesters swung along, bellowing slogans, punching the air. George Bush was a madman. Blair was a poodle. The Americans had blood on their hands. By now, Eadie knew she'd done the event justice. She had maybe half an hour of recorded material, more if you included the handful of snatched interviews, but the moment the column rounded the final bend before the causeway that fed naval traffic onto Whale Island, her heart leapt. A line of helmeted police blocked the path forward. Behind them, half a dozen waiting Transit vans, mesh over the windows, heavy metal visors to protect the windscreens. Overhead, the steady drone of the police spotter plane, wing dipped, flying a wide circle as the demonstration came to a halt.
Eadie hurried along the flank of the column, incurring the wrath of a uniformed sergeant who warned her to stay in line. At the front, police and protesters eyed each other over ten metres of tyre-blackened asphalt. The man with the beard was locked in negotiation with the senior officer in charge. Eadie did her best to get close enough to pick up the dialogue but another officer waved her away. Behind her, the chanting was beginning to flag. Finally, the man with the beard turned to the press of bodies and switched on the loudspeaker. There were to be a couple of brief speeches. Then, in what he called a display of solidarity for the Iraqi people, they'd return to the Guildhall Square.
There were murmurs from the crowd. One student yelled an obscenity.
Eadie caught a smirk on the face of a watching PC. Elsewhere in the world a situation like this would be seconds away from kicking off.
Instead, as the first of the speeches got under way, Eadie knew it was all over. There'd be more rants against the evils of American imperialism, more calls for Blair's head, but in essence the demonstration this column of good intentions had hit the buffers. The police, in the shape of a couple of hundred men, had flung down the gauntlet, knowing full well that they'd won.
Won? Half an hour later, as the police chivvied the last of the stragglers back towards the city centre, Eadie fumbled for her mobile.
A couple of hundred metres away, she could still see the security barrier and gatehouse that barred the entry to Whale Island and HMS Excellent. Bathed in a pool of orange light, it seemed to symbolise everything that the Brits in their very orderliness refused to confront.
She paused for a moment, ignoring the attentions of a police Alsatian.
When she dialled Faraday's mobile, she got no further than the answering service. When she tried again, knowing he'd check the caller's number, she heard the same recorded voice. Finally, knowing she had to get the last couple of hours off her chest, she sent a text to J-J: Please tell your dad to call me. Luv. E. XXX. She waited a moment, wondering if they were both at home. Then, when nothing happened, she took a final look at the gatehouse. On the evening breeze, very faint, came the sound of laughter.
Paul Winter was half an hour into his DVD of The Dambusters when his mobile began to ring. The lone figure of Barnes Wallis was wandering away over the Reculver mud flats trying to work out why his bomb wouldn't bounce properly. Winter propped the tumbler of Laphroaig on his lap and reached for his mobile.
'Paul Winter.'
A voice he didn't immediately recognise asked him what he was doing. It was a light voice, Pompey accent. Winter studied the caller number. No clues there.
'Who is this?'
'Bazza Mackenzie. Just wondered whether you fancied a chat.'
'Now?'
'Whenever. Tonight would be good for me. You know Craneswater at all?
Sandown Road. Green floodlights. Number thirteen. Can't miss it.'
The line went dead and Winter was left staring at the television.
Barnes Wallis was back at his drawing board, designing a bigger bomb.
Chapter thirteen
THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 21.12
