Neater, well punctured. She could have reached beside the telephone, taken the pencil and slipped it into either hole and the fit would have been exact. She had never been to war, and he had not. No bullshit and no bragging, but each had quietly admitted – her half-pissed and him sober – that they had never been to war. It had sounded like a bigger confession than admitting to virginity. Because she had never been to war, she would not have known what marks were left on a jacket when two shots were fired at it from close range, or the effect of the two shots on a bulletproof vest.
She saw the note. The slip of paper was against the rim of the dressing-table.
She came off the bed, stepped over the bulletproof vest, stood by the chair on which the jacket was slung, and read: Miss Behan, Perhaps we could meet for dinner tonight if mutually convenient. On me, or Dutch if you prefer. Don’t know what time or where so won’t have a table booked. Hope it’s possible! Regards, Harvey Gillot
She read it again.
Her head hurt. Was it supposed to be funny? Did he have an idiot’s optimism? Should she regard it as a cheap, sentimental effort at attracting sympathy? Was he hooked on a fantasy of not walking to his death? She swore. Too much to drink last night. Did she want him dead? Would it be fun to watch? Did she want the smile wiped off an arms dealer’s lips? Had to answer – no. A whole adult and working life at stake, hers. A bagful of principles, also hers, held over a rubbish chute. And she had not stood her corner well, had permitted arguments to end with her defending her position and him attacking with rubbish about freedom. She had not had the clarity of mind to chop him down at the knees. She swore because he had bested her. She snatched up the note, read it once more and studied the handwriting, as if it revealed elements of his personality. She did not tear it up but put it into the pocket of her skirt. Then she took out her room key and turned for the door.
The phone rang.
She checked her watch. On the hour. His wake-up call. He had slept beside her, and hadn’t touched her. He had risen, dressed and left her behind with the vest, the jacket, yesterday’s socks, had written his note and gone. She answered the call, was told the time, put the phone down.
Megs Behan went back to her room to shower, change and face the day. She didn’t know what it would bring and – under the deluge of hot water – she cursed the uncertainties that teased her.
The brush of whiskers against his hand woke Robbie Cairns and, as he opened his eyes, a tongue licked nervously, exploring, at his fingers. He jerked upright and the fox backed away. Perhaps it had watched him half the night and now had come close enough to learn about him. Any other time, any other place, Robbie would have shouted to frighten the animal, would next have scrabbled for a stone and flung it, and hoping for a yelp of pain. Not at any other time and not in any other place.
Robbie had been on his side, his body hunched, his head resting on an outstretched arm, his hand, almost, flung clear of him. That hand had been the one the fox had nuzzled before it licked him. He sat, straight-backed. Very slowly, he folded his legs tight together with the knees sticking out, and looked into the fox’s face. He could smell its breath: foul, like air from a sewer. He had nothing to give it as a bribe in the hope it would come closer to him. It breathed hard, almost panting, and he realised it was near famished – he could see its ribcage, the mange on the back legs and at the base of the tail. He thought the fox was as hungry as he was.
When he had fished in Kent, on the banks of the old military canal, any fox passing by would have skirted him, regarding him as an enemy. He thought this one was young, hungry and alone. He wanted it to come back, to feel again the whiskers and the tongue on his hand. He thought it had a face of beauty, would like to have touched it, feel the texture of the fur. He was hungry and thirsty, cold from the night and shivering. There was damp on his clothes from the dew. The fox might not have eaten for days, but it could drink.
It looked at him, deep brown eyes, and the mouth was slightly open. There were scars in the fur and old wound lines, as if creatures had hacked with their back legs to break the killing hold of the jaws. It was thin but the teeth were clean and polished – they would rip apart a prey when it had killed.
He needed a drink. He felt a surge of anger at the people who had treated him with such disrespect: he had been dumped in a bloody ploughed field, without food, water or a blanket… The anger was muted by the sight of the fox, which watched him. Past it was the wooden cross, and beyond it the grass and the trees. Beyond the trees was the water. It read him, the fox did. It stretched and coughed, then turned its mangy end towards him and went towards the trees and the river.
Robbie Cairns pushed himself up. He wouldn’t have known what ‘delirious’ meant, and wouldn’t have understood the story of the Pied Piper from Hamelin. He would have been outraged at the suggestion that his mind was blown by a fox. The fox had gone into the trees and he saw a slight trail, as if it had made a narrow track, and walked towards it.
The yell was an order. ‘Stop! Stop right there.’
He did. He heard the thud of heavy shoes behind him and began to turn. The man had shouted at him in English, with only a light accent, as if he was educated. A big man, overweight, with a pallid face. Far behind him there was a car, with a door open, and now he could hear the quiet throb of the engine. The man carried a plastic bag.
Robbie said emptily – as if he needed to justify himself, ‘I was going for water.’
The man came close to him. ‘Do you like to gamble?’
‘What the fuck’s that got to do with anything? I don’t gamble. You left me without food or water.’
‘It would have been a gamble to go for water, high odds. If it’s roulette, the gamble begins when the wheel spins – and when you take a first step off the field into the undergrowth… Do you not have landmines, anti- personnel mines, where you come from?’
He understood he was laughed at. He bit his lip and hung his head. The man squatted and said his name, then opened the plastic bag, took out a Thermos, a beaker, sandwiches made with thick bread, and an apple. He gestured to Robbie that they were for him.
He wolfed the sandwiches, ham, salad and tomato, gulped the hot sweetened coffee, and was told why he had been about to gamble.
‘This corner of the field was mined. The Cetniks would have put down the mines after they’d killed four of our people and buried them here. The four were those who waited for the missiles Gillot had taken money and valuables for – that is why you were paid to kill Gillot. He took the money and did not deliver. Only very recently did this small village receive enough priority for a mine-clearance man to make this part of a field safe. It was done, we have the certificate, and the farmer – Petar – ploughed it for the first time in nineteen years. The bodies were found. Where you are now is clean.’
‘If I had gone down to the water…’ He spoke through a mouthful and crumbs dropped from his lips.
‘You would have gambled. The priority for the clearance was the field, not the banks. Perhaps there are mines there, perhaps not.’
He had trusted the fox. It would have led him down the bank and gone light-footed to the pool where the water – from where Robbie had seen it – seemed fresh and without pollution. The fox would have killed him and he had given it his friendship…
He was told that his target would be driven along the Cornfield Road to this place, would be herded here. The man spoke of the hunters going after wild boar and how they beat the beasts into the path of the guns. There would be no police in the fields or the village. He was told that here, by the cross, he would earn the money already paid to him.
‘And what happens if…’
‘You fail? If you fail? I believe you to be an intelligent man so you know very well what will happen if you fail. Don’t fail.’
He said he would be there and ready. The man walked away from him. Where else would he be? If the fox came back, Robbie would kill it: it would have led him down a riverbank where there were mines. When the target came, he would shoot him. He stamped his feet on the earth, made dust puffs and slapped his arms on his chest to get warmth into his body. He would shoot him, then start to live again.
He had run away before and could again. He turned once, near to his car, and saw that the man paid to kill had taken the firing posture and would not have realised he was watched. Josip no longer wanted to be a part of it. Before coming to the field, he had moved his car to the side of his house. The back door into the kitchen was not overlooked, and he had stripped his home of all that was important to him, had loaded the boot and the back seat, and his dog was in the front. He assumed that the corpse of Cairns would go into the same pit as would be dug for
