said. He'd been behind his door, opened to the extent that the security chain would permit, and his wife had been behind him. 'You can stay on my step all the hours that God gives but you're not coming in till I see who you are.'
The retired maths teacher was wizened, small, and his cheek was cut from shaving, but he seemed to have the obstinacy that came with age and bloodymindedness, and he had been behind his front door, as if it was the portcullis of his castle. The door had been closed on them, and for ten minutes the rain had dripped on them. It went against Lovejoy's grain to show his card. He'd rung the bell again.
He'd shown the identification card that gained entry through the electronic barriers at Thames House, and the American had shown what was good enough for Camp Delta, far away on Cuba.
'Eh, wasn't so difficult, was it?' Eric Perkins had said, then had turned. 'Violet, love, we have visitors from the Security Service in London and what's called the Defense Intelligence Agency in America – and they're half drowned, not that it's my fault. They'd like a cup of tea, love, and I think some cake might see them right.'
The chain had come off the lock. Their coats had been hung in the ball and yesterday's newspaper was under them to protect the carpet.
They sat in the front room.
Maybe, Lovejoy thought, they should have taken off their shoes.
The room was pristine. Perkins held up the photograph in front of his face. He'd demanded to hold it, handle it, and Dietrich bad shown ill-concealed reluctance to pass it to him. Dietrich had covered the top of the head and the whole of the body with his hands, but the retired teacher had insisted.
Perkins chuckled. The photograph was close to his eyes. The prisoner's camp reference number was stamped at the bottom. He chuckled till he coughed. The light of his eyes danced. 'I used to do mathematics. The basis of mathematics is solving problems. I'm wondering if your problem, gentlemen, that needs solving, is that you don't know who he is.'
'I don't think you need explanations, sir,' Dietrich said sourly. 'We . are merely investigating background to-'
The wife, Violet, was in the doorway, holding the tray. Her husband's arm was up, like an old-time traffic policeman's. 'Sorry, love, waste of your time and effort. They won't be staying. They don't trust me, love.'
Lovejoy playing his winning smile, and said, 'Just so we have no misunderstandings, and I remind you, Mr Perkins, of the strictures of the Official Secrets Act, this man was a prisoner, designated as an unlawful combatant in Afghanistan, at Guantanamo Bay. He was released, because the authorities there thought him a taxi-driver from Herat in that country. While he was being transferred from the airbase to Kabul, he ran away. We don't know who he is, but believe him to be from this area. If he is from here he would most likely have gone to Adelaide Comprehensive. Mr Perkins, we are looking for your help.'
His face had lit as each morsel of trust was given him, and he'd laughed till his cheeks flushed.
'I was wrong again, Violet, they're staying. A late run for the post, getting by on the rails. Tell Violet whether you'd like sugar, gentlemen. Yes, I know him.'
Tea was poured and cakes were passed.
'Not that he was any good at mathematics. If I was judging him solely by the ability to multiply and divide, add and subtract, I'd have little to say. I digress. Most of the boys going through my final-year classes would have competency to add up profits from drug-pushing, or to subtract the days of a sentence remaining to be served in a young offenders' institution. That's about it. Adelaide Comprehensive isn't a school known for its shining successes but, over my time, I did have a couple of them. For this lad, well, I was able to provide something – call it motivation. Yes, there are little victories to be won, even at Adelaide Comprehensive.'
He broke off. He called to the kitchen to thank his wife for the tea.
Lovejoy saw the impatience building in the American: the shaking hands rattled the cup and saucer and the cake on the plate on his knees had gone untouched. He caught him with a glance: bide your time, man.
'There was a boy who was being bullied, an Asian child. There were two problems with the boy: a stutter and a wealthy father, cash in the child's hip pocket. You'll have learned a little of the area from which the school draws pupils. The money and the speech impediment made this pupil a predictable target – that's the real world. I induced your man here to become the pupil's friend. He did, and no doubt was paid for it, and the bullying was a thing of the past. The motivation was more complex. He sided naturally with the minority.
He went against the majority – not, I fancy, for any altruistic reason, not for any defence of the handicapped in a cruel world, but because it gave him pleasure to run against the tide. Are you with me? Are you beginning to see him?'
'Just getting a glimpse,' Lovejoy said drily.
'Second time around was more interesting. Our then esteemed headteacher, before he fled to the quieter world of local-education-authority inspections, wanted a competition launched for public recitation. Pupils standing on a stage and declaiming to their peers, such was the headteacher's plan. Most of the males could barely communicate, other than to demand their rights in a police station on a Friday night. The headteacher was very keen. I was given the job of organizing it. Was it a fiasco? It was not. Why not? Because this boy agreed to participate. What did I choose for him? I'd been to a funeral that week, in West Bromwich. There had been a reading from the First Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians, chapter fifteen, starting at verse fifty-four. Do you know it, gentlemen?'
Lovejoy did not, but he saw beside him the American's lips move.
They kept time with the recitation.
'He stood on the stage, in front of the school, and he silenced the chatter, stilled the movement. 'So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in Victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?' He did it, did it well. You see, by doing it he showed he could stand alone. It was nothing to do with the spirituality of the words, their uniqueness. Again, he just needed to run against the tide
… Would you like more tea, or another cake?'
Lovejoy shook his head patiently, and the American followed suit.
'I liked him enough to make a small effort to find him work when he left us – a garage, Harrison's Auto Repair Unit, on the industrial estate behind the high street. I don't know whether he lasted there.
Sometimes I see pupils I taught, on the street and hanging about, sometimes I read their names in the paper, remanded in custody or remanded on bail. I haven't seen him since the day he left school.
What was different about him was a desperate, unsatisfied restlessness, and nothing here that could satisfy it, and the response to my trivial efforts was a minimal answer to the symptoms. I have to believe, because you have come to see me, that he is now considered a danger to society. I suppose trained men will seek to kill him before he can kill others – and I'd not argue with that. Where would he have learned the hate? Probably from your camp at Guantanamo Bay, Mr American. No, I won't argue with you, nor will I cheer you on – I rather liked the boy. You'll have to excuse me because Violet has a dentist's appointment.'
He stood. He looked a last time at the photograph. 'Oh, yes. What you came for. His name. I presume that with his name it will be easier to find and kill him.'
The American said, 'It will be easier to find him and stop him in his tracks before he can murder innocents.'
'Of course, of course… He's from that estate near the school, by the canal. Perhaps I sell him short, perhaps he's more than I've . painted him.' His jaw jutted and his fists clenched. 'Always interesting to hear how former pupils have progressed. He is Caleb Hunt.'
Caleb did not know that a third bag dripped saline solution through the tube and the needle into his arm.
'They'll hear my name, won't they? The bastards'll hear it. Hear it loud. They're walking dead, got nothing – all they got is radios out of Beemers and sucks and smokes, got nothing. They're not really living. I live. Everyone will hear my name.'
Caleb did not know that Beth stared bleak-faced at him.
'Guys, where are you? What you doing? I did something else.
You'll live, fucking die, no one will know, you're nothing. What you got? You got fuck-all.'
Caleb did not know as he rambled, as the drip gave him strength, that Bart prepared a scalpel, scissors, clips, forceps and sterile swabs, and listened, or that Beth bit her lip.
'It's the biggest desert in the world, it's got worse heat than anywhere in the world. I'm walking in it. I'm
